"The Storm," Kate Chopin, p.531

Thank you, Miss Chopin, for furthering my last argument. If a woman wants to be credited in the annals of great American literature (years after her death, of course. What, you didn't think I would be so preposterous as to suggest that she should actually be acclaimed in her own lifetime, did you?), there is more than one way. She could try Dickinson's method, and write like a man. Or, in Miss Chopin's case, she could write for men.

" . . . her breasts . . . gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy."

Really?

Who the heck would want to read that? Dudes, of course. They're the only ones with the ability to think that breasts serve any purpose besides feeding infants, and the tenacity to think that they possess the power to make them do anything other than satisfy tiny hungry tummies. Lemme tell you (men) right now, you don't. My breasts have never given themselves up in quivering ecstasy, and if they ever did, I'd probably yell at them.

We have to remember that this was written long before women were regularly photographed naked and sold at the Seven-Eleven, and what better way to get the world's attention than giving them a little erotica? But that's where my disappointment sets in. She wrote about Calixta's body, and how it looked and felt to Alcee. But we never got a mouthy description of naked Alcee. Why do you suppose that is? Most likely because the majority of men (i.e.--the majority of her readers whose opinions mattered,) wouldn't want to read about it. But toss breasts, ecstasy, and lips into the same sentence, and you've got their (full) attention.

Don't get me wrong, that's not all there is to appreciate in this story. It is actually a very decent story. I assume that most women would love to be Calixta, with a devoted, scared, and doting husband, who waits, lovingly clutching a can of her favorite treats while she runs about, doing and commanding whatever fancies her. And of course her son is "the picture of pathetic resignation." How else could he have possibly turned out, given the circumstances? I feel that this is the most feminist aspect of the whole story: a woman raising a boy who is destined to submit to the "authority" of every woman in his life, and a father who makes no contention, only furthering this tiny little feminist movement.

I loved how the setting was a character in the story, not only planting us firmly in space and time, but living and breathing and gasping with the tale's action and inaction. Loved the local color in the dialogue. Hated the French and all the exclamation points. Not for the sole purpose of hating something, but because I felt it was all unnecessary, and that the "local color" would have been conveyed just fine (and less annoyingly) without it.

And finally, the last line of the story--why, Chopin, why? Not only is it a choppy indifference, awkwardly crammed under the story's final weight, fidgeting and squirming around the tone that was set so beautifully before, writhing so violently that one can't help but notice it set apart from everything else, but also, I didn't need her to tell me that. I really didn't. I got the whole metaphor of the storm ravaging and then passing, of everyone going back to the same old same-old. I understand the significance of the title, and the setting, and how it all pertains to the desires, thoughts, and movements of the characters. I chewed on it long and hard--I rather enjoyed the taste--until Chopin decided to shove it right down my throat. Rude, just--rude . . .