My influences... and other psychological findings

There are quite a few major influences (call them role models if you will) in my life. Other then the most obvious (my family, friends, people within the realm of my reality, etc), there are many people I look up to for inspiration.

Often the most influencial people I often speak of are very fluent with words. I really admire people who's words leave a major impact. (Most of them even more so after they are gone). I'm not one to use fists to get my points across, when I solve problems I use words. I feel a well timed comment can do just as much damage, if not more so, then slamming my fist into someones face. I rely on my verbal skills in life to get feelings and emotions across.

"In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart." ~ Anne Frank

At some point in my life I must read Anne Frank's diary. I often hope someday my diary will have 1-1000000000th the impact her diary has had. But I know that will never happen. Her diary is the most read piece of fiction next to the bible. But never the less, I have always been intrigued by the events during the time period of Hilter and the Jews. I've read an biography of a Dutch solider who served Hitler and I find it truly amazing how quickly people were ready to believe Hitler. (That biography is entitled "Blood on the Rhine" by Hurk Davis) Social Darwinists that warped Darwin's theory made it seems like it was possible to have a superior race, and that all the others must perish to keep their race pure. Hitler used this warped version of Darwin's theory of evolution to his advantage. This notion to me is ridiculous. Everyone's differences bring different views to the table. Our differences are what makes each of us special, and if everyone were the same what a boring world it would be!

This brings me to my next major influence. If all Jew's were elimated, Albert Einstein's amazing intelligence and all the things he taught us about life would have gone to waste. I don't know everything about this guy, past the E=mc^2 anyways, but I've read a little about him and I think he was fasinating. He had such an amazing grasp on so many different concepts. He shared my strong belief that we are forever intertwined with other people and they we do indeed, need them for our survival.

"Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why, yet sometimes seeming to a divine purpose. From the standpoint of daily life, however, there is one thing we do know: That we are here for the sake of others...for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day, I realize how much my outer and inner life is built upon the labors of people, both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received." ~ Albert Einstein

Over the past year, I've become a more religious person. I've actually took to reading the bible for confort, praying, and even my music has been influenced by God. This brings me to my next major influence Mother Teresa of Calcutta. (Missionary of Compassion, 1979 Nobel Prize in Peace, 1910-1997)

"I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much." ~ Mother Teresa of Calcutta

This women is truly a great inspiration. Once again, like the last 2, I don't know everything there is to know about her, but her words can bring me great comfort. I find peace in her total, complete faith. Her words helped me get through some of my weaker moments. I couldn't understand God. I wondered why he would see to hurt me, and bring me pain with situations I couldn't handle. But like Mother Teresa said above, God never gives me anything I can't handle. I've come to realize that now. I've made it through some really dark times over the past few years of my life. I've seen things that other people see in their worst nightmares. I've had peoples worst nightmares become my reality. But somehow I made it through each time. I remember times I thought I would surely lose everything and just broke down crying wondering why would he ever do this to me... did he want me to break? Did he want me to die? Did he hate me? No... he wanted to make me stronger. To be strong is everything I've ever wanted. Their is nothing worth more to me. So each time he faced me with the unthinkable, it was only so I would be forced to become the person I've always wanted to. God gives you lessons. Lessons that you can learn from to make you stronger and push you to be the best person you can be, the person you want to be. I have truly come to believe this. There are times when I still feel doubtful. But I believe thats natural. It's hard to believe in something thats not seen, heard, tasted, touched, or smelled. Any of your natural senses. It's the other sense, the "sixth" sense. The one that you just know when things are going to happen. The times when you just know that this choice is right for you. Things like love and faith... They don't come easily. So of course these feelings will be tested sometimes, but just like when God tests you, these tests only make your beliefs stronger. So everytime my faith wavers I always realize it's just a test and it makes my faith even more powerful.

"Spread love everywhere you go: First of all in your own house... let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God's kindness; kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile, kindness in your warm greeting." ~ Mother Theresa

I believe in trying to become a better person. While I know myself I have quite awhile to go before I reach self-fulfillment (I have a nasty case of the grumble theory), I can keep trying to become a better person all around. I've certainly aged a bit since my self absorbed younger days or wreckening. I've tried to broaden my horizons a little bit, and start looking at the world for what it is. It's a dark, cold place, and a lot of people out there are just as lost as I am. Instead of sitting here and greiving, I try and be there for the people who need me. No matter how much personal pain I'm in, I make it a rule to always put others first.

Now too totally contradict my above statements, I'd like to talk about another, well... I don't know if he would be considered an influence, but he is someone who I will always wonder about. Adolf Hitler has always aspired a great interest to me. If there weren't a language barrier present, I would have probably already read Hitlers book. I probably will someone, so I can look deep into the dark recesses of the mind of a madman. I've always been interested in how people work, and why they believe what they do. How could one man have such total power? He was capable of so many things, why was he so hell-bend on ruining innocent lives? Once again this roots back to my keen interest on this time period. Maybe it's because I'm a firm believer of that notion that history can and will repeat itself. I see things like this everyday in the world around us. People would believe they are superior to others. Be it because of social class, race, education... people always are quick to say that what happened was such a tragity. But the way they go about their daily lives shows they all to some level believe they are better then someone else. This is probably where people get the idea that we are all to some degree, racist. Now, I am a person who usually condemns others for being racist. It's something as I've previously stated, that I refuse to tolerate. I am an organization that promotes the equally of others, and I refuse to get into the deep logics and rationality of myself and my actions. So I'm not going to say I am or am not racist. Call me a hyprocrite if you must. But I feel just from the way society has been structured, and judging by the social norms we've all been taught to live by, that it is impossible not to be racist. Nobody can get around the all the social classes, the differences in races, cultures, norms, and education. We've all been taught to some level to conform.

Conformity is highly dangerous. Everyone has the deep desire to be part of something, a part of a group. Through research on the subject of Hilter's rise to power, and a little reading in sociology, I have found it amazing at what lengths people will go to in order to be accepted. People are willing to give up their freedom and individuality to be a part of a group. Often the weakest, loneliest, people are striving towards acceptance, so much so that they will do anything to achieve it. The majority of people can and will conform to be a part of a larger unit, where everyone is equal. There is no room for individuality inside such an exsistance! You lose your identity. Everything that makes you different is frowned upon and there is no room for your own creative thought. But people are willing to conform and go along with whatever they are told to do, in order to please and be accepted. Hitler knew this, and exposed it. He was truly a psychological master mind. He used simple outright balant lies, which are much easier for the human mind to accept as opposed to small ones, and people bought it. Rather then tell them big complex lies, the simple ones could be absorbed by anyone, therefore he could influence anyone. Such lies included simple slogans like "Work makes you stronger". Simple things to feed German minds and brainwash them into conforming for the better of the whole unit.

Now I know Hitler was horrible, but upon researching into such a horrible situation, there were many deeper things going on then what appears. Normal history classes don't get into the complex technicalities that went on during this time period. I wish they did. I think it's important for people to realize they need to be aware of what it means to know your worth, and what it means to be an individual. We need to realize how much other people tend to influence our everyday lives.

Now I mentioned lately that I've been a little more into religion. I've decided to discuss a little bit about the different view points that have been raised to my attention lately. In some respects, I think religion acts somewhat like a cult. Cults have a dictator/someone who is in charge of everything, and they believe they have all the answers to any questions. People in cults don't think for themselves and are told what to believe and how to behave. They recuit people by giving them instant happiness and life often seems "to be to be true". This instant love and acceptance are what brings people to join cults. I've found there are a lot of similarities between the 2. When you compare knowledge of cults to religion, isn't God a "higher power" and priests could be considered dictators? They get all the answers to lifes problems from the bible... and doesn't God a good example of something that seems just to good to be true? Looking at things from this point of view brings a lot of clarity to things. Wars are caused because of different religions. So if cults are considered dangerous and religion clearly shares most of the worst characteristics of them, why is religion not seen as "too good to be true" and dangerous also? Most cults take some of the basic ideas of psychology from religion. Now, to defend religion, there are some deferences between the two. While in cults you are unable to speak your mind and question the information and ideas presented, in religion you can. In religion you can still be an individual. It's also easier to leave a religion then a cult, though there are complications. I also believe that it depends on what your taught by the product of nurturing that shapes your beliefs. If your born into a Christian family, there's a good chance you too will be a Christian. If your born a Jew, you'll be a Jew. Also if you don't have the opportunity to look at all the other religions and beliefs out there, and are only exposed to one kind, that will also affect your choice of belief. If you are pressured into certain beliefs, this once again is almost like a cult. Just like in a cult, families can be torn apart by their differences in thier views.

