The Scarlet Letter: With linked Table of Contents

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

'The Scarlet Letter' is Nathaniel Hawthorne's crowning achievement, a masterpiece that has stood the time. Hester, a young woman whose husband has been lost at sea, becomes pregnant by another man. Though the Puritan community in which she lives demands to know the name of the father she steadfastly refuses to name him. Hawthorne explores hypocrisy, quiet dignity, and redemption in this landmark novel. A must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilder Publications, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781633846500

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Nathaniel Hawthorne (Salem, Massachusetts, 1804-Plymouth, 1864) escribió alegorías, de las que, sorprendentemente, llegaría a arrepentirse. Fue amigo de Herman Melville, quien le dedicó Moby Dick. Fue un recluso voluntario, por una especie de malentendido con las puertas. Terminó sus días como Hölderlin, escribiendo encerrado en una torre. Poe, que no era de halago fácil, dijo de él: «Lo considero uno de los pocos hombres de genio indiscutible que ha llegado a dar nuestro país». Para el editor Duy­ckinck era como si ese genio, «sin deudas respecto al pasado o a contemporáneos extranjeros», hubiera caído del cielo.

Book preview

The Scarlet Letter

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Wilder Publications

PO Box 632

Floyd, VA 24091

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or transmitted in any form or manner by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express, prior written permission of the author and/or publisher, except for brief quotations for review purposes only. For information on getting permission for reprints or excerpts, contact the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-1-63384-650-0

FIRST EDITION

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE

THE PRISON DOOR

THE MARKET-PLACE

THE RECOGNITION

THE INTERVIEW

HESTER AT HER NEEDLE

PEARL

THE GOVERNOR’S HALL

THE ELF-CHILD AND THE MINISTER

THE LEECH

THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT

THE INTERIOR OF A HEART

THE MINISTER’S VIGIL

ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER

HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN

HESTER AND PEARL

A FOREST WALK

THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER

A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE

THE CHILD AT THE BROOKSIDE

THE MINISTER IN A MAZE

THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY

THE PROCESSION

THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER

CONCLUSION

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE

It is a little remarkable, that—though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public. The first time was three or four years since, when I favoured the reader—inexcusably, and for no earthly reason that either the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine—with a description of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse. And now—because, beyond my deserts, I was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former occasion—I again seize the public by the button, and talk of my three years’ experience in a Custom-House. The example of the famous P. P., Clerk of this Parish, was never more faithfully followed. The truth seems to be, however, that when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him better than most of his schoolmates or lifemates. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed only and exclusively to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer’s own nature, and complete his circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. It is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. But, as thoughts are frozen and utterance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with his audience, it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil. To this extent, and within these limits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the reader’s rights or his own.

It will be seen, likewise, that this Custom-House sketch has a certain propriety, of a kind always recognised in literature, as explaining how a large portion of the following pages came into my possession, and as offering proofs of the authenticity of a narrative therein contained. This, in fact—a desire to put myself in my true position as editor, or very little more, of the most prolix among the tales that make up my volume—this, and no other, is my true reason for assuming a personal relation with the public. In accomplishing the main purpose, it has appeared allowable, by a few extra touches, to give a faint representation of a mode of life not heretofore described, together with some of the characters that move in it, among whom the author happened to make one.

In my native town of Salem, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old King Derby, was a bustling wharf—but which is now burdened with decayed wooden warehouses, and exhibits few or no symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps, a bark or brig, half-way down its melancholy length, discharging hides; or, nearer at hand, a Nova Scotia schooner, pitching out her cargo of firewood—at the head, I say, of this dilapidated wharf, which the tide often overflows, and along which, at the base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many languid years is seen in a border of unthrifty grass—here, with a view from its front windows adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence across the harbour, stands a spacious edifice of brick. From the loftiest point of its roof, during precisely three and a half hours of each forenoon, floats or droops, in breeze or calm, the banner of the republic; but with the thirteen stripes turned vertically, instead of horizontally, and thus indicating that a civil, and not a military, post of Uncle Sam’s government is here established. Its front is ornamented with a portico of half-a-dozen wooden pillars, supporting a balcony, beneath which a flight of wide granite steps descends towards the street. Over the entrance hovers an enormous specimen of the American eagle, with outspread wings, a shield before her breast, and, if I recollect aright, a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw. With the customary infirmity of temper that characterizes this unhappy fowl, she appears by the fierceness of her beak and eye, and the general truculency of her attitude, to threaten mischief to the inoffensive community; and especially to warn all citizens careful of their safety against intruding on the premises which she overshadows with her wings. Nevertheless, vixenly as she looks, many people are seeking at this very moment to shelter themselves under the wing of the federal eagle; imagining, I presume, that her bosom has all the softness and snugness of an eiderdown pillow. But she has no great tenderness even in her best of moods, and, sooner or later—oftener soon than late—is apt to fling off her nestlings with a scratch of her claw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows.

