O Henry, formerly known as William Sydney Porter, was one of the most famous American short story writers, and was once hailed by critics as Manhattan's prose writer laureate and the father of the modern American short story. He was born into a family of physicians in the town of Greensboro, North Carolina, United States.
He lived a storied life as a pharmacy apprentice, cattle rancher, accountant, land office clerk, newspaperman, and bank teller. When he was a bank teller, he left his home and went into exile in Honduras, Central America, to avoid interrogation because the bank was short of cash. Later, he was arrested and imprisoned for visiting his wife, who was terminally ill, and worked as a pharmacist in the prison infirmary. He wrote his first book to buy a Christmas present for his daughter, but was afraid to use his real name because of his status as a prisoner, so he used the name of the editor of a French pharmacopoeia as his pen name, and after his early release in 1901, he moved to New York City, where he specialized in writing.
O Henry was good at depicting American society, especially the life of the people in New York. His works are novel in conception, witty in language, and the ending always makes people "feel in the sense, but also in the unexpected"; and because of the many characters depicted, rich in life interest, known as "the encyclopedia of humor of American life". His representative works include the novels Cabbage and the King, Four Million, and The Road to Destiny. Some of his famous stories, such as "Sacrifice of Love", "The Policeman and the Hymn", "The Gift of the Magi" (also known as "The Gift of the Magi"), "The Room with Furniture for Rent", "The Last Ivy Leaf", etc., have made him gained a worldwide reputation. The short story "The Gift of the Magi" and "Twenty Years Later" have been compiled into the eighth grade language textbooks of junior high schools in Shanghai. His short stories "The Gift of the Magi" and "Twenty Years Later" were included in the eighth grade language textbook of Shanghai junior high school, and "The Last Ivy Leaf" was included in the ninth grade language textbook of Shanghai as well as in the senior high school textbook of the Humanist version. In terms of the nature of the subject matter, O. Henry's works can be roughly categorized into three types. One category focuses on the depiction of life in the western United States; one category writes about life in some of the big cities in the United States; and one category takes Latin American life as its object. These different subjects, obviously with the author's life in several major life period of different experiences, has a close relationship. Among the three types of works, there is no doubt that the number of works depicting city life is the largest and most significant.
The contradictions of O. Henry's thought and the weaknesses of his works have a great deal to do with his creative environment. Even when he had become famous and widely popular with readers, his life was still often in straitened circumstances. He once said bluntly: I write for bread."
Because he was a poor man himself, O. Henry's writings are mostly about poor working people and are full of sympathy for them. In my opinion, the reason why I like O. Henry's novels is that in his novels, we often can't guess what the result is, and the real result will make us unbelievable, which also shows his rich imagination, O. Henry's novels language is very vivid and very concise, and his short stories capture our interest and attention at the beginning, and the novels, in addition to the witty humor of the text, there is always something that make In addition to the humor and wit of the novels, there are always some places that make people guess. He often makes us think that the ending can be guessed by logical thinking, but often the plot turns, making the end of the story become unexpected but reasonable, thus resulting in a unique artistic charm, which is known as "O. Henry's ending", which is also one of the most famous aspects of O. Henry. O. Henry's short stories have many contents: most of them are about some minor characters, about the western ranch of the United States, about the small staffs who want to save face and daydream all day long, as well as about some urban crooks and the mockery of gold-digging people. Although O. Henry was always dissatisfied with the social status quo, he did not give up hope, so the tragic stories and characters always have a relatively good ending, and also let us y appreciate the smile in the bitterness, irony in the sadness and hopelessness. O. Henry's novels are easy to understand, in which no matter what happens, where it happens, and no matter what kind of characters the main character is, his stories are written in the world, and easy to have a strong American flavor. Generally speaking, the desire and motives that drive people to act are quite complex, but the thoughts of O. Henry's characters are relatively simple, and the motives are relatively single, and the center of the conflict seems to be poor and rich. On the one hand, this is probably because the United States is a civilian society, there is no natural superior aristocracy, since everyone is equal in front of money, the rich and the poor became the main contradiction in society. On the other hand, at this time is the United States after the civil war, "Gilded Age", the prevalence of gold-digging, all kinds of fraud, corruption and dance flooded, it seems that only people can earn money is success, and do not ask whether the origin of the money is innocent and legitimate, no wonder the degree of possession of money has become the center of people's attention, and the same time as O. Henry Mark Twain said well: "The rich and the poor are the main contradiction in society, since everyone is equal in front of money. Mark Twain, a contemporary of O. Henry, put it well: "Poverty is always an inconvenience anywhere in the world. But only in America is poverty a disgrace." O. Henry's pen is living in a world dominated by money, their motivations, their joys and sorrows, mostly related to the possession of money, so O. Henry's depiction of the world, whether it is good or evil, there is a certain kind of American simplicity.
