If you look very closely at the last period of this story you can see M. Eventually the protagonist figures that the wallpaper in her room is out to get her and loses it entirely. Anyone who has ever had to spend three or more days in bed with the flu knows that by the third day it’s a special kind of mental torture to not have anything to do all day. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: But women feel just as men feel they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do.īasically it’s a story of a woman who went a bit loopy and is taken to the country by her husband to recover, except he pretty much confines her to her bedroom and won’t let her do anything that he feels is strenuous. A lot of it calls up this quote from Jane Eyre: I’m fairly certain it’s a commentary on postpartum depression, and the absurd way in which mental illness in women was treated back in the day, but damn. If this story were a person it would be of the sort that you back away from slowly while avoiding eye contact. Even a story that features a crucifixion and a bloody beheading takes way too long and three too many naps to get through. Despite Kipling setting his stories in one of the richest cultural environments I can think of, his writing is as dry as plain, stale toast. I mean, I had my suspicions after The Jungle Book and The Courting of Dinah Shadd but after reading The Man Who Would Be King I got to thinking that there may just be a bit of a pattern here. I’m going to take a stab in the dark and assume, without any previous knowledge, that Kipling lived in early twentieth century India. If only Ivan had had webMD this story may have ended very differently.
I could most acutely empathize with his growing malcontent with doctors and their high-minded thought that if they can’t find anything wrong with a patient then there must not be anything wrong with the patient. He goes through all the stages of grief as he degrades on the pages right before our eyes. With emphasis on the death and the dying part. The whole story is an account of a man from the peak of his life until his death. I was excited to read it as lately I’ve heard so much about it, and I can now agree that Tolstoy does know his way around words. I’d read it again, just not when I’m feeling sick. But when she returns it and confesses what had happened, her amused friend informs her that the original necklace was a fake and worth only a fraction of the cost of the real one (cue laugh track). Finally she works up enough money to buy an exact replica of the necklace she lost. She and her husband then work their asses off to buy a new necklace, during which time miss priss learns the meaning of hard work and sacrifice. A financially strapped, yet high society minded woman borrows a diamond necklace from her friend, and then promptly loses it. Chances are if you’ve sat through thirty minutes of any sitcom (I feel for you), you’ve seen this story. Henry must have written dozens like them on his toilet paper. I’m almost one hundred percent positive I’ve read this story before or if not it, then one very similar.
I really couldn’t connect with the protagonist’s strange sense of charity toward Bartleby, which really probably says more about my quality as a person than the quality of the story. Similarly I found myself shouting, “Just turf his obstinate ass!”, throwing my bowl of popcorn at the book, spooking the bird and causing Alex to ask what the hell was wrong with me. “Don’t open the door!” you scream in frustration, flinging your bowl of popcorn at the television, spooking the dog and causing your spouse to roll their eyes at you.
Storyo vs scrivener movie#
Throughout the whole thirty pages of it I was tearing out my hair in the manner one does when watching a horror movie in which the stupid teenagers insist on investigating the suspicious sounds, completely alone, in the dark. Below are my completely candid, unsophisticated and largely uneducated thoughts on these stories. Happily, it also introduced me to some authors who I’d never even heard of and in many cases whose works were a delight to read. It also gave me a chance to form a firm opinion on some others whose work I’d read before: Rudyard Kipling, Anton Chekhov, James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Chinua Achebe, and Virginia Woolf. To start with, this book introduced me to the writing of a few literary greats which I hadn’t had the chance to read yet: Herman Melville, Leo Tolstoy, D.
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