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Louisa May Alcott
B. 11.29.1832 Germantown, Pennsylvania / 3.6.1888 Boston
Spinal Meningitis

A survey of the lesbian Everest expedition team so far. . .let’s see. One is a man now—one is with a man. We’re all a moment or a choice away from used to be.
Murray Hill is with me, when she can overcome her frustration. (You know how sometimes you don’t want someone but the benefits of their proximity seem nothing to sneeze at either?) Nobody’s perfect!
The Guinness Book girl—for this turns out to be the reason why she’s memorizing every name in the Times Portrait of Grief Gallery. Most people are much less intriguing than their behavior.
Unhappily Single, and sloppy about keeping secret a big crush on at least one of the others—although which I can’t tell. “And here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much ‘lovering’ in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March, What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?”
The beautiful one who’s since been injured by a drunken driver—perhaps the most promising of the bunch if I really mean to learn the secret of the summit. The other girls’ most vigorous coaching sessions and urgent on-the-spot facial entreaties have once again failed to keep her from testifying that she herself was asleep at the wheel. The gavel falls—on guile being vanquished, with a bang? Or was that just the back door slamming on her poor wits’ flight, fleeter than Bejesus, from the words “I swear”? Ding dong!
The latter too likely. Another monstrous mother lode of icy trauma calling!
Picture them huddled there—fluorescent, freezing—on the naked rock face—squeezing breathless debate out of lips they cannot feel. A tiny cluster of tree frogs, peering up through a sudden gloom and ice-rimed goggles at the last fifty infinite yards. Some voices trill “Me Too!” into the void, to no avail.

Quotation from Little Women (1869)

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