O. Henry's novels touching downtrodden little man in the hard environment of survival, but still can show sincere love and care for others, to make the invaluable sacrifice. In order to buy her husband a platinum watch chain as a Christmas gift, the wife sells her hair. The husband sold his gold watch to buy his wife a set of hair combs for the same purpose. Although each other's gifts lost their value, the emotion they gained from them was priceless. In order to encourage the poor and sick young painter to live on, the old painter struggled to paint a never-fading ivy leaf on the wall on a stormy night. He pays with his life for his masterpiece, but the young painter gains courage and survives. A rich man has been reduced to starvation, but he insists on fulfilling his annual duty of treating his poor friend to a meal on Thanksgiving. And the poor friend who had just been fed faithfully played his part in order to please the other. They each made sacrifices in order to give a little comfort to others. All these may not be called great things, but small things that small people do every day, but in these small things they reach goodness and the highest point of their spiritual realm.
O Henry has the same sensitivity to evil, he put the United States of America, this fame and fortune on the trick to see very thoroughly, those "children of the jungle", the trickery, the hook, the trickery, the line of the "law of the jungle". Cruelty meets vicious, a small cheat meets a big cheat, robbers and crooks even though clever, but still can not fight financiers, Wall Street brokers are never merciful, more sadly, in this competition for wealth, people's souls are corroded, the young girl is obviously in the restaurant as a cashier, but they pretend to pretend to be a prestigious family. The busy broker even forgets about last night's wedding and proposes to his wife once again. In a world where money is all-powerful and the god of fatherly wealth can create a traffic jam at the most crucial moment, thus giving an only son the chance to be unmarried, Eros can only bow to this.
But good and evil in O. Henry's novel are not so separate and distinct that there is a vast middle ground between them, where there is the possibility of a reawakening of the conscience, a repentance, a new life. A safecracker who decides to wash his hands of the business in order to save his child who has locked himself in the vault, takes out his skills in public and prepares to go back to jail with the police. A man who is ashamed of himself and has turned his back on his lover can, after all, still do his best to make his childhood sweetheart break his mind and go on to start a new life.
O Henry's success lies mainly in his ability to capture and grasp the typical scenes of life, in a slice of life, in the dilemma of the protagonist must face the choice, which not only can focus on portraying the psychology of the characters, but also can fully demonstrate the contradictions inherent in life. Coupled with O. Henry's ability to cut the plot just right, thus achieving a perfect combination of thought and art in a very short space, giving a strong impression, which is the key to the success of the short story.
The most important feature of O. Henry's novels in terms of artistic treatment is their "unexpected ending". The plot seems to be moving in one direction, but then it comes to an unexpected end. This unexpected ending is generally more comforting, even if it is a sad ending, it often contains some kind of light, which is the so-called "smile with tears". Tragedies like "A Room with Furniture for Rent" rarely occur in O. Henry's writing. However, accidental endings can not often rely on a certain kind of chance, and too much chance can not help but produce distance from reality, so "accidental endings" on the one hand, make O. Henry's novels show interesting, but at the same time also make them lack of depth.
