The Hermit and the Wild Woman: And Other Stories ; Ethan Frome

Scribner, 1911 - 421 páginas
Some critics and biographers have suggested that Edith Wharton wrote "The Hermit and the Wild Woman" intentionally referring to Henry James as a literary hermit and to Wharton herself as the wild woman. Other stories share elements in common with Wharton's most famous fiction. For instance, €the use of a woman's body as art is found in both the House of Mirth€and in "The Pot-Boiler." Wharton's ironic wit is the driving force in "The Last Asset" where a man resolves himself to unhappiness, thus assuring himself to "have a fairly good time" at his daughter's wedding. In "The Verdict," Wharton again questions the definition of art and critiques the artist's ego. Not many new themes are to be found in this collection, but Wharton's humor and intellect find new ways of exploring her old motifs.

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This edition has versions of all of the short stories "translated" into modern English. The originals are all in appendixes, too. Leer comentario completo

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Página 351 - No, I didn't forget; but it's as dark as Egypt outdoors. We might go tomorrow if there's a moon." She laughed with pleasure, her head tilted back, the lamplight sparkling on her lips and teeth. "That would be lovely, Ethan!" He kept his eyes fixed on her, marvelling at the way her face changed with each turn of their talk, like a wheat-field under a summer breeze. It was intoxicating to find such magic in his clumsy words, and he longed to try new ways of using it. "Would you be scared to go down...
Página 286 - Though Harmon Gow developed the tale as far as his mental and moral reach permitted there were perceptible gaps between his facts, and I had the sense that the deeper meaning of the story was in the gaps.
Página 292 - He seemed a part of the mute melancholy landscape, an incarnation of its frozen woe, with all that was warm and sentient in him fast bound below the surface...
Página 287 - Junction, and a long-drawn carpenters' strike had so delayed the work that I found myself anchored at Starkfield — the nearest habitable spot — for the best part of the winter. I chafed at first, and then, under the hypnotising effect of routine, gradually began to find a grim satisfaction in the life. During the early...
Página 334 - ... to Starkfield. There the silence had deepened about him year by year. Left alone, after his father's accident, to carry the burden of farm and mill, he had had no time for convivial loiterings in the village; and when his mother fell ill the loneliness of the house grew more oppressive than that of the fields. His mother had been a talker in her day, but after her "trouble" the sound of her voice was seldom heard, though she had not lost the power of speech. Sometimes, in the long winter evenings,...
Página 177 - The word, on Mrs. Thwing's lips, multiplied its rs as though they were reflected in an endless vista of mirrors. And it was not only the Mrs. Thwings who mourned. Had not the exquisite Hermia Croft, at the last Grafton Gallery show, stopped me before Gisburn's "Moon-dancers" to say, with tears in her eyes: "We shall not look upon its like again"?
Página 421 - And I say, if she'd ha' died, Ethan might ha' lived; and the way they are now, I don't see's there's much difference between the Fromes up at the farm and the Fromes down in the graveyard; 'cept that down there they're all quiet, and the women have got to hold their tongues.
Página 283 - I HAD THE STORY, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story. If you know Starkfield, Massachusetts,2 you know the postoffice. If you know the post-office you must have seen Ethan Frome drive up to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backed bay and drag himself across the brick pavement to the white colonnade: and you must have asked who he was.
Página 413 - It's waiting for us: it seems to know." But suddenly his wife's face, with twisted monstrous lineaments, thrust itself between him and his goal, and he made an instinctive movement to brush it aside. The sled swerved in response, but he righted it again, kept it straight, and drove down on the black projecting mass. There was a last instant when the air shot past him like millions of fiery wires; and then the elm...
Página 296 - Frome did not even turn his head as we drove by, and still in silence we began to mount the next slope. About a mile farther, on a road I had never travelled, we came to an orchard of starved appletrees writhing over a hillside among outcroppings of slate that nuzzled up through the snow like animals pushing out their noses to breathe. Beyond the orchard lay a field or two, their boundaries lost under drifts; and above the fields, huddled against the white immensities of land and sky, one of those...

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