I may be deemed superstitious, and even egotistical, in regarding this event as a special interposition of divine Providence in my favor.
I can't imagine considering this statement egotistical. Such a significant moment, when reviewing the trajectory of a life as painful as this, would truly feel like divine intervention or fate, regardless of religious beliefs.
What he most dreaded, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully shunned, was to me a great good, to be diligently sought; and the argument which he so warmly urged, against my learning to read, only served to inspire me with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both.
Few historical figures personify perseverance so profoundly.
I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy.
Imagine thinking that this "condition" is just how life is, never realizing that humans aren't meant to treat others this way. This hurts my heart.
They told a tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with the bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains.
The writing here is so moving and poetic.
I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do.
This paints a powerful picture of how much pain could be heard in those voices.
She was hired by a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles from my home. She made her journeys to see me in the night, travelling the whole distance on foot, after the performance of her day’s work. She was a field hand, and a whipping is the penalty of not being in the field at sunrise, unless a slave has special permission from his or her master to the contrary—a permission which they seldom get, and one that gives to him that gives it the proud name of being a kind master. I do not recollect of ever seeing my mother by the light of day. She was with me in the night.
This is absolutely heartbreaking. A mother's love knows no bounds.