The Scarlet letter Individual Vs society?

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rudi18
Student
High School - 11th Grade
eNotes Newbie

I need quotes that support this theme.... and any information regarding this theme would be
awesome....thank you!

Posted by rudi18 on May 13, 2009.

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timbrady
Teacher
College - Senior
Editor, Debater, Expert, Educator, Dickens, The Bard

I have read this book with my students for many years, and I would suggest that the individual vs.
society is not at the heart of what this book is about. On one level, of course, we have two
individuals who have violated a law of their society, but this does not put them in conflict with it
any more than my getting a speeding ticket puts me in conflict with my society. Rather, their
violation of a law and how they deal with it puts them in conflict with themselves. Both Arthur and
Hester deal with this differently. Arthur deals with it by not dealing with it and faces the
consequences many years later. Hester faces it quite differently. It is clear that she know she
has violated a law of their community and accepts the isolation and scorn that comes from that
violation. But, unlike Arthur, she does not feel that she has violated her selfhood ("What we did
had a consecration of its own.")

You may argue that their society was too black and white, too strict, too Puritanical or just not like
them, but their law and religion were the same thing, and that law had been broken. What
remains in the story is how each person deals with the consequences of that action. Hester,
through her acceptance of her own actions (and freedom from real personal guilt) becomes the
Angel; Arthur, with some help from Chillingworth, almost literally eats his heart out and dies. But
it's not a consequences of his war with society; it's his war with himself, accepting part of the
realilty of his life that he just could not deal with.
I know this doesn't directly answer your question, except by suggesting that you're looking in the
wrong direction. Others may disagree --- that's what e-notes is for :)

Posted by timbrady on May 13, 2009.

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mwestwood
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Editor Emeritus, Debater, Expert, Educator, Scribe, Whitman, Poe, Dickens, The Bard, Churchill

While in agreement that the individuals Hester and Arthur Dimmesdale must deal with their own
guilt for their sins, there is, nevertheless, an antagonism of the society towards the individual.
Since Hester Pyrnne and Arthur Dimmesdale and others live in a society that does not allow for
any human fraility, and the prison waits for any who are among those who are not the "elect,"the
Puritan society is against the individual in the sense that there is not room for any human error. If
a person should sin, there is no forgiveness. This rigid Puritanism which allows for none of the
intrinsic weakness of humanity is set as a foe to the human spirit which must, as a result of the
original sin of the Garden of Eden, fail at times.

And, it is this hypocrisy of Puritanism which allows for no redemption for the "depraved" whose
sin is in antagonism to the human soul. After all, "To err is human," and through Hawthorne's
narrative the reader perceives that the despair of knowing that there is no forgiveness is what kills
the very spirit and heart of Hester and Arthur Dimmesdale respectively.

Posted by mwestwood on May 18, 2009.

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mshurn
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Hester's character, it seems to me, most clearly supports the theme of the individual in conflict
with society--and not simply in reference to her adultery. After enduring her humiliation upon the
scaffold, Hester was free to leave the harsh Puritan community, yet she remained, choosing to
live with the daily humiliation of wearing the scarlet letter. Her reasons are open to interpretation,
but the most logical one is that she would not leave Arthur, although they had no life together.

Some of Hester's behavior over the following seven years suggests that she bowed to the weight
of Puritan law and custom but that her society was unable to destroy her fierce individualism. She
dressed Pearl in the brightest of colors and took pride in her beautiful daughter, the product of her
sin. She used her skills as a seamstress to embroider gold thread into the scarlet letter, turning it
into a work of beauty rather than a symbol of shame. This, of course, works symbolically to show
Hester's own spiritual growth through her kindness to others in the community, but it also
suggests that Hester will wear the letter in her own way. Finally, the meeting with Arthur in the
forest demonstrates that Hester still thinks, acts, and feels as an independent person. Struggling
to save his life and to secure a life for themselves and their daughter beyond the stifling society in
which they are trapped, she tells him they must go away. Her words are not those of a repentant
sinner who has accepted the moral strictures of her society.

After Arthur dies, Hester does take her child and return to England. Why she returns years later to
live out her life alone by the sea is subject to interpretation, but by returning there to die, she is
buried next to Arthur.

Go to this link for a discussion of the individual vs. society theme in the novel.

http://www.enotes.com/scarlet/themes
Posted by mshurn on May 29, 2009.
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he Scarlet Letter
Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Analysis of Major Characters

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The Custom-House: Introductory
Themes, Motifs & Symbols

Themes

Themes are the fundamental and often universal ideas explored in a literary work.

Sin, Knowledge, and the Human Condition

Sin and knowledge are linked in the Judeo-Christian tradition. The Bible begins with the story of Adam and Eve,
who were expelled from the Garden of Eden for eating from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. As a result of
their knowledge, Adam and Eve are made aware of their humanness, that which separates them from the divine
and from other creatures. Once expelled from the Garden of Eden, they are forced to toil and to procreate—two
“labors” that seem to define the human condition. The experience of Hester and Dimmesdale recalls the story of
Adam and Eve because, in both cases, sin results in expulsion and suffering. But it also results in knowledge—
specifically, in knowledge of what it means to be human. For Hester, the scarlet letter functions as “her passport
into regions where other women dared not tread,” leading her to “speculate” about her society and herself more
“boldly” than anyone else in New England. As for Dimmesdale, the “burden” of his sin gives him “sympathies so
intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind, so that his heart vibrate[s] in unison with theirs.” His eloquent and
powerful sermons derive from this sense of empathy. Hester and Dimmesdale contemplate their own sinfulness
on a daily basis and try to reconcile it with their lived experiences. The Puritan elders, on the other hand, insist on
seeing earthly experience as merely an obstacle on the path to heaven. Thus, they view sin as a threat to the
community that should be punished and suppressed. Their answer to Hester’s sin is to ostracize her. Yet, Puritan
society is stagnant, while Hester and Dimmesdale’s experience shows that a state of sinfulness can lead to
personal growth, sympathy, and understanding of others. Paradoxically, these qualities are shown to be
incompatible with a state of purity.

The Nature of Evil

The characters in the novel frequently debate the identity of the “Black Man,” the embodiment of evil. Over the
course of the novel, the “Black Man” is associated with Dimmesdale, Chillingworth, and Mistress Hibbins, and little
Pearl is thought by some to be the Devil’s child. The characters also try to root out the causes of evil: did
Chillingworth’s selfishness in marrying Hester force her to the “evil” she committed in Dimmesdale’s arms? Is
Hester and Dimmesdale’s deed responsible for Chillingworth’s transformation into a malevolent being? This
confusion over the nature and causes of evil reveals the problems with the Puritan conception of sin. The book
argues that true evil arises from the close relationship between hate and love. As the narrator points out in the
novel’s concluding chapter, both emotions depend upon “a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each
renders one individual dependent . . . upon another.” Evil is not found in Hester and Dimmesdale’s lovemaking,
nor even in the cruel ignorance of the Puritan fathers. Evil, in its most poisonous form, is found in the carefully
plotted and precisely aimed revenge of Chillingworth, whose love has been perverted. Perhaps Pearl is not
entirely wrong when she thinks Dimmesdale is the “Black Man,” because her father, too, has perverted his love.
Dimmesdale, who should love Pearl, will not even publicly acknowledge her. His cruel denial of love to his own
child may be seen as further perpetrating evil.

