بریده‌هایی از کتاب The Yellow Wallpaper

He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well.

If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.