If one only read Helen Keller's writings, it would be easy to become intoxicated by her descriptions.
When she was still a little girl, she learned to row and swim. During summer vacations in Massachusetts, she practically lived on a boat. Although she could not handle a small boat very well and needed someone sitting at the stern to steer, sometimes she could row without a rudder, adjusting the boat's direction by smelling the river weeds, the lilies on the banks, and the shrubs.
Sometimes, when she lay on the boat cushions and put her hand into the water, it was as though she could touch the shimmering garment of the moon reflected on the surface. Occasionally, a bold little fish would slip between her fingers, or a bashful white water lily would brush against the back of her hand.
This person living in darkness nevertheless seemed enveloped by a bright warmth. Even on days of wind and rain, she still felt as though a pair of lips had left a warm kiss upon her cheek.
She undoubtedly possessed talent and perseverance. Without those things, even with favorable external conditions, nothing could have been poured into that pitch-black world.
But if Helen Keller's family circumstances had been poor, if her parents had been unable to hire tutors—especially this kind of one-on-one specialized tutor—or buy supplies made for the blind, what sort of life would she have lived?
Helen Keller's father, Colonel Keller, had been born into a prominent old family in the American South. He owned and edited a newspaper. Her mother also came from a distinguished family. Twenty years younger than her father, she was his second wife and a famous local beauty.
Only because they had money and influence could her parents hire Anne Sullivan from a renowned