La Maison aux sept pignons by Nathaniel Hawthorne

'On Clifford's part it was the feeling of a man naturally endowed with the liveliest sensibility to feminine influence, but who had never quaffed the cup of passionate love, and knew that it was now too late. I will say that there was one little salacious scene that had me all a twitter and thinking that I might see some girl on old decrepit man action:

It gets to the point where you (read: me) throw the damn book down, cursing and feeling like you've just been scolded by your high school english teacher for not appreciating its nuances.Įxample: Do I really need 8 pages describing the gardens? Or does he really feel he's being clever when he writes 18 pages playing out the death of one of the characters? (oops-spoiler-my bad) I get it.ha ha.

See there? What I did? I said 'short story.' But what Hawthorne does, and what irritates the fuck out of me, is draw out the narrative and then. You throw in an organ grinder and some insolent chickens and you've got the making of a great short story. It's got murder, witchcraft, a creepy house, a curse, a spinster and her childlike convict brother, some mystery hottie and a fair maiden. I could definitely put it to better use.Īnd you know what? It's not such a bad story, really. Its judgmental gables peeking out at me while I'd sit by the lighthouse eating lunch. I'd never fully look it in the eye, feeling the shame wash over me. I'd be betraying my countryman.įor a few years, in my younger days, I worked down the street from the House of the Seven Gables and I'd always get this literary stab of guilt for not having read it. I mean how much more New Englandy can you get? I couldn't just- give up. Why the hell did I pick this up again? Life's too short, you say? You have 200+ other books on your 'to read' shelf and this was sucking your will to read? Give it up! You're right.

La Maison aux sept pignons by Nathaniel Hawthorne