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Constance Fenimore Woolson (March 5, 1840 – January 24, 1894) was an American novelist, poet, and short story writer. She was a grandniece of James Fenimore Cooper, and is best known for fictions about the Great Lakes region, the American South, and American expatriates in Europe.
Woolson was born in Claremont, New Hampshire, but her family soon moved to Cleveland, Ohio, after the deaths of three of her sisters from scarlet fever. Woolson was educated at the Cleveland Female Seminary and a boarding school in New York. She traveled extensively through the midwest and northeastern regions of the U.S. during her childhood and young adulthood.
Woolson’s father died in 1869. The following year she began to publish fiction and essays in magazines such as The Atlantic Monthly and Harper's Magazine. Her first full-length publication was a children’s book, The Old Stone House (1873). In 1875 she published her first volume of short stories, Castle Nowhere: Lake-Country Sketches, based on her experiences in the Great Lakes region, especially Mackinac Island.
From 1873 to 1879 Woolson spent winters with her mother in St. Augustine, Florida. During these visits she traveled widely in the South which gave her material for her next collection of short stories, Rodman the Keeper: Southern Sketches (1880). After her mother’s death in 1879, Woolson went to Europe, staying at a succession of hotels in England, France, Italy, Switzerland and Germany.
Woolson published her first novel Anne in 1880, followed by three others: East Angels (1886), Jupiter Lights (1889) and Horace Chase (1894). In 1883 she published the novella For the Major, a story of the postwar South that has become one of her most respected fictions. In the winter of 1889–1890 she traveled to Egypt and Greece, which resulted in a collection of travel sketches, Mentone, Cairo and Corfu (published posthumously in 1896).
In 1893 Woolson rented an elegant apartment on the Grand Canal of Venice. Suffering from influenza and depression, she either jumped or fell to her death from a window in the apartment in January 1894. Two volumes of her short stories appeared after her death: The Front Yard and Other Italian Stories (1895) and Dorothy and Other Italian Stories (1896). She is buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, and is memorialized by Anne's Tablet on Mackinac Island, Michigan.
Woolson’s short stories have long been regarded as pioneering examples of local color or regionalism. Today, Woolson's novels, short stories, poetry, and travelogues are studied and taught from a range of scholarly and critical perspectives, including feminist, psychoanalytic, gender studies, postcolonial, and new historicism.
Descubrí a Constance Fenimore Woolson gracias a una biografía de Henry James, en está se deja entrever que eran más que amigos. Falleció de forma trágica en Venecia al caer de un balcón y toda esa niebla de misterio que rodeo su muerte me llevaron a descubrir esta nouvelle.
El Jardín trata de la americana Prudence una mujer americana de mediana edad, la cual imprudentemente contrae matrimonio con un apuesto italiano sin blanca y este la sorprende con una enorme prole que más tarde le darán muchos sinsabores.
Constance tiene un gran talento narrativo y por lo mismo lamenté que fuera una historia tan corta y no pudiera profundizar en un tema que daba para mucho.
Historia muy breve, que nos cuenta cómo una mujer intenta realizar su sueño de tener un jardín, el cual ve truncado continuamente. Llama especialmente la atención el personaje de la abuela, por lo extremo que es, una mujer totalmente detestable y egoísta. Por lo demás, una historia sencilla que se lee rápido.
Nonostante le altre recensioni, speravo che il libro fosse interessante, ma l'ho trovato noioso e poco piacevole da leggere. La trama e l'obiettivo sono l'unica cosa bella, ma trattati nella maniera sbagliata, poco intrigante.
Quasi mai si trova un fermo alla lettura, mai un'interruzione di capitolo o paragrafo (avvenuta solo un paio di volte), capisco il libro sia veramente breve però ho trovato questa cosa irritante.
Mi sono distratta veramente troppe volte per leggere un libro così breve.