Katherine Mansfield's Short Stories
Katherine Mansfield
Language: English
Pages: 276
ISBN: 145054066X
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"Katherine Mansfield's Short Stories," the author captures some of the fleeting impressions we encounter daily. Some stories, like "The Garden Party", "The Doll's House", "The Daughters of the Late Colonel", accurately convey the sense of loss, the breathlessness of youth, and the regret of unfulfilled lives all in subtle yet striking prose. The beauty of Mansfield's writing lies in her poetic description of detail--her power of suggestion--and her courage. She was determined, both in her life and in her writing, to move against the current of the time. Her life was filled with problems: her health, her love life, and her writing all caused her measureless pain, but in spite of these she lived her life the way she chose to live it. There are30 stories in this very excellent Katherine Mansfield collection. Her detailed descriptions of objects are intrinsic to the stories, tiny sparkles that spread out and create a canvas on which her characters interact. Every story has its own suppressed passion as Ms. Mansfield gets right into the heart of what makes us all human. They are filled with arrivals and departures, spinsterhood and marriage, love and loss and pangs of despair. Children play a role in her writings, as do distinctions of social class. Life is a struggle for her characters, who are timeless in their humanity, though they all live in a world that existed more than 80 years ago. With rare exceptions, the stories are sad. Layered with subtleties as they deal with the major themes of life and death, "Katherine Mansfield's Short Stories" offers many small slices of life, rare glimpses into human nature with sharp insights meant to spark memories and feelings in the reader, all while providing a deeply enriching literary experience.
between a wardress and a nurse for mental cases! And then, there’s the post. One can’t get over the fact that the post comes, and once it has come, who — who — could wait until eleven for the letters?” His eyes grew bright; he quickly, lightly clasped her. “My letters, darling?” “Perhaps,” she drawled, softly, and she drew her hand over his reddish hair, smiling too, but thinking: “Heavens! What a stupid thing to say!” But this morning she had been awakened by one great slam of the front
her head and smiled. Only two people shared her “special” seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s lives just for a minute while they
there laughing in each other’s arms. “Come, that’s enough, my squirrel! That’s enough, my wild pony!” said old Mrs Fairfield, setting her cap straight “pick up my knitting.” Both of them had forgotten what the “never” was about. VIII The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells’ shut with a bang and a very gay figure walked down the path to the gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red
wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning. In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along
remember that one has so few opportunities for exhibiting Love within the family circle nowadays. One’s husband is at business all day, and naturally desires to sleep when he returns home — one’s children are out of the lap and in at the university before one can lavish anything at all upon them!” “But Love is not a question of lavishing,” said the Advanced Lady. “It is the lamp carried in the bosom touching with serene rays all the heights and depths of —” “Darkest Africa,” I murmured