The dilemma and the unexpected ending often produce a ludicrous effect of humor, in O. Henry's novels, humor is throughout, and some specifically for humor and humor. The thugs who kidnap the child are so tormented by the urchin that they would rather pay back the money to escort the child home. The humorist is made to produce humor nearly day in and day out, going so far as to become a distraught vampire who is finally able to say goodbye to earthly folly and regain the sentience of a normal human being only in the back room of a funeral parlor. O. Henry clearly saw himself as a humorist, writing in Confessions of a Humorist, "The nature of my jokes is kind and affectionate, and in no way stray into satire to make others angry." This statement also applies to O. Henry himself; he is sarcastic, but not dripping with sarcasm; his mockery and humor are usually well-intentioned and sometimes shockingly revealing of the true meaning of life, as in The Gyroscope of Life and The Pendulum, which exemplify O. Henry's ability to see through life. O. Henry's language itself is also full of exaggeration and humor, and humor can until downplay the tragic nature of things, so that the mass readers can be more acceptable. In a neighborhood west of Washington Square, the street seems to be wildly divided into many small alleys called "alleys". These "alleys" form many peculiar angles and curves. A street itself often crosses once or twice. Once, an artist realized that this street had something valuable to offer. It would be interesting if a merchant who went to collect payment for paints, paper and canvases suddenly realized that he hadn't received a penny, and returned empty-handed, turning in circles on this street!
So it wasn't long before artsy people were coming to this quaint Greenwich Village. They wandered around, looking for north-facing windows, 18th-century triangular walls, Dutch lofts, and low rents. Then they "imported" some tin-wax cups and a baking pot or two from Sixth Avenue and created an "art section.
Suai and Joanne set up their studio on the top floor of a stumpy three-story brick house. "Joanne" was Joanna's nickname. One of the two was from Maine; the other's hometown was California. They met over dinner at a Del Monico restaurant on Eight Horse Pike, and when they talked to each other, they realized they had similar tastes in art, food and clothing, and they rented the studio together.
That was in May. By November, a ruthless, invisible visitor, whom doctors call "pneumonia," was stalking the art district, touching here and there with his icy fingers. On the east side of the plaza, this bad guy was on the prowl, victimizing dozens of people at a time. But in this intricate, narrow, mossy "alley," his pace slowed.
Mr. Pneumonia is not what you would call a gentleman who helps the weak and the needy. A weak woman, already bloodless from the California westerly winds, certainly couldn't stand up to the common sense of the old guy with the red fists and the panting breath. But he had surprised Joanne by attacking her; and she had lain there on the painted iron bed, motionless, staring out of the little Dutch window at the wall of the brick house opposite.
One morning, the busy doctor raised his bushy gray eyebrows and greeted Soai in the aisle.
"As I see it, there's only a ten percent chance of her getting sick." He said, flinging down the mercury in his thermometer as he did so. "That ten percent hope lies in whether or not she wants to live herself. People don't want to live, preferring to take care of the undertaker's business, and that state of mind makes medicine a hopeless case. This young lady of yours is full of the thought that she won't get well. Does she have something on her mind?"
"She - she hopes to paint the Bay of Naples someday." Suai said.
"Painting? - - Don't be ridiculous! Does she have anything on her mind that's worth thinking about twice -- like, say, men?"
"Men?" Soai said with a grunt like a little harmonica, "Is a man worth -- stop it, no, Doc; there's no such thing."
"Then it must be weakness." The doctor said, "I must do everything I know how to do, and treat her in every way that science can reach. But whenever my patient begins to reckon with how many carriages there are to take him to the funeral, I have to reduce the healing power of medicine by fifty percent. If you can interest her in the sleeve pattern of her winter coat by proposing one always, I can assure you that her chances of recovery will be improved from one in ten to one in five, quasi."
After the doctor left, Soai went to her studio and gave a little cry, her tears wiping a Japanese paper napkin to a puddle of pulp. Then she picked up her drawing pad, whistled a ragtime tune, and strutted into Joanne's room.
Jonathan lay under the covers, her face toward the window, not moving at all. Suai thought she was asleep and hurried to stop whistling.
She set up her drawing board and began to draw a pen-and-ink illustration of a short story for the magazine. Young painters had to pave the way to art with illustrations of magazine novels that young writers created to pave the way to literature.
