I suspected, though, she was simply mean.

Sonnet 55 that “Not marble nor the gilded monuments / Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme” [1–2]).

There, on a low bed, the sheet flung back, dressed in a pair of pink one-piece zippyjamas, lay Lenina, fast asleep and so beautiful in the midst of her curls, so touchingly childish with her pink toes and her grave sleeping face, so trustful in the helplessness of her limp hands and melted limbs, that the tears came to his eyes.

The reason for a woman’s life,” said Sarai, “is the same as the reason for a man’s—so that she might have joy.

Written By Orson Scott Card

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