"Let me into the darkness again."

Unfortunately, for our discussion posts, I didn't read the rules well enough to realize we only needed 200 words, and instead rambled off with well over 500.  Part of that may have been my excitement for this specific era - quite frankly, poetry and prose in the late 19th century is devastatingly romantic.  Take for instance "The Storm" by Kate Chopin; her lines are sensuous and dreamy, far too risqué for the time period.  They dance around with character, from the way Calixta, Bobinot and Bibi talk to their mannerisms in each situation.

It seems fitting, then, that Stephen Crane's "The Black Riders and Other Lines" comes across in the same way, regardless of tone.  Even in his darker, bleaker lines, Crane exuberates a carefully constructed, emotional appeal that plays out with pure imagination.  Even so, what it conveys seems simple, even if it really carries a multiple meaning.

Let me explain in a better way: I know this isn't part of our reading, but the first 19th century book I ever read was a copy of Thomas Hardy's "Wessex Tales".  It was a maroon colored book I found in an attic of a thrift shop, somewhere in Bellvue, Washington.  I was 14, and collected it simply because it's publishing date was somewhere in the early 20th century and was still managing to stay together.  ("Wessex Tales", a first edition, would have been first published in 1896.)  The stories dealt with a series of issues, from prohibition to disabled persons, and did so with such interesting clarity and sensibility that it became a forever intriguing monument in my mind.  In essence what I am trying to say is that there is a story entitled "The Withered Arm" that, as you can guess, breaches a very personal topic.  Hardy still manages to write in a style that is sentimental.  Even it's pessimistic ending feels lush.

I suppose what concludes this module is the realization that I am not only awed by what I read, but a bit jealous too.  All of my love letters couldn't possible hold a candle to the unique beauty found in these particular stories.  Too many keyboard strokes, not enough pen and paper, I say.

PS - Maybe it will prove to be wrong, but my memory of the next grouping is a slew of writing that seems tough and managed without a flow; a raw, gritty story group.  I think of the war, and of tobacco, and new age cowboys.  (I suppose, though, that Fitzgerald is in this time period and he held on to that 'romanticized' form of writing with a tight grip.)