100 Days With Mr Arrogant Full Movie Tagalog Version Bible

Marie's own account is much more riveting (and it validates the fundamental truth behind the melodramatic story): she was concerned, as she says in her journal, about leaving her son, then not quite twelve years of age. The devil urged her to think both of her son and of practical matters, using arguments that seemed "persuasive since I was considering the good of the present moment." In a sentence indicative of her convoluted state of mind, she says that God assured her that "he would take care of him whom I wanted to leave for love of God in order to follow his divine counsels more perfectly." When friends and acquaintances "came up with fresh objections," however, Marie felt "besieged on all sides," as if her soul were being "wrenched" from her body. No obligation seemed as strong as her love for her son; yet she kept hearing an "inner voice" that said it was not good "to be in the world any longer." Accordingly, putting my son into the hands of God and of the Blessed Virgin, I left him, as well as my elderly father, who cried pitifully. When I said goodbye to him he found every possible argument to stop me, but my heart remained unshaken. . . . Then there flowed into my heart an inner sustenance which would have enabled me to pass through fire, giving me courage to surmount all and accomplish all. Then he transported my spirit where he wanted it to be. . . . on the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul 1631, I left what I loved the most. My son came with me, crying bitterly in leaving me. Watching him, it seemed to me that I was being cut in two. Nevertheless, I did not let my emotions show. Dom Raymond presented me to Reverend Mother St. Bernard, who, with the whole community, received me with extraordinary charity. Previously I had received the blessing of the archbishop of Tours, who wished to see me before my entrance. (L'Incarnation, Selected Writings 94-95)

Cather, an ardent operagoer, surely heard Fremstad sing Isolde more than once. When she wrote to her sister Elsie about attending a Christmas Eve performance of Tristan and Isolde in 1913, she described the powerfully evocative effect of the opera when it was well done and added that this performance was a great one for Fremstad (Cather, Letter to Elsie Cather). In her 1913 McClure's article, "Three American Singers," Cather identified a particular quality that Fremstad brought to her performances: an ability to express "the old paths of human yearning" (46). Tristan and Isolde is very much about yearning, and with Fremstad's Isolde reverberating in her ear and Hall's Isolde coming to life on the pages of The Wagnerian Romances, Cather might well have discovered the touchstone for the kind of feeling she wanted to create when she began her own tale of yearning in "The White Mulberry Tree." For there is indeed evidence that Cather read Hall's version of Tristan and Isolde at a decisive time in her conception of Marie and Emil's tragic story.

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And Hall's version: Tristan, left alone, falls to tossing and writhing with impatience. His burning fever is confused to his sense with the heat of the sun, and this day of joy he calls the sunniest of all days. This tumult of blood, this jubilant urge to action, this immeasurable delight, this frenzy of joy, how, how, to endure them prostrate upon the couch? (307)

In many ways Cather's brief portrait of Modjeska parallels the later one of Archbishop Latour, which presents an idealized version of male aging, also based on a historical personage. Onto Modjeska, Cather projects a romantically intense avatar of a fictional aging woman: a noble figure of unabated passions who appropriates a younger woman's voice to pay homage to a great diva. For Nellie, the "Casta Diva" aria evokes continuities of female power that she locates in Myra: "For many years I associated Mrs. Henshawe with that music . . . [with] a compelling, passionate, overmastering something for which I had no name.... when I wanted to recall powerfully that hidden richness in her, I had only to close my eyes and sing to myself: 'Casta diva, casta diva!'" (48). Such richness is outside the confines of Nellie's vocabulary; when she searches for words, they imply a masculine ("overmastering"), not a feminine, power.

Ãntonia's stories are spontaneous and candid in their details of Bohemian life or the actions of people on the prairie. Jim is able to undervalue her stories because they do not fulfill the Western definition of high art. He thinks of her oral tales as interesting diversions rather than as an art form involving craft and skill, talents the young Cather herself found lacking in female writers (O'Brien 159). Unlike Jim, Ãntonia is not concerned with authorial authority. She usually tells stories without manipulating their meaning, presenting people's acts in all their gruesome detail and offering her own reaction, if at all, as only one way of thinking about the story. Her object is always to represent what Cather calls "life itself." She does not try to assign motivation to the characters in her stories or objectify them as reflections of her own psyche, as Jim does. When she tells the story of the tramp who kills himself, for example, Ãntonia ends with a question rather than an interpretation: "What would anyone want to kill themselves in summer for?" (115). Thus she opens up the meaning of her story to her listeners; and the story's reverberation in Jim's memory clearly suggests the effectiveness of her method. Similarly, she does not judge Peter and Pavel when she translates their story, which Jim, out of morbid fascination, retells in his own words rather than relating it as Ãntonia told it. Time and again, her stories gain a new life in her listeners' minds, as when Nina Harling "interprets [Ãntonia's stories about Christmas in Bohemia] fancifully, and . . . cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a short time before the Shimerdas left that country" (113).

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