By Cltarlotte Perkins Stetson. T is very seldom . ing ; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the . velvet meadows. This wallpaper has a kind of sub. Free PDF, epub, Kindle ebook. By Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The Yellow Wallpaper is a word short story by the American writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg.
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During the last months of her life, Charlotte Perkins Gilman finished her autobiography and recalled how she came to write “The Yellow Wall Paper”: Note: Wall Paper or Wall-Paper or Wallpaper? If you don't see the full selection below, click here (PDF) or click here (Google Docs) to read it—free!. Free Download. PDF version of The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Apple, Android and Kindle formats also available. To Charlotte Perkins Gilman, the story was a horror story, but nowadays interpret “The Yellow Wallpaper” as a feminist tale and seem to have.
There is no logic guiding the paper, like there is no logic guiding the societal norms that say a womans place is in the house.
A woman may try to understand why she is not supposed to engage in intellectual pursuits, or why her husband has no household responsibilities; and, when no logical explanations are offered, she may try to twist her perspective and squint her eyes and pull a small piece of rationalization from the depths of a distant history. Similarly, the narrator [exhausts herself] trying to distinguish the order and she discovers there is one end of the room where [the pattern] is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, [she] can almost fancy radiation after all As her obsession with the wallpaper deepens, the narrator increasingly withdrawals from John and her caretaker, Jennie; she sleeps during the day, and lays awake at night examining the effect of moonlight on the wallpaper.
The moonlight reveals a woman trapped behind the repulsive pattern, and the narrator finally understands the pattern; the pattern isnt art, it is a jail for the woman living in the wallpaper.
The narrator shifts her attention from the pattern of the wallpaper to the woman trapped behind it. To reach this clarity, the narrator has descended into a perceived insanity, symbolizing how a woman in the 19th century was perceived when she questioned her subjugation and decided to escape her oppression.
The narrator recognizes the true nature of the wallpaper; the woman in the paper is all the time trying to climb through.
But nobody could climb through that pattern-it strangles so , and the narrator determines to help her escape. Once she has made this decision, escape consumes her mind, and the deterioration of her sanity is rapid; the narrator no longer distinguishes between herself and the woman in the wallpaper, removing any doubt that the narrator had felt imprisoned by her husband and his resting cure.
She exclaims, Ive got out at last..
And Ive pulled off most of the paper, so you cant put me back ! She recognizes and rebukes the destiny of all women to be confined to domestic roles, a seemingly insane assertion to the 19th century perspective.
Perhaps, she has gone crazy; perhaps, society perceives her as crazy because she no longer accepts the jaillike restrictions of the womans role in a 19th century marriage. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.
But what is one to do? I did write for a while in spite of them; but it DOES exhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition. I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.
So I will let it alone and talk about the house. The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village.
It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people. John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
You see he does not believe I am sick! And what can one do? If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.
So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.
Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.
But what is one to do?
I did write for a while in spite of them; but it DOES exhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.