The Great Depression Poems Novels & Stories

Every building on the street looked as though it had seen better days, though they were once the crème of high society. They were now nothing more than moldy giants that smelt of old newspapers and camphor water. I hated every minute of being here. Didn’t most of those old barons lose their shirts in the first depression? The place was like a monument to past failures, and I was now a part of them. The thought made me throw up in my mouth.

When the going gets tough, the tough is expected to get going It becomes more difficult in a world where you haven't found your footing How can you strive for greatness,when your identity is unknown How can you rally people to your cause, when we all have a fear for the unknown Amidst all situations, there's only so much that one can actually shoulder But please don't give up now, be brave my soldier The road they say is long and lonely, narrow and scary I don't mind if it tarries, cause what's at the end makes it worth it. Jane: Life is full of challenges. Economic difficulties, serious illnesses, family problems, and political unrest plague people on a daily basis. How a person faces each

| {In the fell clutch of circumstance} {I have not winced nor cried aloud} | What keeps repeating in my head are the words of the poem "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley; something the Sisters taught me at Nuestra Señora de la Buen Viaje and I memorized as a child. I used to recite the same words to myself during severe attacks of depression. I guess I forgot that I knew them, just like many other parts of my childhood. “I said…” I tell Septimus, a little louder this time, “… you’re wrong.”

"A line from a poem lost during the Great Deluge, written by a human poet. Before they'd lost it all. I do not recall the original author, but in my youth in the trenches, my friend had said it to me right before they'd released the phosgene. I think he'd probably meant to recite more of it, but I never heard the rest after the explanation. He'd died almost instantaneously. We'd been very… close." Mr. Galanis adjusted his spectacles, bending to take a handful of dirt to Ma: "I like to think he meant that tragedies—just like triumphs, and heartache, and anger and fear, disgust or joy—come like rain. Sometimes they are showers, other times great tempests. But I suppose, without a bit of rain,