World I Live In, The

<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN> <h2>THE WORLD I LIVE IN</h2> <h3>BY</h3> <h2>HELEN KELLER</h2> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii"></SPAN></span></p> <h2>PREFACE</h2> <div class='cap'>THE essays and the poem in this book appeared originally in the "Century Magazine," the essays under the titles "A Chat About the Hand," "Sense and Sensibility," and "My Dreams." Mr. Gilder suggested the articles, and I thank him for his kind interest and encouragement. But he must also accept the responsibility which goes with my gratitude. For it is owing to his wish and that of other editors that I talk so much about myself.</div> <p>Every book is in a sense autobiographical. But while other self-recording creatures are permitted at least to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii"></SPAN></span> seem to change the subject, apparently nobody cares what I think of the tariff, the conservation of our natural resources, or the conflicts which revolve about the name of Dreyfus. If I offer to reform the education system of the world, my editorial friends say, "That is interesting. But will you please tell us what idea you had of goodness and beauty when you were six years old?" First they ask me to tell the life of the child who is mother to the woman. Then they make me my own daughter and ask for an account of grown-up sensations. Finally I am requested to write about my dreams, and thus I become an anachronical grandmother; for it is the special privilege of old age to relate dreams. The editors are so kind that they are no doubt right in thinking<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix"></SPAN></span> that nothing I have to say about the affairs of the universe would be interesting. But until they give me opportunity to write about matters that are not-me, the world must go on uninstructed and unreformed, and I can only do my best with the one small subject upon which I am allowed to discourse.</p> <p>In "The Chant of Darkness" I did not intend to set up as a poet. I thought I was writing prose, except for the magnificent passage from Job which I was paraphrasing. But this part seemed to my friends to separate itself from the exposition, and I made it into a kind of poem.</p> <div class='sig'> H. K.<br/></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />