The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

“The Yellow Wallpaper”; it was hard to get into at first, but as the story progressed as did I ease into the story. Having read it to its completion I found nothing very interpretive about it until the end. Much like “The Open Boat” everything built up but had a meaning and a purpose unknown to me until the end of story. 

The main character, who I would presume to be the author, Charlotte Gilman, is struck with a mild case of deliria it seems and does not know exactly what she wants or needs, but from what her doctor husband tells her. They have moved out to an old house away from the city for the summer to help her condition.  Throughout the story she is doing things that she has been advised not to do, but is never caught doing. Noticing this strangely yellow wall paper in one of the rooms of the house they are staying in. 

“The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
        It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.”

Throughout the progress of the story she is openly moved from repulsiveness to mystery. As she sits and waits at night staring at this unseemly wallpaper she sees what she believes to be a shadow of a woman behind the first layer of wallpaper as if she is trapped, imprisoned.

Jumping to the last three or four paragraphs of the story; she is now ripping the wallpaper of methodically trying to rip off as big a piece at a time. She becomes obsessed by her fascination to rip this wallpaper off this nursery wall. Trying to free this poor woman trapped behind this wallpaper.

Finally she succeeds. Only to find that instead of getting better she has actually gotten worse. She has obsessed over this woman so long that she has, in her mind, become this women, and her doctor husband and his sister were the ones keeping her trapped behind that wall paper, which is why she  tore most of it off the wall.

We are trapped. Hiding behind the walls of our own “innocence”; trying to be people that we are not. Attempting to become something we were never destined to be. We hide because we are unsure of what the rest of the world, our friends, our families, might think of us. We hide behind our traditions and our rituals. We hide behind our insecurities and failures.

We tell our selves that we’re going to free that woman, that man, behind the wall paper. That when we have kids we’re going to treat them differently. We’re going to raise them differently. That when we grow up we’re going to be a better man then our fathers were, a better woman then our mothers were.

It matters because it’s a problem and so few of us actually succeed in freeing that imprisoned soul behind that nasty yellow wallpaper. It matters because when we finally figure out how to accurately free that scared child, that timid impression of ourselves; it may almost be too late.

And until we do we will always find ourselves in the same place we ran away to hide; in the shadows. Sometimes we need a place of seclusion that will bring out the worst in us so that we can find the best we can be. 

The Book of Sand by Jorge Luis Borges

My dad used to always tell me, “Knowledge is power!” maybe in an amusing effort to motivate me to get my homework done, I don’t know; but if it was then maybe, just maybe, he was right. Looking back now I do wish I had tried harder to become a better student, though I do not think myself stupid, knowledge is a great asset to have. Although knowledge is not exactly the greatest power, whereas faith and God would then come into play, but to us as humans; it’s really all we have.

I heard someone say, though I don’t remember who, that, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Now if this then is true then perhaps The Book of Sands is a book that was filled with infinite knowledge. Perhaps there was no first page because, apart from God, knowledge has no beginning, and to our knowledge it also has no end, which is why we discover knew things every day.

I feel that The Book of Sands (which I read every sentence of) can be written to mean any number of things. But the conclusion I am most drawn to is one I have already stated, that knowledge is power and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Knowledge builds things and destroys things. It creates things and perverts things. It motivates and discourages. It loves but it also fights. Knowledge [power] gives us the ability to build bridges, but also the capacity to blow them up. Knowledge [power] creates ideas for newer things and a better future, but it also can turn those things against us. Knowledge [power] helps us mend our broken hearts, but at the same time birthed the conflict that broke our hearts.

As the author acquires this book, he is intrigued at its first showing. He sees that the book is indeed special, but to what extent?  As he made the trade with the traveling tradesman, he had every intention I’m sure of discovering its secrets. (“I examined the worn binding and the covers with a magnifying glass, and rejected the possibility of some artifice. I found that the small illustrations were spaced at two-thousand-page intervals. I began noting them down in an alphabetized notebook, which was very soon filled. They never repeated themselves.” Pg. 7)

He even sacrificed some of his favorite things. (“I showed no one my treasure. To the joy of possession was added the fear that it would be stolen from me, and to that, the suspicion that it might not be truly infinite. Those two points of anxiety aggravated my already habitual misanthropy. I had but few friends left, and those, I stopped seeing. A prisoner of the Book, I hardly left my house.” Pg. 7)

Calling himself a prisoner, by choice, he locked himself in his house learning the books secrets and taking note of every detail. I don’t know about you but this sounds like a man who is hungry for power [knowledge]. It’s only when he realizes his own imprisonment that I believe he sets himself free. Taking the book to a safe place (Just like the tradesman he bought it off of) where no one will find it… hopefully.

This message of absolute power [knowledge] corrupting absolutely matters not only to me as a college student but to the professors I have, and to their deans, and to their Vice Presidents, and to the President.

Adolf Hitler claimed to know why the economy was struggling and gave the people an answer. To him, because he knows it’s false, is not knowledge, but to everyone else it’s truth, its knowledge. And Joseph Stalin was the same way, as was Mussolini. These men claimed to have absolute power [knowledge] about their countries current conditions, and provided a “solution” only to become the ultimate problem.

Hopefully then it’s safe to say that The Book of Sand is hidden, so that no one can profess true absolute knowledge [power],I because it’s not meant for anyone to have. This is why believe there to be things out there, somewhere, that will remain undiscovered until the good Lord takes us home. It matters because to you; it shouldn’t matter. Absolute power [knowledge] is absolutely unnecessary. 

The Open Boat by Stephen Crane

This was complicated story; full of many “could be” analogies. I was thinking as I read through that maybe it meant this, and then after reading further and more deeply into it I thought it could maybe mean that or was in fact implying something else.

As I read through it I too felt lost at sea, looking for a meaning. Being tossed by the waves of my own complexities; being washed over by my swells of shallowness. But it was until I got to the end (Yes I did read the entire story) that I finally realized any true significance to this story. It’s meaning, it’s purpose, it’s moral, it’s theme.

“When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight,
and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voice to the men on
shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.”


Summed up in the last paragraph, just as a conclusion should be, the message of the story I feel is not one of any common victory. It’s not one of self righteousness, or revenge. It’s not a sob story, though at times it may seem that way, the way they kept getting tossed around. It was a moral for someone else. That they were the sea’s interpreters meant that they knew it better than anyone. That they had experienced it more fiercely then anyone ever had.


May times they wondered, if they would ever make it out and why nature had reared its ugly head at them. To have brought them so far to only drown them in the end.
“If I am going to be drowned--if I am going to be drowned--if I am going
to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea,
was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I
brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to
nibble the sacred cheese of life?”


What had they lived so long for if only to die? The truth is that we will all surely die someday, but to brave the open sea during such a dangerous storm, and with such perfidious waves, would only be the biggest “slap-in-the-face” to a seaman.


Sometimes we go through things not because they necessarily do anything for us, or that we might directly benefit from them, but so that we can be a help to others when they go through the same things; that we might become interpreters of our own situations and circumstances.


 “Oh, cool,” you say, “but why does it matter? Why can’t they figure things out for themselves?”


Believe it or not you were placed on this earth for such a purpose to be a blessing. It matters because as soon as the person you love the most ends up going through something that you’ve just gone through or been through before; your able to be their interpreter; because you’ve been there and experienced it for yourself. It matters because you’re not the only one out there, which means most of the time it’s not going to be about you. That the pain we sometimes go through is for the benefit of others. It matters because others matter. 

Metaphorical Interpretation

                The Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, is an interesting story. A sailor type man has come somehow to this small town. No one knows quite how he got there, since he was found during three days of rain, but many have their suspicions. Some say he is an angel; others still a freak of nature. The story really leaves you without really know what he is, or where he came from. Leaving the whole story open ended in a way, for your imagination to run wild.

                I feel that this story is just one big metaphor to symbolize when Christ came in human form. And there are many comparisons that parallel with the life of Christ.

                He came in an unusual way.  Much like the baby Jesus being born in a manger, and to a virgin nonetheless; this old man with wings, though unknown, came to this town in a way just as mysterious.

                The “Ragpicker”. In this story the appearance of this old man with wings is that of a lowly pesent. I have reason to believe that this is one of the reasons that he is treated with such disregard.

When Jesus came he was the son of a carpenter; nothing more than common folk. He learned his trade just like every other son in his day; he was to carry on the family business. In Isaiah it was written that there was nothing about him to attract us to him. No physical beauty or sweet aroma. Just like this man with wings, there were only a few things to separate him from us.

                “The Neighbor Woman”.  The husband and wife in this story go out in search of counsel and bring back the neighbor woman; “… who knew everything about life and death…” “”He’s an angel,” she said…” The wings must have given him away. For I were to think that if I saw something such as him, who did not speak, at least nothing intelligible, that I would pass him off as a drunk.

Throughout Jesus’ life there were those who proclaimed his messiah-ship, and then those who proclaimed his hypocrisy. Saying that he was either the true son of God or an imposter sent to distract us from who or what the real messiah is.

                “Father Gonzaga”.  Father Gonzaga is that person; the one who isn’t buying the whole angel story. As he enters the chicken coop, where this winged fellow is being kept he is immediately alerted to the fact that he may not be an angel. “…he did not understand the language of God or know how to greet his ministers.” So naturally he can’t be an angel.

I don’t think I remember Jesus greeting the counsel of priests with the expected type of response. He was more unique in that way. Who is man to make rules and regulations any way? Is not everything set into motion by God? I feel as though Christ is similar in this way. He showed respect because they were in a position to receive respect, but never once do I think he gave them the answer they were looking for.

                “The Curious… The Crowds”.  “… then got the idea to of fencing in the yard and charging five cents admission to see the angel. The curious came from far away.”  Amazed at the thought of an angel, or whatever he was, live and held captive on earth was a dream; something that only happened in children’s stories. (Like this one) They came just to see him, to awe at his “splendor”.

They came to hear him, to see him do miracles. They came to see for themselves the things that he was teaching and doing; multitudes of thousands upon thousands. The “Sermon on the Mount” is a classic example. When five thousand people were fed with a small boy’s lunch. They came from near and far, just to see him.

                “Treatment”. “ Especially during the first days, when the hens pecked at him, searching for the stellar parasites that proliferated in his wings, and the cripples pulled out feathers to touch their defective parts with, and even the most merciful threw stones at him,...” They threw stones at him? Now if you thought that there was an angel in your midst that you would throw stones at it? I don’t think so. This doesn’t seem to be very logically thinking.

Did they not openly rebuke him? Did Peter, one of his closest friends, not reject him three different times the night of his arrest? Jesus was treated like the worst of sinners though he had no sin to be guilty of. He was spat upon and ultimately crucified. What manner of injustice did he do to deserve this? He offended someone, or challenged someone’s authority; such injustice.

                “Making Money”. They had charged 5 cents at the door just to look upon such an interesting creature, as if they had now owned him; and, “With the money they had saved they built a two-story mansion with balconies and gardens and high netting so that crabs wouldn’t get in during winter, and iron bars on the windows so that angels wouldn’t get in.” With iron bars on the windows it [angels] must have been quite the problem in that small town.

Thirty pieces of silver, the cost of our savior’s life. With the money he had saved [“earned”] he went out and bought a field and hung himself for what he had done. Nothing could keep out the continuous haunting from so many demons pursuing his very soul. He must have been possessed by Satan himself. What is the cost of redemption? Is it not your life?

                “The Departure”. Then he leaves; no goodbyes, no farewells, but a memory that could never fade. “Then she went to the window and caught the angel in his first attempts at flight… But he did manage to gain altitude.” Elisenda then sighs in relief and is happy that he is finally gone because above all other things; he was an annoyance. There was no purpose for him to be there. They learned nothing during his visit, they weren’t thankful for their new wealth, they were just happy he was gone.

Though when he left he left in a slightly different fashion he was still, in retrospect, look at a nuisance to the religious society. They were happy that he was gone; or was he really even gone? The fact remains that as he left there was a sigh of relief, but also a sigh of sorrow. Not knowing he would come back. Some say after he rose from the dead that there was an impression made on the hearts of those whom he loved; that his legacy lived on. 

An Angel in Disguise

The first thing that comes to mind is that the angel is an unwanted “guest” as if he imposed himself upon the lives of Pelayo and his wife. But still they took care of him; kind of. They gave him shelter, a chicken coop and later a shed; food, at least whatever the townspeople threw to him. But they kept him around for their own gain. They turned him into a circus show and made money off of him. They compared him to the freak show that often came into town. And when he started getting better, they were happy not because he was no longer miserable but because maybe, just maybe he would leave.

You see them every day; the homeless, the beggars, the panhandlers on the side of the road. And you know that they need help. You drive by them on your way to school, your way to work, and still they go “unnoticed”. Their lives untouched, or we talk about them with the windows rolled up; “Why don’t they just get a job and stop wasting their life?” And we live with them everywhere, everyday; and when they finally leave we are filled with joy. Not because we are happy with their advancements towards a better life, but because we don’t have to deal with them anymore.

What would happen if we as the church (which is what I feel this story is portraying in a way with the reference to angels and Father Gonzaga) stop passing by, and become the Samaritans that Christ talks about. That even our enemies will know us for our love. When will the church that Christ talks about in the gospels come to life?

Never will I tire from doing good, for even if I fail; to stand by and watch would defeat my soul.

“Papa, help me to find the most in every opportunity. That everything I experience would present its self a widow to show your love. May the people I come in contact with feel the compassion that you have for them in a way that is most real to them. Help them to see Christ in me. I love you Papa.”

A Story as a Metaphor; Omelas

The city, Omelas, in this story seems to characterize most of the world as we see it today. There is a place where there are all things almost completely void of any feeling or genuine emotions. Much like the world today everybody tries their best to feel as if there is nothing that can make them happy or sad, or angry, because they need, for themselves, to have complete rule over their own emotions. They don’t know what it means to truly love any more; they don’t know what it means to truly care for anything. Because, much like the child in the closet, they justify any act that has even the smallest hint of inhumanity as a necessary evil.

                If there is nothing for which they can look at and feel pity about then there is nothing to feel good about; because without evil there is no good.  If everything in the world was just fine and dandy, then nothing would seem as good as it really truly is. But if you have a moment of darkness, a reminder of cruelty then maybe, just maybe, everything is just that much better, because at least you’re not the one shoved into a closet with no windows, and no floor, with little to no light ever seen at any given time. At least you’ve got other things to think about then why you’re trapped inside a closet covered in your own waste, built up over the years.

                You’ve got a nice little life of your own going on. And the only purpose that those commercials with the dogs in the pound that need your help and the children across the world with no home or family, the only purpose those have for you is to make you feel better about yourself and your life. Because at least you’re not an orphaned child in a third world country

Nature Came Late...

So this post is late but is completely relevant to class. Nature is a huge part of everything that we do and experience, that it would be a shame not to post this poem and blog even if it is late.

As I was out at Lake Bonny Park enjoying the view before me; the ball park, the traffic noise in the small distance, the human waste vehicle emptying out the bathrooms, and the beeping sound that is accompanied with every backing up of an oversized truck, or trailer, I found myself struggling to find the organic beauty of it all. Then it began to rain. You could hear it on top of the picnic covering Casey and I were sitting under, it was made of metal and you could hear every rain drop, big and small, those falling in a furious decent, and those taking their time enjoying their short life span. It was a small symphony in motion. These are the words that came to my mind when I found something to write about...

"What word can express, all the beauty that nature has in it's possession, it's become an obsession to sit in the "wild" deep in meditation, concentration is key to understanding what the father is of this "Mother Nature" is trying to tell me, the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, consider these things as you think simplisticly, it truly is a great design, that I may witness with these eyes of mine, not it shines on the horizon, it's the sun, that you might encounter a God in this place, of grace, a warm expression on your face, for what do we have to gain from the rain, we pass it off as a pain and let it run down the drain, but it's to enjoy, and employ the clouds on days like this, whether the weather is cld or hot, wet or not, consider it a blessing for messing up "your plans", life not always about beaches and getting tans."


This isn't quite like what we've been reading in class but it was the natural flow that came to me with what I was experiencing. I hope that you enjoyed it and were somewhat inspired to have a new experience.