Identity and Society

After Hester is publicly shamed and forced by the people of Boston to wear a badge of humiliation, her
unwillingness to leave the town may seem puzzling. She is not physically imprisoned, and leaving the
Massachusetts Bay Colony would allow her to remove the scarlet letter and resume a normal life. Surprisingly,
Hester reacts with dismay when Chillingworth tells her that the town fathers are considering letting her remove the
letter. Hester’s behavior is premised on her desire to determine her own identity rather than to allow others to
determine it for her. To her, running away or removing the letter would be an acknowledgment of society’s power
over her: she would be admitting that the letter is a mark of shame and something from which she desires to
escape. Instead, Hester stays, refiguring the scarlet letter as a symbol of her own experiences and character. Her
past sin is a part of who she is; to pretend that it never happened would mean denying a part of herself. Thus,
Hester very determinedly integrates her sin into her life.

Dimmesdale also struggles against a socially determined identity. As the community’s minister, he is more symbol
than human being. Except for Chillingworth, those around the minister willfully ignore his obvious anguish,
misinterpreting it as holiness. Unfortunately, Dimmesdale never fully recognizes the truth of what Hester has
learned: that individuality and strength are gained by quiet self-assertion and by a reconfiguration, not a rejection,
of one’s assigned identity.

Motifs

Motifs are recurring structures, contrasts, and literary devices that can help to develop and inform the text’s major
themes.

Civilization Versus the Wilderness

In The Scarlet Letter, the town and the surrounding forest represent opposing behavioral systems. The town
represents civilization, a rule-bound space where everything one does is on display and where transgressions are
quickly punished. The forest, on the other hand, is a space of natural rather than human authority. In the forest,
society’s rules do not apply, and alternate identities can be assumed. While this allows for misbehavior— Mistress
Hibbins’s midnight rides, for example—it also permits greater honesty and an escape from the repression of
Boston. When Hester and Dimmesdale meet in the woods, for a few moments, they become happy young lovers
once again. Hester’s cottage, which, significantly, is located on the outskirts of town and at the edge of the forest,
embodies both orders. It is her place of exile, which ties it to the authoritarian town, but because it lies apart from
the settlement, it is a place where she can create for herself a life of relative peace.
Night Versus Day

By emphasizing the alternation between sunlight and darkness, the novel organizes the plot’s events into two
categories: those which are socially acceptable, and those which must take place covertly. Daylight exposes an
individual’s activities and makes him or her vulnerable to punishment. Night, on the other hand, conceals and
enables activities that would not be possible or tolerated during the day—for instance, Dimmesdale’s encounter
with Hester and Pearl on the scaffold. These notions of visibility versus concealment are linked to two of the
book’s larger themes—the themes of inner versus socially assigned identity and of outer appearances versus
internal states. Night is the time when inner natures can manifest themselves. During the day, interiority is once
again hidden from public view, and secrets remain secrets.
Evocative Names

The names in this novel often seem to beg to be interpreted allegorically. Chillingworth is cold and inhuman and
thus brings a “chill” to Hester’s and Dimmesdale’s lives. “Prynne” rhymes with “sin,” while “Dimmesdale” suggests
“dimness”—weakness, indeterminacy, lack of insight, and lack of will, all of which characterize the young minister.
The name “Pearl” evokes a biblical allegorical device—the “pearl of great price” that is salvation. This system of
naming lends a profundity to the story, linking it to other allegorical works of literature such as The Pilgrim’s
Progress and to portions of the Bible. It also aligns the novel with popular forms of narrative such as fairy tales.
Symbols

Symbols are objects, characters, figures, and colors used to represent abstract ideas or concepts.

The Scarlet Letter

The scarlet letter is meant to be a symbol of shame, but instead it becomes a powerful symbol of identity to
Hester. The letter’s meaning shifts as time passes. Originally intended to mark Hester as an adulterer, the “A”
eventually comes to stand for “Able.” Finally, it becomes indeterminate: the Native Americans who come to watch
the Election Day pageant think it marks her as a person of importance and status. Like Pearl, the letter functions
as a physical reminder of Hester’s affair with Dimmesdale. But, compared with a human child, the letter seems
insignificant, and thus helps to point out the ultimate meaninglessness of the community’s system of judgment
and punishment. The child has been sent from God, or at least from nature, but the letter is merely a human
contrivance. Additionally, the instability of the letter’s apparent meaning calls into question society’s ability to use
symbols for ideological reinforcement. More often than not, a symbol becomes a focal point for critical analysis
and debate.

The Meteor

As Dimmesdale stands on the scaffold with Hester and Pearl in Chapter 12, a meteor traces out an “A” in the
night sky. To Dimmesdale, the meteor implies that he should wear a mark of shame just as Hester does. The
meteor is interpreted differently by the rest of the community, which thinks that it stands for “Angel” and marks
Governor Winthrop’s entry into heaven. But “Angel” is an awkward reading of the symbol. The Puritans commonly
looked to symbols to confirm divine sentiments. In this narrative, however, symbols are taken to mean what the
beholder wants them to mean. The incident with the meteor obviously highlights and exemplifies two different
uses of symbols: Puritan and literary.

Pearl

Although Pearl is a complex character, her primary function within the novel is as a symbol. Pearl is a sort of living
version of her mother’s scarlet letter. She is the physical consequence of sexual sin and the indicator of a
transgression. Yet, even as a reminder of Hester’s “sin,” Pearl is more than a mere punishment to her mother: she
is also a blessing. She represents not only “sin” but also the vital spirit and passion that engendered that sin.
Thus, Pearl’s existence gives her mother reason to live, bolstering her spirits when she is tempted to give up. It is
only after Dimmesdale is revealed to be Pearl’s father that Pearl can become fully “human.” Until then, she
functions in a symbolic capacity as the reminder of an unsolved mystery.

< Previous Section

Analysis of Major Characters

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T

Major Themes
Insanity versus rationality
In many of Poe's short stories, such as "The Tell-Tale Heart," the narrators are madmen
and murderers who fail to disguise their lack of rationality with a discussion of their
thought processes. However, their stories inevitably reveal gaps in their chains of
thought that speak to their descent into immorality and selfishness. In many cases,
insanity is interlocked with the narrators' emotional egotism; they are incapable of
empathizing with others and think only of their own desire to satisfy their honor or their
need to end the disruptions to their lives. On the other side of the equation lie Poe's
rational characters, who are capable of consciously setting aside their own emotions in
order to logically solve their problems. For example, C. Auguste Dupin's skill lies in being
able to empathize with others in order to solve seemingly impossible cases. Where Poe's
irrational characters create confusion out of order, Dupin is capable of reversing the
process.
Obsession
The majority of Poe's narrators are nervous, oversensitive, and given to excessive
worrying or strange fixations. In his works, Poe explores the consequences of such
obsessive tendencies. In the case of the narrator of "The Tell-Tale Heart," the
protagonist's declarations of oversensitivity are merely a thin disguise for insanity. In
other stories, obsession is driven by fear: in "The Premature Burial," the narrator
develops catalepsy and begins to take myriad precautions because of his overwhelming
fear of being buried alive. Some characters become obsessed by passion, as in the case
of the painter in "The Oval Portrait," who essentially abandons his wife for his art. In
many of Poe's stories, the narrators' obsessions lead to death and destruction, but Poe
also belies this conclusion in "The Premature Burial," in which the narrator's obsessions
come to an abrupt end when his fretting leads him to drastically misinterpret an event in
his life.
Man's relationship with death
The fear of death drives the actions of several of Poe's characters. In particular, the
narrator of "The Premature Burial" obsesses about the possibility of premature burial,
and his fear makes him so paranoid that when he wakes up in the berth of a ship, he
mistakes it for a grave and has a terrifying experience for no real reason. At the same
time, Poe describes several characters whose response to their fear of death is to avoid
it, although the usual result of their avoidance is increased trauma. Prince Prospero and
his courtiers in "The Masque of the Red Death" try to shut themselves away and ignore
the slaughter caused by the Red Death, but death pays no attention to their barriers and
kills them en masse. Similarly, the attempt by the narrator to arrest M. Ernest Valdemar
at the point of death in "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar" only causes the
consumptive patient to die and have his body gruesomely dissolve into a putrid puddle.
However, the main character development of the narrator of "MS. Found in a Bottle" is
that he learns to accept his impending death and replace his fear with anticipation.
The double self
Most clearly developed in "William Wilson," the idea of a double or split self is present
throughout Poe's short stories. Poe approaches the concept of a double self in two ways.
In the destructive model of doubled identity appear such characters as William Wilson,
Ligeia, and the painter's wife in "The Oval Portrait." In all three cases, the character has
a second body, respectively in the forms of the other William Wilson, Rowena Trevanion,
and the wife's portrait, and in each story occurs a struggle between the two sides of the
character, in which only one side can be the victor. William Wilson is the only one of the
three that survives the battle, but his victory comes at the cost of his soul.
The second model of split identity is best characterized by C. Auguste Dupin, who is able
to reconcile his two sides successfully. His friend the narrator observes in "The Murders in
the Rue Morgue" that Dupin reminds him of the old theory of a bi-part soul, where one
side is "creative" and the other "resolvent." Whereas the splitting of the self often creates
conflict, Dupin combines his creative side and his emotionless, analytical side in order to
successfully solve crimes. Furthermore, when faced with opponents such as Minister D.,
who acts as Dupin's criminal double, Dupin is able to replicate his double's thoughts and
find a lawful conclusion rather than an immoral one.
Love and hate
Many of the crimes of Poe's protagonists are particularly detestable because they involve
the death of someone whom they formerly loved. The narrator of "The Tell-Tale Heart"
claims that he loved the old man but reveals his madness and evil tendencies through his
systematic terrorizing and murder of the old man, which he excuses by citing the old
man's evil eye. Similarly, the narrator's affection for Pluto and his wife in "The Black Cat"
and William Wilson's natural affinity toward his double turn into loathing and rage as the
characters sink into alcoholism and sin. In other cases, as with "The Oval Portrait," the
victim dies not from murder but from neglect; the painter loves his wife but is overtaken
by his devotion to his painting and thus destroys what he loves for the sake of art.
Finally, Poe introduces villain protagonists such as Montresor of "The Cask of
Amontillado" who hate their enemies but whose hate becomes even more sinister and
implacable because they mask it with signs of affection. Montresor's false solicitousness
for Fortunato's health is ultimately revealed as a ploy to lure Fortunato to his death. In
all of these cases, love and hate are shown to be closely connected, as one can easily
turn into the other without warning.
Curiosity
In "MS. Found in a Bottle," the narrator overcomes his fear of death by invoking the
example of the crew of the Discovery and by cultivating his sense of curiosity about the
southern regions of the Earth. Similarly, although the narrator of "The Pit and the
Pendulum" suffers from frequent fainting spells because of his terror over the
Inquisition's plans, he nonetheless chooses to explore his cell and thus avoids becoming
totally incapacitated by his distress. In both cases, the ability of the characters to set
aside their fear indicates their mental and emotional strength. In "The Gold Bug,"
Legrand does not face imminent destruction, but is instead driven by curiosity to
decipher the clues found on a scrap of parchment, and is ultimately rewarded for his
curiosity. In all of these stories, Poe treats curiosity as a sign of the narrator's sanity and
intelligence.
The power of human resolve
Ligeia is the foremost example of the power of the will in Poe's short stories, as she
agrees with the epigraph's claim that "man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto
death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." In the end, her will is
enough to counteract the usual inevitability of death, as seen in such stories as "The
Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar." By contrast, the narrator of "Ligeia" and his second
wife Rowena are weak-willed and come to be dominated by Ligeia's memory. Other
stories, such as "The Pit and the Pendulum" and "A Descent into the Maelström," have
characters who seem to face certain death but overcome despair because of their iron
wills. "The Pit and the Pendulum" depicts the struggle between hope and despair in sharp
detail, but in the end hope wins, and the narrator shows remarkable presence of mind by
luring the rats to chew at his strap, thereby freeing him from the swinging blade of the
pendulum.
Review: The Awakening by Kate Chopin

Title: The Awakening

Author: Kate Chopin
Date Finished: June 17, 2007
Pages: 190
Rating: 3/5

I chose to read this book because it fulfilled my 1890s decade for the By the Decades
reading challenge. Well, and it had been sitting on my shelf for quite some time. Finally,
I've read a few of Chopin's short stories and really enjoyed them.

This book, however, lacked much of the color that can be found in her shorter fiction.
Edna, the main character, becomes bored and restless in her marriage and decides to
break convention and live her own life. Much of this occurs after meeting Robert, so it is
difficult to discern whether she had always been unhappy or if the emotions were sparked
by the more "free" people around her.

The book follows Edna's desires and yearnings, but the question is how independent can
a woman during that time period actually be? Will she be happy? I hate to ruin an
ending, so I won't.

Recommendation: The book is short and very easy to read. As you can see by my rating, I
thought the book just OK. I think that Chopin's short stories show much more passion
and life. The Awakening seemed a little dull to me.

Posted by Trish at 2:53 PM

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Labels: "C" Author, 1001 Books, By the Decades, Challenge, Reading Nook, Review

4 comments:
1.

alethe16Jun 19, 2007 09:24 AM

 This book is on my list of books to read this year. After proof-reading a friend's paper on
it, I was interested in giving it a shot. I'll have to remember to comment on it here after I
get to it.

Reply

2.

TrishJun 19, 2007 12:46 PM

Its definitely a short read! I'll be interested in your thoughts. I always hate to give away
too much info or detail on my blog for people who haven't read it yet.

Thanks for stopping by.

Reply

3.

BellezzaJun 25, 2007 08:32 AM

I have to say I was disappointed in this book. To me, it was very similar to Madame
Bovary and Anna Karenina, in that the heroine dies at the loss of her love. I just felt that
that particular theme had been done, and done well, already. But, it was short, and it did
create atmosphere for me.

Reply

4.

MomoOct 5, 2009 08:20 PM

It starts off so good, and then, once Robert comes back, it disintegrates from a hot read
about freedom and identity to some rich lady having a midlife crises.

Reply

Suicide and Insanity in Su Tong’s Raise the Red Lantern and Kate
Chopin’s The Awakening
Abstract
Feminists often view insanity and/or suicide as positions from which women
can contest patriarchy because they exist outside its boundaries. These positions
become representative of a feminine discourse, a discourse that in turn becomes
marginalized because it fails to conform to the frames of normality within
patriarchal cultures. Two writers separated by time, place and gender tackle these
positions in their novels: a nineteenth century American woman and a twentieth
century Chinese man. Kate Chopin’s Awakening and Su Tong’s Raise the Red
Lantern join the plethora of literary texts that attempt to study the effects of certain
restrictions posed on their protagonists. Suicide and insanity become the ways of
escape for these characters when they fail to conform to the only two options
available for them: that of the mother and that of the artist. Underneath these
obvious affinities the two novels differ in terms of why each character chooses
either of these positions. In this paper I study these aspects of similarity between
the novels and then attempt to discuss where they differ, mainly in the freedom, or
the lack of it, to choose these positions.
Paper
Feminist Criticism often views insanity and/or suicide as positions from
which women can contest patriarchy because they exist outside its boundaries.
These positions become representative of a feminine discourse, a discourse that in
turn becomes marginalized because it fails to conform to the frames of normality
within patriarchal cultures (Weeden 70). Two writers separated by time, place and
gender tackle these positions in their novels. One is a nineteenth century American
woman and the other is a twentieth century Chinese man. Kate
Chopin’s Awakening and Su Tong’s Raise the Red Lantern join the plethora of
literary texts that attempt to study the effects of certain restrictions posed on their
protagonists. Suicide and insanity become ways of escape for these characters
when they fail to conform to the only other options available for them: in this case,
that of the mother and that of the artist. Underneath these obvious affinities the two
novels differ in terms of why each character chooses either of these positions. In
this paper I study these aspects of similarity between the novels and then attempt to
discuss where they differ, mainly in the freedom, or the lack of it, to choose these
positions.
For those of you unfamiliar with these texts I’ll draw a small sketch of each.
The Awakening tells the story of a wife and mother who suddenly becomes aware,
awakened, to the fact that her life as wife and mother does not satisfy her. The
society around her offers a woman two choices: either be a mother-woman, or be
an artist. Of course the mother-woman is much more esteemed but the position of
an artist is also available. When Edna, our protagonist, realizes she fails in both
roles, she goes to the sea and drowns herself.
In Su Tong’s Raise the Red Lantern we have the life of past concubines in a
Chinese household. When a new concubine joins the household, she, like Edna
in The Awakening, sees two models in front of her. There’s Cloud the motherly
woman, the one who seems to conform best to her role, and there’s Coral, the
previous opera singer who is a little short of a rebel in the household as she keeps a
lover. When Lotus fails to become pregnant, she sees her other option is becoming
like Coral, an artist of sorts. But Coral is exposed and killed. And this drives
Lotus to the edges of insanity when the rest of the household refuses to see this as a
murder.
There is no doubt that to the reader of both works, the limitations on
Chopin’s Edna seem much milder that those forced on Su’s women. Yet it is not
the ferocity of these limitations, as much as it is their effect on the person, that
gives them their significance. That Edna chooses death proves that her choices are
as restrictive to her as they are for Su’s women. In both novels the women struggle
for a life that is unattainable and in the process they are cut from this life rather
than consent to it.
As I previously outlines, the main protagonist in the two works is surrounded
by two types of women from whom she has to choose her role in life; the mother
and the artist. And in both works the protagonist refuses or fails to conform to
either role and is pronounced insane in one work, while choosing death in the
other. Isn’t it interesting that across nations and centuries these are the only two
options available?
When Edna begins her “awakening” she is drawn to Adéle, “the embodiment
of every womanly grace and charm” (Chopin 26). We see in Adéle a picture of the
‘perfect’ Creole woman, what Chopin terms “the mother-woman,” caring for
husband and children above all else. Adéle’s influence on Edna is very significant.
Her initial reserves begin to loosen under Adéle’s influence. But Edna soon
realizes that domesticity does not interest her. Adéle’s way of life moved Edna to
feelings of pity “for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor
beyond the region of blind contentment,” (78). Though she has husband and
children, Edna begins to reject her role as a mother-woman, a role that she accepted
earlier.
In the early parts of the novel Edna caves in to her expected role of mother
and wife. She does not mind playing along with her husband’s expectations of her.
At one point in the novel we are introduced to her earlier position as the lady of the
house, devoting the Tuesdays for friends’ visits. Along with her role as wife is one
in which she accepts her position as her husband’s property, as a commodity to be
inspected. Léonce, her husband, appraises her with his looks and she accepts her
role “silently” (Linkin 132). But she gradually begins to reject this role and rejects
along with it the whole enterprise of marriage (Chopin, 88). In the end Edna
refuses to follow in Adéle’s path, preferring “to wake up after all, even to suffer,
rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life” (ibid. 136).
In Raise the Red the Lantern Lotus is also initially drawn to Cloud who,
regardless of her scheming against Coral and Lotus, comes out similar to Chopin’s
“mother-woman” when compared to Coral. Cloud is proud to announce to Lotus
that her own two daughters are quite well-behaved compared to Feilan, Coral’s son,
“the Little Master from next door. He’s just like a fog, biting and spitting on
anyone he runs into” (24). Cloud also comes out as a picture of the good hostess
when she generously, or so we believe, welcomes Lotus in her rooms while Coral
insists on remaining aloof. As for her role as wife, we know that when impotency
hits Chen it is Cloud in whose room he spends the night while his three other wives
seem to fail him.
Unlike Edna who refuses to play the role of mother-woman she sees in
Adéle, Lotus wants this role from which she is sadly deprived as she fails to bear a
child for her husband. Lotus tries to become pregnant because she believes that in
becoming a mother she will have some of the power that the other wives seem to
acquire with their own motherhood. But we know that this power is an illusion in
itself. In a skillful Freudian plot we see that to get power these women have to
posses the phallus, but to do so they have to be rendered powerless (Silverthorne
88). Lotus’s pregnancy, if it had happened, would not bring her the power she
believes it will, as it failed to bring Coral any power. But she seeks this illusion to
power as it is her only hope, and fails to find it. While Edna intentionally refuses
the mother-woman role, Lotus is deprived of it by her fate.
When the mother-woman fails to work for Edna and Lotus, they seek the
artist-woman as another possibility. But this artist-woman is not very applauded by
the society in either novel. Arobin, one character in The Awakening, presents
society’s definition of Mademoiselle Reisz, the artist, as “demented, . . . extremely
disagreeable and unpleasant” (106). And Coral doesn’t fare any better in the
judgement of her own society. Not only is she criticized by Cloud, but even by the
husband Chen who allows her to continue her Mahjong games because they make
her “a little more normal” (32).
When Edna is first introduced to Reisz’s music all her passions “were
aroused within her soul,” passions that were for a long time hidden from Edna
(43). But she was ready this time because she is gradually waking from the dream
in which she functions as a placid and dutiful wife. It is after hearing this music
that Edna overcomes her fear of swimming and desires “to swim far out, where no
woman had swum before” (47).
And initially Edna succeeds in this role as she makes a living off her
paintings. But while Reisz is free to assume the role of an artist, Edna had some
restraints that prevent her from enjoying the role. She is a mother and a wife. As a
mother, her maternal feelings prevent her from enjoying her seclusion, and as a
wife, her position prevents her from coloring her seclusion occasionally with the
company of male friends. Edna cannot be an artist because she has already selected
another kind of life and rather than succumb to this life which she can no longer
live, she chooses to drown herself.
Lotus is also drawn to the artist, opera-singer, Coral as soon as she hears her
sing (30). And drawn to this singing, Lotus asks Coral to teach her to sing. But
Coral’s singing is dangerous. She asks Lotus “You want to commit suicide, too?
Whenever you decide to commit suicide, I’ll teach you” (73). Unlike Coral and
Edna, Lotus fears death as she begins to have nightmares of the drowned
concubines asking her to join them (84).
To adopt Coral’s role, Lotus has to follow in her lead not only in accepting
death as Coral does, but also in choosing to perform an act which she knows will
result in her death as it did for the previous concubines, and as it does for Coral:
adultery. I will return to this later. But for now suffice it to say that while Edna
succeeds temporarily in her role as artist, Lotus fails to even begin in the
acquisition of that role.
While for Edna, the two choices of mother or artist are open and available
for her choosing, they are not so for Lotus. Edna can play the mother role if she
chooses because we have seen images of her conforming to this role. She can also
be the artist as we see in her success in selling her art. Lotus, however, lacks both
possibilities. She fails to become a mother and realizes the futility of her ever
becoming one when she realizes Chen’s impotency. Neither is the other option
open for her. To be an artist her music teacher tells her she has to have sorrow and
happiness. But Lotus only has sorrow. For her to have the happiness that
insinuates Coral’s singing she has to find a lover as Coral did. Lotus tries, but fails
to do so as her fear intensifies about the fate of an adulteress.
While Edna chooses willingly not to conform to her expected role, Lotus
fails to do so no matter how she tries. And she tries hard to have the child that will
guarantee her place in the Chen family. And she also tries to win Chen’s affection
in little acts of love that she pretends. But she fails in both cases and the only
choice open to her becomes that of insanity when she becomes aware that she
cannot accept her role any longer.
But what happens while these women are walking the way of their death or
insanity? Before the realization that their life is inevitably futile, Edna and Lotus
have short outbursts of attempts to fill the emptiness of their lives with a lover.
Edna’s relation with Robert begins as an innocent friendship on the beach.
But as her awareness develops so does her attachment to Robert. These feelings
only become apparent to her when Robert leaves to Mexico and she begins to
realize the emptiness inside her that results from his being away from her. She
confesses to Reisz that she is in love with Robert. But when they finally meet
again Robert seems to be uncertain about having this relation with Edna and she is
left again with her emptiness.
Lotus begins to wish for a relationship with Feipu, Chen’s son, when she
fails to find satisfaction in her life with Chen. She hears Feipu playing the flute and
is immediately drawn to him as he reminds her of a student at college (38). When
he returns from his trip to Yannan and visits her in her room she begins to fantasize
a relationship with him similar to the one she found between Coral and her doctor.
So she begins this affair the only way she leaned how: by sliding her legs to his
own under the table as she saw Coral does with her doctor lover. Feibu, however,
seems to awaken from his stupor “in an instant. Then Feipu pulled his knees back,
. . . , and said in a hoarse voice, ‘This is no good’” (89). Lotus does not find any
encouragement from Feipu to pursue this relation and this hope dies.
When Edna and Lotus become unsuccessful in filling the voids of their lives
with love, life becomes meaningless and they set to denounce it. Edna through
suicide, and Lotus through insanity.
A nineteenth century American woman and a 20th century Chinese man
amazingly write about the same thing: a woman tries to choose a way of life with
the help of two other women, an artist and a mother, but fails in this prospect. But
with this parallel there are differences. Chopin’s artist and mother fare well in their
lives, the choices open to Edna are possible choices that are able to lead her to a
good life should she follow them. Those open for Lotus are, however, both
problematic, the artist is killed, and although Cloud seems to live a peaceful enough
life, Lotus can’t follow her lead as she fails to bring her own children to the world.
Edna refuses to follow either possible choice and prefers to die when the
only two roles open for her do not meet her requirement. Lotus, however, struggles
to fill either role but fails miserably, she fails to follow Cloud because she can’ t
have children, and she fails to follow Coral as she sees it results in that woman’s
death. So she chooses insanity as she realizes how restrictive her life is becoming.
Insanity has often been looked at by feminists such as Phyllis Chesler as “the
acting out of the devalued female role or the total or partial rejection of one’s sex-
role stereotype” (qtd. in Felman 8). When Lotus finds she cannot accept her sex-
role stereotype insanity becomes the only option allowed her. But it is not an
option she chooses but rather one assigned to her by her husband when he realizes
she refuses to follow her role. Similarly Edna’s husband wonders if his wife is not
also “growing a little unbalanced mentally” (79).
Lotus resolves finally to accept insanity as her way of life while Edna
chooses to end her life as she refuses to live it like the caged birds we see in the
beginning of The Awakening. What these two works share, then, regardless of
their difference in time, place and gender of author, is a feminist discourse. Su and
Chopin both present insanity and death as women’s language; language in the sense
of communication. Edna communicates her misery through an act of suicide much
in the same way that Coral and the previous concubines choose suicide willingly
through the acts of adultery. For Lotus, and maybe even mademoiselle Reisz, it is
insanity that allows them to communicate with the world. These are not free
choices for any of the women, but they are ones taken with full awareness. Insanity
and suicide here are not the language of women because they fail to use another
language but rather because they refuse to use this other language and prefer to
isolate themselves from a life that puts them on the margin.
This study enables us to be aware of the role of choice in these positions:
insanity and/or madness. Chopin’s women had relatively more freedom in their
choices than did Su’s. But the question that remains to be asked is how is that
significant for a better understanding of these positions. As feminist criticism
debates whether to put any high value to woman’s insanity and/or suicide we
should be aware that the two positions are not clear cut, neither are they stable,
either/or positions. There is an element of choice within these positions, and maybe
it is in this possibility of choice that feminist criticism can better articulate the
meanings of women’s madness and suicide.
You are here: Home / general stuff / My definition of insanity, quote by Kate Chopin
My definition of insanity, quote by
Kate Chopin
SEPTEMBER 29, 2011 BY CAYDENKEYESCAVANAUGH 2 COMMENTS

“A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light

which, showing the way, forbids it.”
― Kate Chopin, The Awakening
Something about this quote…it’s my definition of a maddening insanity. I envision a watered
down circle inside of a circular path, going round and round and round. Her words make me think
of the life I will not have, the life I gave up, love lost and long gone.
This isn’t about appreciating what I do have…not this time, and not withThe Awakening. It is the
pure loss of opportunities and paths abandoned, paths restricted.
Flashing in stills from my memory’s storyboard, I recall the couple’s lovemaking water scene from
David Bowie’s music video, “China Girl.” Bear with me and watch it…you’ll see the build.
Bowie’s smirky eyes hold secrets.
Barbed wire separates.
And the water, just like the water in The Awakening,
is vast and consuming.
The land of expectations and solid ground contain.
The passion of the sea, unattainable.
Their intertwined bodies divide the water’s path.
The ocean recedes, teasing us -
it knows what it means to be so close to the water’s edge.
As it turns to leave,
the ocean smirks, too.
We had a chance. There was a moment when we could have gone.
Insanity: Standing close to the water’s edge and seeing its lighted path. Staying means no
closure, circle after circle, and “what if’s…” The dangerous and oh, so seductive sea keeps
taunting.
One way in.

Copyright, Russ Sprinkle, 1998.

English Department
Bowling Green State University, Bowling Green, Ohio
Contact at: sprinkle@glasscity.net
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KATE CHOPIN'S THE AWAKENING: A CRITICAL RECEPTION

The late nineteenth century was a tumultuous time for the United States. The
social, scientific, and cultural landscape of the country was undergoing radical
changes. Darwin's theories of evolution and natural selection had called into
question established views concerning humankind's origins (theories in which Kate
Chopin had more than a passing interest); urbanization and restoration of the country
following the Civil War ushered men and women into a new social identity; and,
perhaps most importantly, the women's rights movement had been gathering
momentum since 1848, when the first woman's rights conference was held in Seneca
Fall, New York.
What this means is that for almost 50 years before Chopin published The
Awakening, society had been engaged in a struggle over social ideologies and equal
rights issues. As a result of this struggle, women as a whole had, to a certain extent,
already experienced mobilization and emancipation from their socioeconomic
fetters. For the first time in America, women began to bring the heretofore private
issues of home and family into the public arena.
Mari Jo Buhle notes that women during the post-Civil War era "regularly
participated in the marketplace, gained their own sources of support, and broke once
and for all with humiliating forms of financial dependency on men" (51). Women
"at all levels of society were active in attempts to better their lot, and the 'New
Woman,' the late nineteenth-century equivalent of the 'liberated woman,' was much
on the public mind" (Culley 117). In mid-1899, nearly a half-century after the
women's movement officially had begun, the cultural and social soil seemed fertile
for the literary introduction of Kate Chopin's fictional character, Edna Pontellier.
Choked by the cloistering, moralistic garb of the Victorian era, yet willing to
give up everything--even her own life--for the freedom of unencumbered
individuality, Edna Pontellier epitomized the consummate New Woman of the late
nineteenth century. She embodied the social ideals for which women of that era
were striving. She was individualistic--a maverick; she was passionate; she was
courageous and intrepid--she was the definitive persona which thousands of women
during the late nineteenth century exalted as a role model. This, combined with the
fact that Chopin was already an established author, seemed an indicator that The
Awakening was destined for success. One month before Chopin's novel was
published, Lucy Monroe reviewed The Awakening for the March 1899, issue of
Book News. Monroe's review praises Chopin's work as a "remarkable novel" and
applauds it as "subtle and a brilliant kind of art" (Toth 329). Monroe further depicts
the novel as "so keen in its analysis of character, so subtle in its presentation of
emotional effects that it seems to reveal life as well as represent it" (Toth 328).
Monroe's was a glowing review indeed, and undoubtedly heightened the mounting
anticipation with which Chopin, her colleagues, and her publisher eagerly awaited
the release of The Awakening.
Although Monroe was the chief reader and literary editor for Chopin's publisher
and undoubtedly had a vested interest in the success of The Awakening, her
favorable review nonetheless undoubtedly hyped the unveiling of what Chopin
expected to be a tremendous boost to her literary career.
After Herbert S. Stone & Company published The Awakening on April 22, 1899,
Chopin anxiously awaited the response of critics; unfortunately, while Chopin
anticipated a warm reception in the days following the novel's release, critics were
already sharpening the literary knives with which they would dissect both the amoral
disposition of Edna Pontellier and the prurient theme of The Awakening.
During the weeks immediately following its release, critics roundly condemned
Chopin's novel . Despite Monroe's pre-publishing promotion and the mounting
momentum of the women's movement, both Chopin and The Awakening were
bombarded with an onslaught of unfavorable reviews. Most critics regarded the
novel as vulgar, unwholesome, unholy, and a misappropriation of Chopin's
exceptional literary talent. Many reviewers regarded the novel's aggrandizement of
sexual impurity as immoral, and thus they condemned the novel's theme.
That Chopin was already a successful and popular writer further fueled the
awkward consternation with which critics viewed The Awakening. In fact, because
of Chopin's success with her earlier works, "Bayou Folk," "At Fault," and "A Night
in Acadie," critics expected more of what Chopin was known for as a regionalist
writer--realism and local color. They expected to read a novel rich in descriptive
language, colorful characters, and the sights and sounds of Louisiana Creole life.
Instead of local color, however, critics were shocked and dismayed at Edna
Pontellier's behavior and considered Chopin's novel morbid and lacking literary
value. In most cases, critics were at a loss to explain the reasons why an artist with
Chopin's undisputed literary talent would contribute to what one reviewer called "the
overworked field of sex fiction" (Seyersted 219).
Because Chopin's earlier works had met with substantial success, however, most
critics acknowledged Chopin's gifted writing style while at the same time utterly
condemning The Awakening's theme. For example, in the May 4, 1899, issue of the
Mirror, Francis Porcher writes, "And so, because we admire Kate Chopin's other
work immensely and delight in her ever-growing fame and are proud that she is
'one-of-us St. Louisans,' one dislikes to acknowledge a wish that she had not written
her novel" (Culley 145).
In addition to her role as critic, Porcher was also a published writer in her own
right. She shared an interest with Chopin in the work of the French novelist, Guy de
Maupassant; Porcher, however, "believed firmly in a writer's responsibility to avoid
'morally diseased' characters and 'adult sin' " (Toth 339). Porcher concludes her
critique saying that the novel "leaves one sick of human nature" (Culley 146).
 Appearing just twelve days after The Awakening was released, Porcher's review
set the pace for the avalanche of unfavorable reviews that sounded what appeared to
be the death knell for bothThe Awakening and Chopin's literary career. Most critics
didn't pull any punches in their condemnation of Edna Pontellier, the theme of The
Awakening, and, occasionally, even Chopin. The strongest critics couched their
enmity toward the novel within a religious and Biblical framework. Using words
like "sin," "temptation," "unholy," "grace," and "repent" to describe Edna's plight,
critics stood united and inflexible in their devotion to religious and moral
conservatism.
For example, the May 13, 1899, edition of the Daily Globe-Democrat calls
Edna's suicide "a prayer for deliverance from the evils that beset her, all of her own
creating" (Culley 146). The May 20, 1899, issue of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch calls
Edna's an "unholy passion" (Culley 148). And the June 4, 1899, edition of Literature
says that Edna "is one who has drifted from all right moorings, and has not the grace
to repent" (Culley 151-2). Considering the restrictive and suffocating role which
Chopin ascribes to religion and the Church in Edna's life (not to mention the blatant
departure from traditional views on sexuality), one can readily see why critics of the
late nineteenth century might interpret Chopin's novel as an attack on morality and
religious values. Perhaps the most vehement objection to the novel's anti-religious
implications comes from the June 18, 1899, issue of the New Orleans Times
Democrat. Glaringly apparent in this review is the adamant moral and religious code
which prevailed during the late nineteenth century and the fastidiousness with which
critics strove to uphold it.

