Eyes in the Paper — The Yellow Wallpaper

From one window she sees the garden. From another she sees the bay and a shaded lane. She fancies people walking in the paths. John has cautioned her not to give way to fancy in the least. With her imaginative power and habit of story-making, he says, a nervous weakness like hers will lead to excited fancies. She ought to use will and good sense. So she tries. She thinks writing a little would relieve the press of ideas. She gets pretty tired when she tries. There is no advice and no companionship about her work. When she is well they may ask Cousin Henry and Julia. For now he would as soon put fireworks in her pillow-case as let those stimulating people near her.

She must not think about getting well faster. The paper looks as if it knew what a vicious influence it had. A recurrent spot lolls like a broken neck, and two bulbous eyes stare upside-down. The unblinking eyes crawl up and down and sideways. Where two breadths did not match, the eyes run the seam, one a little higher than the other. As a child she found terror and company in blank walls and a chair that felt like a friend. This furniture came from downstairs. The floor is gouged. The plaster is dug out. The heavy bed looks as if it had been through the wars. She does not mind it, only the paper.

John's sister is coming. Jennie is a careful, enthusiastic housekeeper and hopes for no better profession. The narrator believes Jennie thinks the writing made her sick. She can write when Jennie is out, and see her a long way off. In certain lights a strange formless figure sulks behind the silly front design. Sister is on the stairs.