Hudson Review,Inc Doors Author(s):Rachel Hadas Source:The Hudson Review,Vol.59,No.1 (Spring.2006),pp.89-90 Published by:Hudson Review,Inc Stable URL:http://www.jstor.org/stable/20464534 Accessed:16-01-2016 12:44 UTC Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms Conditions of Use,available at http://www.istororg/pagel info/about/policies/terms jsp JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars,researchers,and students discover,use,and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive.We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR,please contact support@jstor.org. Hudson Review,Inc is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize,preserve and extend access to The Hudson Review. STOR http://www.jstor.org This content downloaded from 183.195.251.166 on Sat,16 Jan 2016 12:44:09 UTC All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
Hudson Review, Inc is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Hudson Review. http://www.jstor.org Hudson Review, Inc Doors Author(s): Rachel Hadas Source: The Hudson Review, Vol. 59, No. 1 (Spring, 2006), pp. 89-90 Published by: Hudson Review, Inc Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20464534 Accessed: 16-01-2016 12:44 UTC Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at http://www.jstor.org/page/ info/about/policies/terms.jsp JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org. This content downloaded from 183.195.251.166 on Sat, 16 Jan 2016 12:44:09 UTC All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
RACHEL HADAS Doors At the latch of the window-just to mention it in passinga white blouse is dangling. And now we can begin. May I shift this night table from beside your bed? Joseph K.to Fraulein Burstner said, enacting the invasion,the arrest, that table shifted at the dark behest of the underlings who'd broken in, eaten K.'s breakfast,fingered Fraulein Burstner's photographs,and no doubt seen from the wary corner of an eye that white blouse fluttering in the morning sun. Rooms.Furnishings.Interiors.Privacy. Back in the fifties,Betty Friedan saw signs of a trend:the trail of toys strewn across undifferentiated den/ playroom/foyer/living/dining room to kitchen,where a mother at the stove stands preparing a perpetual meal. There were no doors.There barely was a wall. Nabokoy wrote to Vera:"I must know where you stand;must know where our son stands"- out in the great world,but inside too. Where shall we put ourselves?What shall we do? In the name of openness,the sprawl extends:museum,library,high school, airport where every passenger who waits to board a plane must pass through several gates from nowhere into nowhere.Some look plain, This content downloaded from 183.195.251.166 on Sat,16 Jan 2016 12:44:09 UTC All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
RACHEL HADAS Doors At the latch of the window-just to mention it in passing--a white blouse is dangling. And now we can begin. May I shift this night table from beside your bed? Joseph K. to Fraulein Burstner said, enacting the invasion, the arrest, that table shifted at the dark behest of the underlings who'd broken in, eaten K's breakfast, fingered Fraulein Burstner's photographs, and no doubt seen from the wary corner of an eye that white blouse fluttering in the morning sun. Rooms. Furnishings. Interiors. Privacy. Back in the fifties, Betty Friedan saw signs of a trend: the trail of toys strewn across undifferentiated den/ playroom/foyer/living/dining room to kitchen, where a mother at the stove stands preparing a perpetual meal. There were no doors. There barely was a wall. Nabokov wrote to Vera: "I must know where you stand; must know where our son stands" out in the great world, but inside too. Where shall we put ourselves? What shall we do? In the name of openness, the sprawl extends: museum, library, high school, airport where every passenger who waits to board a plane must pass through several gates from nowhere into nowhere. Some look plain, This content downloaded from 183.195.251.166 on Sat, 16 Jan 2016 12:44:09 UTC All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
90 THE HUDSON REVIEW utilitarian;some cannot be seen. Portaled but windowless blueprints of hell: no place to shut the world out and be still. Yet adolescents need a den,a lair, to gnaw their private bones and lock the door. It's not enough to have a secret drawer whose contents I for one don't want to see. Confessionals need doors.And recently having entered illness's domain vicariously,on my husband's arm, when our turn to approach the rulers came, I saw the place was subdivided:warren of tiny rooms,no hint of open space. Everyone pushed toward their own inner sanctum, seat of the doctor on his pallid throne. At length we gained admittance to the place. And on the point of telling us the doom we'd filed through all those passageways to hear, he rose:"Excuse me.Let me shut the door." Light Bulbs and Soap September:sunny afternoon. Stroll with my sister once again. Drained by two hours of angry sleep, limp,drowsy,I less stroll than droop. Watch out,though.Something fin-like slides up from the river as if to slice our futures.Yours is granite;mine is thorns and mist.It cuts through both. Are we bleeding?Neither one would deign to blot the other's wound. This content downloaded from 183.195.251.166 on Sat,16 Jan 2016 12:44:09 UTC All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
90 THE HUDSON REVIEW utilitarian; some cannot be seen. Portaled but windowless blueprints of hell: no place to shut the world out and be still. Yet adolescents need a den, a lair, to gnaw their private bones and lock the door. It's not enough to have a secret drawer whose contents I for one don't want to see. Confessionals need doors. And recently having entered illness's domain vicariously, on my husband's arm, when our turn to approach the rulers came, I saw the place was subdivided: warren of tiny rooms, no hint of open space. Everyone pushed toward their own inner sanctum, seat of the doctor on his pallid throne. At length we gained admittance to the place. And on the point of telling us the doom we'd filed through all those passageways to hear, he rose: "Excuse me. Let me shut the door." Light Bulbs and Soap September: sunny afternoon. Stroll with my sister once again. Drained by two hours of angry sleep, limp, drowsy, I less stroll than droop. Watch out, though. Something fin-like slides up from the river as if to slice our futures. Yours is granite; mine is thorns and mist. It cuts through both. Are we bleeding? Neither one would deign to blot the other's wound. This content downloaded from 183.195.251.166 on Sat, 16 Jan 2016 12:44:09 UTC All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