It gives one a distinct shock to see Edna's crude mental operation, of which we are
compelled to judge chiefly by results-- characterized as 'perhaps more wisdom than
the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any woman.' The assumption that
such a course as that pursued by Edna has any sort of divine sanction cannot be too
strongly protested against. In a civilized society the right of the individual to indulge
all his caprices is, and must be, subject to many restrictive clauses, and it cannot for
a moment be admitted that a woman who has willingly accepted the love and
devotion of a man, even without an equal love on her part--who has become his wife
and the mother of his children--has not incurred a moral obligation which
peremptorily forbids her from wantonly severing her relations with him, and
entering openly upon the independent existence of an unmarried woman. (Culley
150)

As apparent through the tone of this reviewer, Puritan morality was, to a large
degree, responsible for much of the resistance against Chopin's novel. It was the
plumb line against which the value of Edna Pontellier, The Awakening, and Chopin
herself were evaluated. Lois K. Holland notes that in response to the religious and
social turbulence of the late nineteenth century, "Puritan morality became a rigid
stronghold... imposing its repressive influence on artistic endeavors as well as on
practical aspects of life" (7). Indeed, as women began to unite and organize as part
of the women's suffrage movement, both the liberal and conservative elements dug
their heels in for a battle that would ultimately end in victory for the suffragists in
1920, but only by one vote.
In addition to religion, Puritan morality in the late nineteenth century also
showed itself in other ways. According to Toth, other novels of the time were
successful because "all were considered 'healthy,' with 'kindly sentiment,' suitable
for a young person to read; and all promoted the traditional values that Kate Chopin,
in The Awakening, had questioned" (Toth 357). In other words, literature in the late
nineteenth century was deemed valuable if it proved beneficial--or appropriate--for
young people or if it contained a moral lesson of some sort.
Other reviewers confirmed this moralistic criterion by referencing the
unwholesome impact of The Awakening and its negative effect on the youth. For
example, the May 21, 1899 issue of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch printed a review
of The Awakening calling it "too strong drink for moral babes. . ." and that it "should
be labeled 'poison'" (Toth 355). Charles L. Deyo, a journalist and friend of Chopin's,
also refers to the impact on children as a literary acid test. He notes that
"...everybody knows that the young person's understanding should be scrupulously
respected" (Culley 147). Finally, William Dean Howells, a widely respected critic
and editor for Harper's and Atlantic, also argued that American authors should avoid
"certain facts of life which are not usually talked of before young people, and
especially young ladies" (Toth 278).
What distressed critics was not that Chopin published a steamy and controversial
novel which was inappropriate for young people, for that type of literature was
available in plenty. Rather, what sparked their fury was that Chopin was an
established author and respected member of the higher echelons of society. Critics
took offense that Chopin condoned (or at least did not condemn) Edna's immoral
behavior. Holland notes that, "The awakening of a respectable woman to her sensual
nature might have been acceptable in 1899 if the author had condemned her" (48).
Although Chopin appears to condemn Edna by selecting a method popular in
nineteenth century literature to "punish" Edna--that of drowning--neither Edna nor
Chopin demonstrate any outward signs of remorse or shame at Edna's infidelity and
social deviance. Chopin's lack of remorse concerning Edna's behavior especially
stirred the religious ire of critics. For example, a review in the June 25, 1899, edition
of the Los Angeles Sunday Times says the following:

It is true that the woman in the book who wanted her own way comes to an untimely
end in the effort to get what she wants, or rather, in the effort to gratify every whim
that moves her capricious soul, but there are sentences here and there throughout the
book that indicate the author's desire to hint her belief that her heroine had the right
of the matter and that if the woman had only been able to make other people
'understand' things as she did she would not have had to drown herself in the blue
waters of the Mexican Gulf. (Culley 152)

Critics invariably agreed that the actions of Edna were iniquitous. They condemned
Edna's infidelity and self-centered narcissism as reprehensible. But what especially
invoked their wrath was that Chopin seemed to approve of Edna's behavior.
In a literary sense, critics viewed Chopin as the responsible genitor of Edna. As
author of The Awakening (originally titled "A Solitary Soul"), Chopin had the final
say on what actions Edna did or did not take. Thus, critics relegated to Chopin the
responsibility to "discipline" Edna as a mother would discipline a wayward child,
the same way other authors of the same time period "disciplined" their froward and
malcontent characters to assuage the moral and religious elements. When Chopin
failed to effectively reprimand Edna according to the religious, moral, and literary
conventions of the era, critics reacted. Had Chopin acquiesced to at least a few of
the cultural and social mores still prevalent in the late nineteenth century, critics
might have tolerated Edna's wanton ways with a sense of forgiveness and clemency.
To their indignation, however, Chopin was willing to do no such thing.
By concluding the novel with Edna's drowning, Chopin gives the appearance of
punishing Edna without really doing so. Most critics were able to read between the
lines and decipher that Chopin was not really punishing Edna, but rather confirming
Edna's freedom and, in fact, thumbing her nose at the traditional values of the
lifestyle Chopin saw as restrictive and repressive. In what has become a well-known
response to the attack on her novel, Chopin insinuates that Edna and the rest of the
novel's characters were simply beyond Chopin's control:

Having a group of people at my disposal, I thought it might be entertaining (to

myself) to throw them together and see what would happen. I never dreamed of Mrs.
Pontellier making such a mess of things and working out her own damnation as she
did. If I had had the slightest intimation of such a thing I would have excluded her
from the company. But when I found out what she was up to, the play was half over
and it was then too late. (Culley 158)

Intended as a "retraction," Chopin's comments appeared in the July issue of Book

News, some three months after critics had ravaged The Awakening. Perceived as a
coy display of literary helplessness, Chopin's comments didn't fare well with critics.
In fact, they provoked their hostility even further, for only four months after
publication, The Awakening had been condemned nation wide by reviewers who
agreed that it was "unwholesome" (Holland 42). In fairness, a few critics did print an
occasional less-than-scything review of The Awakening. Although these critics
didn't wholly condemn the novel, they didn't praise it either. These reviewers simply
recorded synopses of the novel's theme and withheld moral judgment. For example,
the April 1899, issue of The Book Buyer reported that The Awakening "is said to be
analytical and fine-spun, and of peculiar interest to women" (Toth 329). The March
25, 1899, issue of the St. Louis Republic praised the style of the book saying only
that The Awakening "is the work of an artist who can suggest more than one side of
her subject with a single line" (Toth 329). Charles L. Deyo, in one of The
Awakening's few positive reviews, lauded Chopin's style and defended Edna as a
victim of ignorance in the May 20, 1899, issue of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch:

It is not a tragedy, for it lacks the high motive of tragedy. The woman, not quite
brave enough, declines to a lower plane and does not commit a sin ennobled by love.
But it is terribly tragic. Compassion, not pity, is excited, for pity is for those who
sin, and Edna Pontellier only offended--weakly, passively, vainly offended. (Culley
147)

Deyo postures against Chopin's critics and defends Edna's actions by vilifying
Leonce Pontellier, portraying Edna as a victim--"a poor, helpless offender" (Culley
148)--and ascribing to Edna's circumstances the responsibility for her actions.
Unfortunately, as with Lucy Monroe's review, Deyo's review was also tainted by
self-interest and bias (Toth 342).
Despite the swirling social atmosphere surrounding the reception of Chopin's
novel, many people in the United States--and especially the media--were not ready
in 1899 to face the social, religious, and moral implications of The Awakening.
However, if Chopin's novel were to have been published just 20 years later, when
the women's movement experienced a revival in its momentum,The
Awakening might have been met with overwhelming acceptance. But, as history
notes, Chopin's novel fell into relative obscurity after only a few short years.
In 1899, when the novel was published, Chopin earned $102 in royalties (Toth
367). However, in 1900 Chopin "collected a total of $49.77 in royalties from "Bayou
Folk," "A Night in Acadie," and The Awakening" (Toth 374). It was clear that
although the social, cultural, and scientific climates of the country were changing,
the general public was not ready to embrace the strong theme ofThe Awakening. In
fact, interest in The Awakening lay dormant for thirty years after it was published.
Since that time, however, the novel has been aroused from its literary slumber on
several occasions.
Ironically, the first to revive Chopin's work following its banishment into
obscurity was Daniel S. Rankin, a Roman Catholic priest. In 1932 he published Kate
Chopin and her Creole Stories, the first book-length work on Chopin (Skaggs 5).
Although Dorothy Anne Dondore praised Chopin two years earlier saying that she
"unveiled the tumults of a woman's soul," Rankin is credited as the first serious
revivalist of Chopin's work (5).
After Rankin briefly revived The Awakening in the 1930's, the spotlight of
literary interest wouldn't shine again on Chopin's work until 1953, when Cyrille
Arnavon wrote a serious essay to introduce his translation of The Awakening into
French. This again ignited a spark of interest in Chopin's work, but it was
extinguished almost immediately (Skaggs 5). In 1969, however, almost three-
quarters of a century after The Awakening was published in 1899 (and Chopin's
subsequent death in 1904), Chopin's novel began its hearty ascent into literary
distinction. Per Seyersted, one of Chopin's biographers, published Kate Chopin: A
Critical Biography and The Complete Works of Kate Chopin. Seyersted's books
helped land the work of the late novelist on the literary map. They depicted the
complete range of Chopin's artistry, and brought to the burgeoning field of feminist
literature a new champion in Edna Pontellier.
Just as the social context and cultural confinements of the late nineteenth century
worked against Chopin's unique and advanced artistry, the liberal and progressive
social culture of the late 1960's worked in its favor. In 1969 the literary community
was ready--even hungry--to embrace the theme that Chopin had so eloquently
articulated seventy years earlier. What was held in the field of literature as amoral
and without literary value in 1899 was considered artistic and noble in 1969. Thus,
Chopin's novel began to receive the acclaim it had been so vehemently denied nearly
three-quarters of a century earlier.
As Chopin's popularity spread like wildfire, her novel also served as ammunition
in the fight to bring insight and awareness to women's issues. Indeed, as feminist
literature struggled to fashion itself into an accepted and legitimate genre, the works
of numerous women writers suddenly emerged from the past to carry the banner of
women's issues. Over the past few decades the study of women writers has been
characterized by "scholarship devoted to the discovery, republication, and
reappraisal of 'lost' or undervalued writers and their work. From Rebecca Harding
Davis and Kate Chopin through Zora Neale Hurston and Mina Loy. . . reputations
have been reborn or remade and a female countercanon has come into being, out of
components that were largely unavailable even a dozen years ago" (Robinson 156).
Indeed, as long as social and cultural forces continue to play upon the definition and
content of the literary canon, forgotten and obscure works from the past will
continue to be unearthed as tools for the propagation of specific social and cultural
causes.
 Since the resurrection of Chopin's novel in 1969, countless classrooms across the
United States have found in The Awakening a superb example of the transcendent
New Woman. Bernard Koloski, in the preface of his anthology, notes that The
Awakening has become "one of the most often taught of all American novels" (ix).
A compilation of teaching approaches to Chopin's novel, Koloski's anthology
reflects the versatility of The Awakening in terms of literary study. He notes that
Kate Chopin and the recent re-emergence of The Awakening have helped "satisfy
Americans' suddenly discovered hunger for a classic woman writer who addresses
some of contemporary women's concerns" (ix).
Included in the Norton Anthology of Literature by Women, Chopin's novel
captures the essence of the struggle for freedom, equality, and independence in
which women have been formally engaged for almost 150 years. Consequently, The
Awakening has earned its long-awaited accolades in the world of literature. Perhaps
as much a testimony to the influence of changing social contexts on literary criticism
as the deftness of Chopin's writing, The Awakening has nevertheless found its way
into the canon. Indeed, in light of the novel's continuing widespread success and
growing use in the classroom, the message in Chopin's novel will undoubtedly be
carried well into the twenty-first century.