The pavement round about the above-described edifice—which we may as well name at once as the Custom-House of the port—has grass enough growing in its chinks to show that it has not, of late days, been worn by any multitudinous resort of business. In some months of the year, however, there often chances a forenoon when affairs move onward with a livelier tread. Such occasions might remind the elderly citizen of that period, before the last war with England, when Salem was a port by itself; not scorned, as she is now, by her own merchants and ship-owners, who permit her wharves to crumble to ruin while their ventures go to swell, needlessly and imperceptibly, the mighty flood of commerce at New York or Boston. On some such morning, when three or four vessels happen to have arrived at once usually from Africa or South America—or to be on the verge of their departure thitherward, there is a sound of frequent feet passing briskly up and down the granite steps. Here, before his own wife has greeted him, you may greet the sea-flushed ship-master, just in port, with his vessel’s papers under his arm in a tarnished tin box. Here, too, comes his owner, cheerful, sombre, gracious or in the sulks, accordingly as his scheme of the now accomplished voyage has been realized in merchandise that will readily be turned to gold, or has buried him under a bulk of incommodities such as nobody will care to rid him of. Here, likewise—the germ of the wrinkle-browed, grizzly-bearded, careworn merchant—we have the smart young clerk, who gets the taste of traffic as a wolf-cub does of blood, and already sends adventures in his master’s ships, when he had better be sailing mimic boats upon a mill-pond. Another figure in the scene is the outward-bound sailor, in quest of a protection; or the recently arrived one, pale and feeble, seeking a passport to the hospital. Nor must we forget the captains of the rusty little schooners that bring firewood from the British provinces; a rough-looking set of tarpaulins, without the alertness of the Yankee aspect, but contributing an item of no slight importance to our decaying trade.

Cluster all these individuals together, as they sometimes were, with other miscellaneous ones to diversify the group, and, for the time being, it made the Custom-House a stirring scene. More frequently, however, on ascending the steps, you would discern— in the entry if it were summer time, or in their appropriate rooms if wintry or inclement weathers—a row of venerable figures, sitting in old-fashioned chairs, which were tipped on their hind legs back against the wall. Oftentimes they were asleep, but occasionally might be heard talking together, in voices between a speech and a snore, and with that lack of energy that distinguishes the occupants of alms-houses, and all other human beings who depend for subsistence on charity, on monopolized labour, or anything else but their own independent exertions. These old gentlemen—seated, like Matthew at the receipt of custom, but not very liable to be summoned thence, like him, for apostolic errands—were Custom-House officers.

Furthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a certain room or office, about fifteen feet square, and of a lofty height, with two of its arched windows commanding a view of the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third looking across a narrow lane, and along a portion of Derby Street. All three give glimpses of the shops of grocers, block-makers, slop-sellers, and ship-chandlers, around the doors of which are generally to be seen, laughing and gossiping, clusters of old salts, and such other wharf-rats as haunt the Wapping of a seaport. The room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy with old paint; its floor is strewn with grey sand, in a fashion that has elsewhere fallen into long disuse; and it is easy to conclude, from the general slovenliness of the place, that this is a sanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of magic, the broom and mop, has very infrequent access. In the way of furniture, there is a stove with a voluminous funnel; an old pine desk with a three-legged stool beside it; two or three wooden-bottom chairs, exceedingly decrepit and infirm; and—not to forget the library—on some shelves, a score or two of volumes of the Acts of Congress, and a bulky Digest of the Revenue laws. A tin pipe ascends through the ceiling, and forms a medium of vocal communication with other parts of the edifice. And here, some six months ago—pacing from corner to corner, or lounging on the long-legged stool, with his elbow on the desk, and his eyes wandering up and down the columns of the morning newspaper—you might have recognised, honoured reader, the same individual who welcomed you into his cheery little study, where the sunshine glimmered so pleasantly through the willow branches on the western side of the Old Manse. But now, should you go thither to seek him, you would inquire in vain for the Locofoco Surveyor. The besom of reform hath swept him out of office, and a worthier successor wears his dignity and pockets his emoluments.

This old town of Salem—my native place, though I have dwelt much away from it both in boyhood and maturer years—possesses, or did possess, a hold on my affection, the force of which I have never realized during my seasons of actual residence here. Indeed, so far as its physical aspect is concerned, with its flat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly with wooden houses, few or none of which pretend to architectural beauty—its irregularity, which is neither picturesque nor quaint, but only tame—its long and lazy street, lounging wearisomely through the whole extent of the peninsula, with Gallows Hill and New Guinea at one end, and a view of the alms-house at the other—such being the features of my native town, it would be quite as reasonable to form a sentimental attachment to a disarranged checker-board. And yet, though invariably happiest elsewhere, there is within me a feeling for Old Salem, which, in lack of a better phrase, I must be content to call affection. The sentiment is probably assignable to the deep and aged roots which my family has stuck into the soil. It is now nearly two centuries and a quarter since the original Briton, the earliest emigrant of my name, made his appearance in the wild and forest-bordered settlement which has since become a city. And here his descendants have been born and died, and have mingled their earthly substance with the soil, until no small portion of it must necessarily be akin to the mortal frame wherewith, for a little while, I walk the streets. In part, therefore, the attachment which I speak of is the mere sensuous sympathy of dust for dust. Few of my countrymen can know what it is; nor, as frequent transplantation is perhaps better for the stock, need they consider it desirable to know.