Now with all that said, I still believe in God. I'm just stating the above, to show I am aware of the pressures and a few of the psychological aspects of religion. I don't why it is I believe in God. Probably a product of nuture. It just brings ME a sense of calm and well being. I don't care about anyone elses opinions and I've had none really forced upon me. I'm still in control and my own individual.

I've taken it upon myself to do a little reading lately and I've finally found the perfect material. I've located a copy on the web of Wuthering Heights. I read a book over the summer (Voice of the Heart by Barbara Taylor Bradford) where the characters in the book were re-making the Emily Bronte classic into a newer version of the movie. (The book has already been made into a movie. Twice.) This book is basically a love story between 2 different couples, but it also centers around a few other important themes. Revenge is an important theme carried throughout the novel, and the supernatural comes to play. But one of my favourite themes is the education/class/race theme. Catherine agrees to marry Edgar Linton instead of Healthcliff her true love, because Heathcliff is of a different race and isn't a part of her social class.

This popular passage that caught my eye right away was part of what drew me to this novel: "It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire." Here in Catherine's speech to Nelly about her acceptance of Edgar's proposal, Catherine states that while she loves Heathcliff, she cannot be with him after the way her brother has degraded him. It would bring down her social status to marry Heathcliff. Social ambition motivates many of the characters actions in this novel. I love the statement that Heathcliff is "more myself than I am". From this, readers can see how the relation between Catherine and Heathcliff isn't just about the dynamic of desires and outward appearances, it's an inspiring example of unity. The love Bronte describes between Catherine and Heathcliff opposes the general terms of complementary opposites often used in writing. Catherine and Heathcliff are not opposites, but they are the same. Catherine IS Healthcliff. They refuse to live without the other, and Heathcliff even goes as far as to state he can't live without his soul (Catherine). They considered themselves the same beings. Catherine's soul is Heathcliff's soul. They share this same perception that they are identical. But Catherine and Heathcliff's love is based upon childhood and their refusal to change over time or embrace difference in others. Heathcliff never loved his wife Isabella and Catherine never tried to love Edgar. In following the relationship through to its painful end, the novel ultimately suggests the destructiveness of a love that denies difference.

Now Catherine isn't completely cold hearted. While it might seem like it, she really wanted to marry Edgar to use her position to save Heathcliff from the horrible life that he lived. Their love truly transcends social norms. The sad part is Catherine dies before they can ever be together.

The most interesting aspect for me is the character of Heathcliff. He has all the making of your classic romance hero. The tortured soul, the dark haunted past... yet he isn't a hero. He never becomes what the reader wants to precieve him to be. Instead of being the heroic male who saves the day, he becomes obsessed with revenge against the world for taking away his life (Catherine). I found I tried my hardest to see him as something he wasn't. But in the end he changes. When he finally gives up his idea of revenge he becomes a changed person. It is only then that he can finally make peace with himself and the world, and be with Catherine in death.

Emily Bronte's novel is just amazing to me. While written in 1847, the dilect is a little difficult at times but the themes are very interesting to me. Here's part of the dialogue between Catherine and Heathcliff before Catherine dies... it brings tears to my eyes everytime I read it.

‘You teach me how cruel you’ve been - cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and ring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you - they’ll damn you. You loved me - then what right had you to leave me? What right - answer me - for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because of misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me, that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?’

‘Let me alone. Let me alone,’ sobbed Catherine. ‘If I have done wrong, I’m dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won’t upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!

‘It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,’ he answered. ‘Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer - but yours! How can I?’”

A diary that I have read, is one entitled "Go Ask Alice". It was an assignment I had in English last year and I love it. The book followed the life of a teenage girl and her encounters with drugs. As I read this girl's diary and watch her values change, I become more and more amazed. She loses herself in the drugs and eventually she dies. As a person who keeps a diary herself, I try and indentify changes in my lifestyle and monitor them carefully. I try to place why my feelings have changed and what that means. I can usually locate my trends and I often realize what makes me feel the way I do. I realize that drugs can indeed control you, though you may think that you are in total control.

Incase it isn't quite clear yet, I'm deeply intrigued by anything involving the psychological aspect of things. I like to know why people work the way they do. Anything that studies or is deeply involved in the human conscience and subconscience, I find very interesting. I often question whether it is possible to understand the world inside us. So it's no surprise I'm almost obsessed with the movie 'The Sixth Sense'. The movie features a child psychologist looking for a chance to save a young boy and redeem himself. I just love the movie. I could watch it again and again, and never get tired of it. I was younger back when I first watched the movie. I wonder if I were to watch it now (and having no previous knowledge of the events about to take place), if I could figure out the secrets for myself. It's such a haunting preformance. Even though I understand the secrets of the movie I can't get over the thrill I felt the first time I saw it. The ghosts, the powerful acting, just the feeling of knowing... I felt I had reached almost a deeper sense of commincation.

The movie really focuses on the human preception. It takes an in depth look at the human "sixth sense". Even above I already breifly mentioned this. It's a human ability to percieve things beyond our senses. That feeling in your gut that just cannot be explained. I myself have had similar experiences with this ability. I often know things before they happen or things nobody else in the world can seem to sense. Even just small things, such as sensing an emotional conflict within a person, or where to find something that I misplaced. I don't believe I have a strong sixth sense, I often don't listen to it enough for it to develop.

Whats interesting in this movie is the way it looks into the psychological side of young children. It plays with the idea of children and their own abilities to precieve things beyond the grown up world. It's often an occurance in childhood when a child has an imaginary friend. I believe young children are allowed to see things differently then we see them, because they have not been subject to the human experience that tends to alter our preceptions. Therefore they can sense things that we have trained ourselves not to sense. We don't believe in ghosts because we have been told they aren't real. But a child holds that belief, that special innocence that allows them to see and feel in a different manner then adults.

Another interesting aspect touched upon in the movie is free-association writing. When Malcolm finds some of Cole's writing and is disturbed by what he finds he questions Cole about it. Free-association writing is when you start writing. You just think about what you write, and you don't read it over. You just keep on writing and eventuall if you keep writing long enough, words, thoughts, ideas, start coming out that you didn't even know you had in you. Sometimes they are things you heard somewhere else and other times they come from deep within you. I've done my own experimentation with this concept and I find it's proven to work. Like this website for example. I didn't have a set idea when I first made this page. I thought perhaps I'd put up some quotes, maybe my own point of view on a few of them.... and instead I just come here now to discuss some psychological concepts I've picked up. I just come here with no set agenda, and type whatever pops into my mind. I think mostly all my journals are written like that. Except with them I often sometimes have the notion of only writing about what I experienced that day.

Now for a little something... today is Martin Luther King Jr.'s day in America. It just reminded me of all he did to move our world towards positive non-violent solutions to our problems. He was truly amazing. He had such incredible courage and strength, and is someone I admire. Here's his famous speech, 'I Have a Dream'.

Delivered on the steps at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. on August 28, 1963

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.

But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.

I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado! Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California! But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia! Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee! Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

The Velveteen Rabbit
or
How Toys Become Real

by: Margery Williams

There was once a Velveteen Rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.

There were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges and a toy engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse, but the Rabbit was quite the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten.

For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles. Even Timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by the disabled soldiers, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was connected with Government. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

There was a person called Nana who ruled the nursery. Sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards. She called this "tidying up," and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones. The Rabbit didn't mind it so much, for wherever he was thrown he came down soft.

One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn't find the china dog that always slept with him. Nana was in a hurry, and it was too much trouble to hunt for china dogs at bedtime, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard stood open, she made a swoop.

"Here," she said, "take your old Bunny! He'll do to sleep with you!" And she dragged the Rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the Boy's arms.

That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy's bed. At first he found it uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe. And he missed, too, those long moonlight hours in the nursery, when all the house was silent, and his talks with the Skin Horse. But very soon he grew to like it, for the Boy used to talk to him, and made nice tunnels for him under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrow the real rabbits lived in. And they had splendid games together, in whispers, when Nana had gone away to her supper and left the night-light burning on the mantelpiece. And when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the Boy's hands clasped close round him all night long.

