Books by Willa Cather

The seven stories in this volume were written during the ascending and perhaps most triumphant years of Willa Cather's career, the period during which she published nine books, including My Antonia, A Lost Lady, and Death Comes for the Archbishop. For the most part ironic in tone, these stories are bound by the geometrics of urban life.

Special Large Print edition, with easy to read text, of Willa Cather's classic work.

This semi-autobiographical short story details how Charlotte Perkins Gilman suffered from postpartum depression and was forced to endure lonely isolation intended to cure hysteria.An unnamed woman regales her story through diary entries as she suffers through enforced isolation. Following a bout of postpartum psychosis, the woman is prescribed bed rest by her physician husband. The couple rent an old mansion in the countryside, and the woman is trapped in an upstairs room with loathsome yellow wallpaper that slowly takes over her mind. She's banned from working or writing and does so secretly while commenting on society's complex patriarchal oppression.First published in 1892, Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper is an early feminist short story and an important piece of American literature. This volume features an author biography as well as her essay, 'Why I Wrote the Yellow Wallpaper', not to be missed by fans of feminist writings.

Late one brilliant April afternoon Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air of a man of taste who does not very often get to Boston. He had lived there as a student, but for twenty years and more, since he had been Professor of Philosophy in a Western university, he had seldom come East except to take a steamer for some foreign port. Wilson was standing quite still, contemplating with a whimsical smile the slanting street, with its worn paving, its irregular, gravely colored houses, and the row of naked trees on which the thin sunlight was still shining. The gleam of the river at the foot of the hill made him blink a little, not so much because it was too bright as because he found it so pleasant. The few passers-by glanced at him unconcernedly, and even the children who hurried along with their school-bags under their arms seemed to find it perfectly natural that a tall brown gentleman should be standing there, looking up through his glasses at the gray housetops.