Suai was sketching a nice pair of breeches and a monocle for the novel's protagonist, an Idaho rancher, to wear at a horse show, when she suddenly heard a faint voice repeat itself several times. She hurried to the bedside.
Jonathan's eyes were wide open. She was looking out the window, counting - counting down to come up.
"Twelve," she said, and then, after a moment, "eleven"; then "ten", "nine "; then "eight" and "seven," almost in a row.
Suai looked out the window with concern. What was there to count? All that was visible outside was an empty, dreary yard and the walls of a hanging brick house twenty feet away. A standard of very, very old ivy, its tangled roots withered, fanned out over half the wall. The cold fall winds had blown almost all the leaves off the vine, leaving only a few almost bare branches clinging to the loose, crumbling brick wall.
"What's going on, honey?" Suai asked.
"Six." Joanne said, her voice low as a whisper, "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred pieces. It made me dizzy counting them. It's easier now. Here, another piece has fallen off. Only five pieces left."
"Five slices of what, honey? Tell your Suai."
"Leaves, leaves on the ivy. When the last one falls off, I'll have to go too. I knew that three days ago. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"Yo, I've never heard anything so ridiculous." Suai said in a sarcastic manner, feigning disinterest, "What does the old vine leaf have to do with your illness? You always loved that ivy, come on, you naughty girl. Come now, you naughty girl, don't be silly. I forgot that the doctor told you this morning that your chances of a speedy recovery were-let's see, what did he say-he said they were ten to one against you! Well, that's almost as seldom the case as when we take the streetcar in New York or walk through the site of a hanging new house. Now have a little soup. Let Suai keep on drawing so she can sell it to Mr. Editor and get money for some claret for her sick child and some pork chops to fill her own cravings."
"You don't need to buy any more wine." Joanne said, still gazing out the window, "Another slice has fallen off. No, I don't want soup. There are only four slices left. I hope to see the last of the vine leaves float down before dark. It's time for me to go then."
"Joanne, dear," Soai said, bending over her, "will you promise me not to open your eyes or look out the window until I've finished my drawings? Those drawings I have to hand in tomorrow. I need the light or I would have pulled the curtains down a long time ago."
"Can't you draw in the other room?" Joanne asked coldly.
"I'm going to stay here, with you." Soai said, "And I don't like you staring at those inexplicable vine leaves all the time."
"Let me know as soon as you're done drawing." Joanne said as she closed her eyes, her face pale and still, living like a fallen statue, "Because I want to see that last vine leaf fall. I'm tired of waiting. And impatient to think.
"You fight for some sleep." Soai said, "I'm going to get Bellman up here to model for me for that reclusive old miner. I can't go for more than a minute. Don't move until I get back."
Old Bellman was a painter who lived downstairs on the ground floor. He was in his mid-sixties and had a beard like the one on Michelangelo's statue of Moses, which hung down in curls from his satyr-like head down his brat-like body. Bellman was a lost cause in the art world. After forty years of juggling brushes, he was still a long way from the goddess of art, not even touching the edge of her robe. He always said he was going to paint a masterpiece, but never did. Except for the occasional commercial or advertising painting, he hadn't painted anything for several years. He earned a few bucks modeling for young artists in the "Art Zone" who couldn't afford to hire professional models, and he always drank too much gin and droned on about his future masterpieces. In addition, he is a cranky little old man who despises the warmth of others in the extreme, but considers himself the watchdog protecting the two young artists upstairs.
Suai found the booze-swollen Bellman in the dimly lit shack downstairs. A blank canvas stretched taut on an easel in the corner, where it had been waiting for a masterpiece to fall into place for twenty-five years. She told him what Joanne had been thinking, and how worried she was that Joanne, weak as a leaf, would not be able to hold on to her tenuous connection with the world, and would indeed pass away.
Old Bellman, whose bloodshot eyes were always tearing up against the wind, took this idiotic idea in stride, and ranted for a while with sarcasm and sarcasm.
"What words!" He yelled, "Is there even such a fool in the world as to want to die because the damnable vine leaves are falling? I have never heard such a strange thing in all my life. No, I haven't the heart to be that boring hermit model for you. How could you get such silly thoughts into her head? Alas, poor little Miss Joanne."
