I think the reasons why Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings received her 1939 Pulitzer Prize for writing 'The Yearling' are many--not the least of which is the incredible emotion packed into every single word. I offer the following:
Ma Forrester sat by the side of the bed. She held her apron over her head and rocked herself back and forth. She flung down the apron. She said, 'I've lost my boy. My pore crookedy boy.' She covered herself again and swayed from side to side. She moaned, 'The Lord's hard. Oh, the Lord's hard.'
Jody wanted to run away. The bony face on the pillow terrified him. It was Fodder-wing and it was not Fodder-wing. Buck drew him to the edge of the bed. 'He'll not hear, but speak to him.' Jody's throat worked. No words came. Fodder-wing seemed made of tallow, like a candle. Suddenly he was familiar. Jody whispered, 'Hey.' The paralysis broke, having spoken. His throat tightened as though a rope choked it. Fodder-wing's silence was intolerable. Now he understood. This was death.
To my way of thinking, Rawlings (although she wrote about the common man in humble surroundings) ranks among the very elite of the world's fiction writers. She absolutely captured in the pages of her work the essence of the American experience, ca 1850. Great writers do that in their own time, for their fellow citizens, and for a universal audience, as well.
I think you have a copy of 'The Yearling.' If you don't, you must obtain one. Re-read this amazing story. And then, if you're like me, take a few days to decompress. :) My post-read experience has never changed--not in the several times that I've read this book. Thank you, Ms. Rawlings. :)
Ma Forrester sat by the side of the bed. She held her apron over her head and rocked herself back and forth. She flung down the apron. She said, 'I've lost my boy. My pore crookedy boy.' She covered herself again and swayed from side to side. She moaned, 'The Lord's hard. Oh, the Lord's hard.'
Jody wanted to run away. The bony face on the pillow terrified him. It was Fodder-wing and it was not Fodder-wing. Buck drew him to the edge of the bed. 'He'll not hear, but speak to him.' Jody's throat worked. No words came. Fodder-wing seemed made of tallow, like a candle. Suddenly he was familiar. Jody whispered, 'Hey.' The paralysis broke, having spoken. His throat tightened as though a rope choked it. Fodder-wing's silence was intolerable. Now he understood. This was death.
To my way of thinking, Rawlings (although she wrote about the common man in humble surroundings) ranks among the very elite of the world's fiction writers. She absolutely captured in the pages of her work the essence of the American experience, ca 1850. Great writers do that in their own time, for their fellow citizens, and for a universal audience, as well.
I think you have a copy of 'The Yearling.' If you don't, you must obtain one. Re-read this amazing story. And then, if you're like me, take a few days to decompress. :) My post-read experience has never changed--not in the several times that I've read this book. Thank you, Ms. Rawlings. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment