Elizabeth Stoddard (1823–1902)
Autor(a) de The Morgesons
About the Author
Image credit: Image from The Morgesons: A Novel (1901) by Elizabeth Stoddard
Obras por Elizabeth Stoddard
Temple House a novel 1 exemplar
Tender Mercies: Zachary & Sean 1 exemplar
Associated Works
The Heath Anthology of American Literature, Volume 1 (1990) — Contribuidor, algumas edições — 255 exemplares
She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century (1997) — Contribuidor — 33 exemplares
Harper's New Monthly Magazine: Vol 36, December 1867 thru May 1868 — Contribuidor — 3 exemplares
Etiquetado
Conhecimento Comum
- Nome legal
- Stoddard, Elizabeth Drew
- Outros nomes
- Barstow, Elizabeth Drew (name at birth)
- Data de nascimento
- 1823-05-06
- Data de falecimento
- 1902-08-01
- Sexo
- female
- Nacionalidade
- USA
- Local de nascimento
- Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, USA
- Locais de residência
- Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, USA
New York, New York, USA - Educação
- Wheaton Seminary
- Ocupações
- novelist
poet
short story writer
journalist
essayist - Relações
- Stoddard, Richard Henry (husband)
Fatal error: Call to undefined function isLitsy() in /var/www/html/inc_magicDB.php on line 425- Elizabeth Drew Stoddard, née Barstow, was born and raised in Mattapoisett, a fishing village on the northwest shore of Buzzard’s Bay, Massachusetts. This New England landscape would provide the setting and characters for many of her future works. She attended Wheaton Female Seminary for two terms. In 1852, she married Richard Henry Stoddard, an aspiring poet, with whom she had three children, and settled in New York City. Although they were perennially on the edge of poverty, the couple sometimes opened their home to a literary and artistic salon. During the 1850s, Mrs. Stoddard began publishing poetry, short fiction, and a column on the New York cultural scene for the Daily Alta California, San Francisco’s oldest daily newspaper. She published all three of her novels in the 1860s, the most popular of which was The Morgesons (1862). In addition, she was the author of more than 80 other prose works, including essays, tales for children, and travel writing, many of which were originally published in national magazines such as Harper's Bazaar and The Atlantic Monthly.
Membros
Críticas
Listas
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Associated Authors
Estatísticas
- Obras
- 7
- Also by
- 6
- Membros
- 205
- Popularidade
- #107,802
- Avaliação
- 3.8
- Críticas
- 3
- ISBN
- 30
This novel is a rarity, in that it is an American novel of the Victorian era written by a woman. It is full of New England whale-oil financed lifestyles, and paints a fascinating female perspective of the time.
In the beginning, it felt like this was destined to be just a group of vignettes of life as seen through the eyes of an upper-class girl, but it evolved into something much deeper than that. I could not shake the feeling, however, that there were too many things Stoddard wanted to say but felt she could not. Her attempts to lay things between the lines were sometimes successful and sometimes perplexing. I suffered several times from a feeling that I had missed some significant event, but a re-read of the chapter would offer no enlightenment.
I did find parallels to Jane Austen in the romantic aspects of the novel. There was so much that remained unsaid between men and women, and social standing and ancestral claims were such a huge influence on which couples and families might be allowed to form alliances. The main heroine, Cassandra Morgeson, was a bit of a maverick, which was often distressing to the ladies and always appealing to the men; her sister Veronica was much harder to fathom for me. I don’t think I have ever encountered a character (or a real person) who was quite like Veronica.
I did like Stoddard’s writing style. Her story swept me along, and even when the plot seemed a bit thin in the beginning, the writing was gorgeous and the descriptive passages were enough to keep me interested.
One passage which I found very moving was this one:
There were intervals now when all my grief for mother returned, and I sat in my darkened chamber, recalling with a sad persistence her gestures, her motions, the tones of her voice, through all my past remembrance. The places she inhabited, her opinions and her actions I commented on with a minuteness that allowed no detail to escape. When my thoughts turned from her, it seemed as if she were newly lost in the vast and wandering Universe of the Dead, which I had brought her.
I have felt similar sentiments regarding my own mother, and the words had a great deal of impact for me.
I think that, had Stoddard been allowed a freer expression of her ideas, she might have written a four or even five star book. As it is, while I liked the book, enjoyed it and am happy to have read it, it missed something essential that I could not put an exact finger on. It was, in the end, a bit too nebulous in expression to suit me well.
… (mais)