Naomi Royde-Smith (1875–1964)
Autor de The State of Mind of Mrs. Sherwood: A Study
Sobre El Autor
Obras de Naomi Royde-Smith
All star cast : a novel 3 copias
Miss Bendix 2 copias
The tortoiseshell cat; a novel 2 copias
John Fanning's legacy 2 copias
Incredible tale 2 copias
Rosy Trodd 1 copia
The new rich 1 copia
Melilot : a tale 1 copia
A blue rose : a tale 1 copia
In the Wood 1 copia
Love and a birdcage 1 copia
Love in Mildensee : a novel 1 copia
Mildensee : a romance 1 copia
Urchin moor 1 copia
The younger Venus, a tale 1 copia
Jake : a novel 1 copia
Obras relacionadas
Then and Now. A Selection of Articles, Stories & Poems, Taken from the First Fifty Numbers of ‘Now & Then’,… (1935) — Contribuidor — 2 copias
Etiquetado
Conocimiento común
- Nombre legal
- Royde-Smith, Naomi Gwladys
- Fecha de nacimiento
- 1875-04-30
- Fecha de fallecimiento
- 1964-07-28
- Lugar de sepultura
- Hampstead Cemetery, Fortune Green Road, London, England, UK
- Género
- female
- Nacionalidad
- UK
- Lugar de nacimiento
- Craven Edge, Halifax, Yorkshire, England, UK
- Lugar de fallecimiento
- London, England, UK
- Lugares de residencia
- London, England, UK
- Ocupaciones
- novelist
short story writer
playwright
literary editor - Biografía breve
- Naomi Royde-Smith was a prolific writer who published nearly 40 novels, as well as short stories, anthologies and compilations, biographies, reviews, criticism, and four plays. Her biographies were considered models of their kind. She was the first woman literary editor in Britain, working for the Saturday Westminster Gazette. She met her husband, Ernest Milton, an actor, through her work as a drama critic and wrote a play for him called A Balcony that was produced in 1926.
Miembros
Reseñas
También Puede Gustarte
Autores relacionados
Estadísticas
- Obras
- 49
- También por
- 9
- Miembros
- 82
- Popularidad
- #220,761
- Valoración
- 4.1
- Reseñas
- 1
- ISBNs
- 3
Whatever else it is, The Mother is certainly a beautiful piece of writing. Royde-Smith's control of her language in the numerous lengthy passages in which she conveys the ebbing and flowing of the narrator's emotions is remarkable. At the same time, the psychology of the narrator, whether we find her admirable or disturbing, is never less than convincing. The overt action of this novel, such as it is, occupies a brief period during a sunny afternoon, as the narrator watches her boys, aged six and four, playing together and waits for the return home from work of her husband. Quietly pondering her life, the narrator takes us on a wandering journey through her marriage, the changes wrought by the arrival of the children, the feelings of inadequacy provoked by the precocious older boy, Trevor, and the soothing sense of self-worth engendered by the open affection of the younger, Beng. In the boys' behaviour and reactions she sees echoes of herself at a similar age, and by examining her childhood memories in the light cast by motherhood, she begins to grow into a greater understanding of herself.
But all throughout the narrator's self-analysis we see actions being translated into terms of emotion - until it becomes difficult to judge whether we have simply caught her at a particularly vulnerable moment, or whether this tendency to view life through an emotional prism is habitual. Repeated moments of self-dramatisation would suggest the latter. More than once the narrator fantasises about sacrificing herself by giving up the first place in her childrens' affections to their father or their aunt; yet Beng's momentary display of a preference for his father provokes an outbreak of jealous self-pity startling in its intensity - She had never felt pain like this before... Sight and hearing reeled within her... - and a self-examination that reaches new heights, and depths. When the wave passes, there is a sense that this extremity of feeling has been a cleansing experience for the narrator, a trial by fire that has left her with a clearer and calmer vision of her world and her place in it; yet ultimately, it is the exaggerated suffering and exaltation of her inward journey that lingers and disturbs.
She was a taut string of anguish across which an omnipotent devil drew out a shriek of despair. Her own voice calling "Beng! Beng!" broke the appalling sound. The string in which she quivered snapped. The circle fell apart and left her steady at a centre that was no longer the pivot of its whirling. She passed in a breath from the extremity of suffering movement to the breathless silence of dead calm. For a moment the silence and stillness were enough. She lay beneath them inert, aware only that the torment was over---sunk like a stone that, dropped into a well, has reached the dark oblivion of its source...… (más)