![]() My mother, Hippolyta, had first introduced me to Clio's great works, but I knew she did not imagine I would become inspired as I was. ![]() She did not expect words read to me in the comfort of my bed to send me on rugged paths through the mountains. When my mother would lead me to bed at night, I never wanted to go sleep. I would try to keep her at my side telling me stories or reading to me for hours, resisting the time when I would settle down and grow quiet and let go of another day that had passed. ![]() My mother said I had a strong will, and she was patient with my desire to gain one last insight, one last inspiration, one last connection before being reluctantly satisfied with a given day. When she asked me one night what story I wanted to hear, I said something that contained wisdom as deep as the Suri well that ran so deep into the ground that the weight of the earth bearing down on the water pushed it up, and buckets could be filled from the spilling water with little labor. My mother laughed with her delight in me and went to her own rooms. She brought back a scroll held on heavy, elaborate rollers cast of bronze. The shape of the story like the shape of the scroll was unfamiliar to me.
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