"She's very sick and weak," said Suai, "and the fever has made her paranoid and filled her head with strange thoughts. Well, Mr. Bellman, since you won't model for me, I won't force you. I recognize you as a hateful old--old poor talker."
"You're so girly!" Belman yelled, "Who says I don't want to? Just go. I'll go with you. I've been saying for half a day that I'm willing to serve you for you for you. Goodness gracious! A person as good as Ms. Joanne shouldn't be sick in a place like this. One of these days, I'm going to paint a masterpiece, and then we can all get out of here. Oh, dear! Yes."
Jonathan was asleep when they went upstairs. Suai drew the curtains to the sill and gestured for Belman to go into the other room. There they glanced worriedly out the window at the ivy. Then they stared at each other in silence for a while. A cold rain with snowflakes fell. Berman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat on a turned-over iron pot filled with rock, pretending to be a reclusive miner.
The next morning, when Suai woke up after an hour's sleep, she saw Joanne's eyes open and lifeless, gazing at the green curtains at the end of the drop.
"Pull the curtains up, I want to see." She ordered in a weak voice.
Suai sleepily did as she was told.
But look at that! After a long night of wind and rain, there was still a leaf of ivy clinging to the wall. It was the last one on the vine. The color near the petiole was still dark green, but the jagged edges were tinged with a withered yellow, and it hung proudly above a vine branch twenty or so feet off the ground.
"That was the last leaf." Joanne said, "I thought for sure it would fall last night. I heard the wind blowing. It will fall off today, and in the meantime I'm going to die."
"Ouch, ouch!" Suai said as she brought her sleepy face to the pillow, "If you don't think of yourself, think of me. What can I do?"
But Joanne didn't answer. A mind ready to take the mysterious and distant path of death is the loneliest and saddest in all the world. That metaphysical thought seemed to grasp her more powerfully as she disengaged piece by piece from her earthly and friendly ties.
The day finally passed. At dusk, they saw the lone vine leaf on the wall still clinging to its stem. With the fury of the north wind that came with the night, the rain beat uncontrollably on the windows and poured down from the low Dutch eaves.
At first light, the cruel Joanne ordered the curtains drawn again.
The ivy leaf remained on the wall.
Jonathan lay looking at it for a long time. Then she called out to Suai, who was stirring the chicken soup for Joanne on the coal tipper.
"I've been such a bad girl, Suai," said Joanne, "and something in the underworld kept that last leaf from falling, revealing how wicked I used to be. It is a sin not to want to live. Now please bring me some soup, and get a little milk mixed with wine, and--wait a minute; first bring me a little mirror, and cushion me with a pillow; I want to sit up and watch you cook."
An hour later she said,
"Suai, I hope to go sketching in the Bay of Naples some day."
In the afternoon, the doctor came in, and as he left, Soai made an excuse and ran down the aisle.
"There's a fifty-fifty hope for good." The doctor grabbed Soai's thin, trembling hand and said, "With good care, you will prevail. Now I have to go downstairs and check on another patient. His last name is Bellman-also in the arts, as far as I know. Pneumonia, too. He's old and weak, and the disease comes on hard. There's no hope for him, but let's get him into the hospital today and make him comfortable."
The next day, the doctor told Sue, "She's out of danger, you did it. Now, you just need to take good care of her and give her enough nutrition."
That afternoon, Suai ran over to the bed where Joanne was leaning over, contentedly knitting a useless dark blue household scarf, and Suai even pillows her into a hug.
"I have something to tell you, little thing." She said, "Bellman died in the hospital. He had pneumonia and was only sick for two days. The first morning, the janitor found him in his room downstairs sad as hell. His shoes and clothes were wet and cold. They couldn't figure out where in the world he had gone on that miserable night. Later, they found a lantern still burning, a ladder moved from its original place, a few scattered paintbrushes, a palette with green and yellow paints, and finally - look out of the window, my dear, look at the last leaf on the wall. Don't you wonder why it doesn't flutter in the wind? Ah, my dear, that was Bellman's work - he painted it on the wall that night when the last leaf fell."