Why I Wrote The Yellow Wall-Paper
|November 16, 2012|
Photography by Kittivanilli
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Many and many a reader has asked that. When the story first came out, in the New England Magazine about 1891, a Boston physician made protest in The Transcript. Such a story ought not to be written, he said; it was enough to drive anyone mad to read it.
Another physician, in Kansas I think, wrote to say that it was the best description of incipient insanity he had ever seen, and–begging my pardon–had I been there?
Now the story of the story is this:
For many years I suffered from a severe and continuous nervous breakdown tending to melancholia–and beyond. During about the third year of this trouble I went, in devout faith and some faint stir of hope, to a noted specialist in nervous diseases, the best known in the country. This wise man put me to bed and applied the rest cure, to which a still-good physique responded so promptly that he concluded there was nothing much the matter with me, and sent me home with solemn advice to “live as domestic a life as far as possible,” to “have but two hours’ intellectual life a day,” and “never to touch pen, brush, or pencil again” as long as I lived. This was in 1887.
I went home and obeyed those directions for some three months, and came so near the borderline of utter mental ruin that I could see over.
Then, using the remnants of intelligence that remained, and helped by a wise friend, I cast the noted specialist’s advice to the winds and went to work again–work, the normal life of every human being; work, in which is joy and growth and service, without which one is a pauper and a parasite–ultimately recovering some measure of power.
Being naturally moved to rejoicing by this narrow escape, I wrote The Yellow Wall-Paper, with its embellishments and additions, to carry out the ideal (I never had hallucinations or objections to my mural decorations) and sent a copy to the physician who so nearly drove me mad. He never acknowledged it.
The little book is valued by alienists and as a good specimen of one kind of literature. It has, to my knowledge, saved one woman from a similar fate–so terrifying her family that they let her out into normal activity and she recovered.
But the best result is this. Many years later I was told that the great specialist had admitted to friends of his that he had altered his treatment of neurasthenia since reading The Yellow Wall-Paper.
It was not intended to drive people crazy, but to save people from being driven crazy, and it worked.
Piece originally published in the October 1913 issue of The Forerunner. Read the The Yellow Wall-Paper here.
About the Author:
Charlotte Perkins Gilman (July 3, 1860 – August 17, 1935) was an American sociologist and writer.
The Death of Romance in the Shadow of the Colossus
These are the two modalities through which you engage the world of Shadow of the Colossus: In the journey, you are the lost soul; in the encounter, you become the lover and the warrior, carried by your passions into mortal struggles with the Colossi. These guardian monsters, your adversaries, fill in the emotional frame established by your travels through the Forbidden Land.
I Know You Ain't Perfect, But I Like You To Try
DMX’s lyrics have always been excessively violent, even within the standards of the genre. As a performer, DMX gave his all to his audience, sharing his darkest thoughts, psychological troubles and drug abuse struggles. Beyond his darkness, the singer also shared with his listeners his desperate quest for God, by featuring a prayer – usually delivered a cappella – on every one of his albums.
Penny Goring & Rauan Klassnik jst spk, woa
words or pics, it’s all the same to me, i don’t draw lines. my exes mum, after reading a poem of mine, he told me she sed to him: ‘someone needs to get her to stop. will she ever draw the line?’ but i won’t. because i don’t want to. if something happened to me it is mine. i can do what i like with it.
You may also like :
A couple of years ago, I designed and taught a nonfiction-writing course I called Object Studies, which offered (as the course description put it — take in a breath here) “a laboratory for writers interested in finding inventive ways to bring the concrete object to life in prose through attention to the interplay of associations, memories, and visual fact.”
For many the term postfeminist might call to mind the vanilla pleasures of metrosexuality, webcams, online soaps, and blog culture, but, for me, a 40-something cyberfeminist scholar, curator and some time activist, the politically-minded feminist texts I work with are in fact dyed-in-the-wool postfeminist ones that occupy a different place on the postfeminism continuum from those more loudly-lauded, lighter confections.
Is there anything more tedious than the facile distinction between university study and the “real world”? (The only thing that annoys me more is being called “Miss” by teenage restaurant workers — as if nothing could be more gravely insulting to a woman than to address her in such a way that acknowledges her age.)