Nature itself a Character

There is just a wee bit if any that can be claimed as one’s own in this entirety of creation, men being only part of the whole. They are driven to do things out of sheer necessity which largely depends on their whims and fancies and this urge of theirs to perform may either add on to the existing paraphernalia or may serve to vanish something for good or bad. Or things can be left to lurch as such, without any change albeit drawing ceaseless stray attention. Nature on the other hand is all consuming and adept in turning out situations for any wanton soul that covets some pampering. Nature in itself is therefore a character, a backdrop of every human soul along with its unleashed fancies and pursuits, insignificant though that might be in the larger design of things.

It is with this ardor of uncertain will, the blind man and the narrator dubbed as ‘Bub’ started drawing the cathedral (Carver, Raymond 1989). Down came this masterpiece of cathedral amid drink, dope and blindness. With little attention to spare and little direction to pursue, the duo set about drawing the cathedral come what may; and the cathedral did come. Aimless wanderings did earn a treasure. It was in the superior plan of things to endow them with potentials, as endearing as this. Who could foresee the nature’s design of things that is ever changing? All that there ever is and can ever be, belongs to nature’s way of arranging things and poor humans are left with their yearnings that continuously strive to leave a mark. They are rather unsuccessful in their attempts to create a niche, for nature is superior and is the integral whole for us to be only happy about and not strive endlessly (Carver, Raymond 1989).

The indomitable will of men, which can be summoned to achieve the impossible is likened to that of this narrator in the story, “The Yellow wall Paper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, 1892). Such great was her understanding about that stuff, the yellow wall paper and she works tirelessly about it summoning every ounce of energy on her behalf for its cause. She appreciates it every bit calling it to be a sub-pattern in a different shade that is irritating, where she could see a strange, formless sort of figure that skulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design in sunlight, whereas in the moonlight the faint figure seemed to shake the pattern just as if she wanted to get out. She avers it as fungus, an interminable chain of toadstools and considers it vicious enough to make her spiteful. She is all set to creep about the patterns all over the place, to catch up with that hideous woman who climbs and crawls through it at daylight. Human will is indomitable enough to be insane and nature as a sole character outdoes all human aspirations. 

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