And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy -- so happy that he never noticed how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier, and his tail becoming unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off his nose where the Boy had kissed him.

Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border. And once, when the Boy was called away suddenly to go to tea, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn't go to sleep unless he was there. He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.

"You must have your old Bunny!" she said. "Fancy all that fuss for a toy!"

"Give me my Bunny!" he said. "You mustn't say that. He isn't a toy. He's REAL!"

When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy, for he knew what the Skin Horse had said was true at last. The nursery magic had happened to him, and he was a toy no longer. He was Real. The Boy himself had said it.

That night he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot-button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and said, "I declare if that old Bunny hasn't got quite a knowing expression!"

That was a wonderful Summer!

Near the house where they lived there was a wood, and in the long June evening the Boy liked to go there after tea to play. He took the Velveteen Rabbit with him, and before he wandered off to pick flowers, or play at brigands among the trees, he always made the Rabbit a little nest somewhere among the bracken, where he would be quite cosy, for he was a kind-hearted little boy and he liked Bunny to be comfortable. One evening, while the Rabbit was lying there alone, watching the ants that ran to and fro between his velvet paws in the grass, he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.

They were rabbits like himself, but quite furry and brand-new. They must have been very well made, for their seams didn't show at all, and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved; one minute they were long and thin and the next minute fat and bunchy, instead of always staying the same like he did. Their feet padded softly on the ground, and they crept quite close to him, twitching their noses, while the Rabbit stared hard to see which side the clockwork stuck out, for he knew that people who jump generally have something to wind them up. But he couldn't see it. They were evidently a new kind of rabbit altogether.

They stared at him, and the little Rabbit stared back. And all the time their noses twitched.

"Why don't you get up and play with us?" one of them asked.

"I don't feel like it," said the Rabbit, for he didn't want to explain that he had no clockwork.

"Ho!" said the furry rabbit. "It's as easy as anything," And he gave a big hop sideways and stood on his hind legs.

"I don't believe you can!" he said.

"I can!" said the little Rabbit. "I can jump higher than anything" He meant when the Boy threw him, but of course he didn't want to say so.

"Can you hop on your hind legs?" asked the furry rabbit?

That was a dreadful question, for the Velveteen Rabbit had no hind legs at all! The back of him was made all in one piece, like a pincushion. He sat still in the bracken, and hoped that the other rabbit wouldn't notice.

"I don't want to!" he said again.

But the wild rabbits have very sharp eyes. And this one stretched out his neck and looked.

"He hasn't got any hind legs" he called out. "Fancy a rabbit without any hind legs" And he began to laugh.

"I have!" cried the little Rabbit. "I have got hind legs! I am sitting on them"

"Then stretch them out and show me, like this!" said the wild rabbit. And he began to whirl around and dance, till the little Rabbit got quite dizzy.

"I don't like dancing," he said. "I'd rather sit still!"

But all the while he was longing to dance, for a funny new tickly feeling ran through him, and he felt he would give anything in the world to be able to jump about like these rabbits did.

The strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close. He came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the Velveteen Rabbit's ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.

"He doesn't smell right!" he exclaimed. "He isn't a rabbit at all! He isn't real!"

"I am Real!" said the little Rabbit. "I am Real! The Boy said so!" And he nearly began to cry.

Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and the Boy ran past near them, and with a stamp of feet and a flash of white tails the two strange rabbits disappeared.

"Come back and play with me!" called the little Rabbit. "Oh, do come back! I know I am Real!"

But there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed. The Velveteen Rabbit was all alone.

"Oh, dear!" he thought. "Why did they run away like that? Why couldn't they stop and talk to me?"

For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back. But they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came and carried him home.

Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter.

And then, one day, the Boy was ill.

His face grew very flushed, and he talked in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him lose.

Strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little Velveteen Rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he knew that the Boy needed him.

It was a long weary time, for the Boy was too ill to play, and the little Rabbit found it rather dull with nothing to do all day long. But he snuggled down patiently, and looked forward to the time when the Boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to. All sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the Boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear. And presently the fever turned, and the Boy got better. He was able to sit up in bed and look at picture-books, while the little Rabbit cuddled close at his side. And one day, they let him get up and dress.

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open. They had carried the Boy out on the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, and the little Rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking.

The Boy was going to the seaside to-morrow.

Everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor's orders. They talked about it all, while the little Rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had played with in bed must be burnt.

"Hurrah!" thought the little Rabbit. "To-morrow we shall go to the seaside!" For the boy had often talked of the seaside, and he wanted very much to see the big waves coming in, and the tiny crabs, and the sand castles.

Just then Nana caught sight of him.

"How about his old Bunny?" she asked.

"That?" said the doctor. "Why, it's a mass of scarlet fever germs! -- Burn it at once. What? Nonsense! Get him a new one. He mustn't have that any more!"

And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house. That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. He had the potatoes to dig and the green peas to gather, but next morning he promised to come early and burn the whole lot.

That night the Boy slept in a different bedroom, and he had a new bunny to sleep with him. It was a splendid bunny, all white plush with real glass eyes, but the Boy was too excited to care very much about it. For to-morrow he was going to the seaside, and that in itself was such a wonderful thing that he could think of nothing else.

And while the Boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out. He was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him. Near by he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the Boy on bygone mornings. He thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden -- how happy they were -- and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower-bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken and the little ants ran over his paws; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was Real. He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.

And then a strange thing happened. For where the tear had fallen a flower grew out of the ground, a mysterious flower, not at all like any that grew in the garden. It had slender green leaves the colour of emeralds, and in the centre of the leaves a blossom like a golden cup. It was so beautiful that the little Rabbit forgot to cry, and just lay there watching it. And presently the blossom opened, and out of it there stepped a fairy.

She was quite the loveliest fairy in the whole world. Her dress was of pearl and dew-drops, and there were flowers round her neck and in her hair, and her face was like the most perfect flower of all. And she came close to the little Rabbit and gathered him up in her arms and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying.

"Little Rabbit," she said, "don't you know who I am?"

The Rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before, but he couldn't think where.

"I am the nursery magic Fairy," she said. "I take care of all the playthings that the children have loved. When they are old and worn out, and the children don't need them any more, then I come and take them away with me and turn them into Real."

"Wasn't I Real before?" asked the little Rabbit.

"You were Real to the Boy," the Fairy said, "because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to every one."

And she held the little Rabbit close in her arms and flew with him into the wood.

It was light now, for the moon had risen. All the forest was beautiful, and the fronds of the bracken shone like frosted silver. In the open glade between the tree-trunks the wild rabbits danced with their shadows on the velvet grass, but when they saw the Fairy they all stopped dancing and stood round in a ring to stare at her.

"I've brought you a new playfellow," the Fairy said. "You must be very kind to him and teach him all he needs to know in Rabbit-land, for he is going to live with you for ever and ever!"

And she kissed the little Rabbit again and put him down on the grass.

"Run and play, little Rabbit!" she said.

But the little Rabbit sat quite still for a moment and never moved. For when he saw all the wild rabbits dancing around him he suddenly remembered about his hind legs, and he didn't want them to see that he was made all in one piece. He did not know that when the Fairy kissed him that last time she had changed him altogether. And he might have sat there a long time, too shy to move, if just then something hadn't tickled his nose, and before he thought what he was doing he lifted his hind toe to scratch it.

And he found that he actually had hind legs! Instead of dingy velveteen he had brown fur, soft and shiny, his ears twitched by themselves, and his whiskers were so long that they brushed the grass. He gave one leap and the joy of using those hind legs was so great that he went springing about the turf with them, jumping sideways and whirling round as the other did, and he grew so excited that when at last he did stop to look for the Fairy she had gone.

He was a Real Rabbit at last, at home with the other rabbits.

Autumn passed and Winter, and in the Spring, when the days grew warm and sunny, the Boy went out to play in the wood behind the house. And while he was playing, two rabbits crept out from the bracken and peeped at him. One of them was brown all over, but the other had strange markings under his fur, as though long ago he had been spotted, and the spots still showed through. And about his little soft nose and his round back eyes there was something familiar, so that the Boy thought to himself:

"Why, he looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I had scarlet fever!"

But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.

Books I want to read: Anne Franks diary, Wuthering Heights, A Walk to Remember.