But the sentiment has likewise its moral quality. The figure of that first ancestor, invested by family tradition with a dim and dusky grandeur, was present to my boyish imagination as far back as I can remember. It still haunts me, and induces a sort of home-feeling with the past, which I scarcely claim in reference to the present phase of the town. I seem to have a stronger claim to a residence here on account of this grave, bearded, sable-cloaked, and steeple-crowned progenitor—who came so early, with his Bible and his sword, and trode the unworn street with such a stately port, and made so large a figure, as a man of war and peace—a stronger claim than for myself, whose name is seldom heard and my face hardly known. He was a soldier, legislator, judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the Puritanic traits, both good and evil. He was likewise a bitter persecutor; as witness the Quakers, who have remembered him in their histories, and relate an incident of his hard severity towards a woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to be feared, than any record of his better deeds, although these were many. His son, too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and made himself so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the witches, that their blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon him. So deep a stain, indeed, that his dry old bones, in the Charter-street burial-ground, must still retain it, if they have not crumbled utterly to dust! I know not whether these ancestors of mine bethought themselves to repent, and ask pardon of Heaven for their cruelties; or whether they are now groaning under the heavy consequences of them in another state of being. At all events, I, the present writer, as their representative, hereby take shame upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any curse incurred by them—as I have heard, and as the dreary and unprosperous condition of the race, for many a long year back, would argue to exist—may be now and henceforth removed.

Doubtless, however, either of these stern and black-browed Puritans would have thought it quite a sufficient retribution for his sins that, after so long a lapse of years, the old trunk of the family tree, with so much venerable moss upon it, should have borne, as its topmost bough, an idler like myself. No aim that I have ever cherished would they recognise as laudable; no success of mine—if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had ever been brightened by success—would they deem otherwise than worthless, if not positively disgraceful. What is he? murmurs one grey shadow of my forefathers to the other. A writer of story books! What kind of business in life—what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation—may that be? Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler! Such are the compliments bandied between my great grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time! And yet, let them scorn me as they will, strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves with mine.

Planted deep, in the town’s earliest infancy and childhood, by these two earnest and energetic men, the race has ever since subsisted here; always, too, in respectability; never, so far as I have known, disgraced by a single unworthy member; but seldom or never, on the other hand, after the first two generations, performing any memorable deed, or so much as putting forward a claim to public notice. Gradually, they have sunk almost out of sight; as old houses, here and there about the streets, get covered half-way to the eaves by the accumulation of new soil. From father to son, for above a hundred years, they followed the sea; a grey-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the hereditary place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and the gale which had blustered against his sire and grandsire. The boy, also in due time, passed from the forecastle to the cabin, spent a tempestuous manhood, and returned from his world-wanderings, to grow old, and die, and mingle his dust with the natal earth. This long connexion of a family with one spot, as its place of birth and burial, creates a kindred between the human being and the locality, quite independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that surround him. It is not love but instinct. The new inhabitant—who came himself from a foreign land, or whose father or grandfather came—has little claim to be called a Salemite; he has no conception of the oyster-like tenacity with which an old settler, over whom his third century is creeping, clings to the spot where his successive generations have been embedded. It is no matter that the place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden houses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment, the chill east wind, and the chillest of social atmospheres;—all these, and whatever faults besides he may see or imagine, are nothing to the purpose. The spell survives, and just as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. So has it been in my case. I felt it almost as a destiny to make Salem my home; so that the mould of features and cast of character which had all along been familiar here—ever, as one representative of the race lay down in the grave, another assuming, as it were, his sentry-march along the main street—might still in my little day be seen and recognised in the old town. Nevertheless, this very sentiment is an evidence that the connexion, which has become an unhealthy one, should at last be severed. Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and re-planted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birth-places, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth.

On emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent, unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me to fill a place in Uncle Sam’s brick edifice, when I might as well, or better, have gone somewhere else. My doom was on me. It was not the first time, nor the second, that I had gone away—as it seemed, permanently—but yet returned, like the bad halfpenny, or as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of the universe. So, one fine morning I ascended the flight of granite steps, with the President’s commission in my pocket, and was introduced to the corps of gentlemen who were to aid me in my weighty responsibility as chief executive officer of the Custom-House.

I doubt greatly—or, rather, I do not doubt at all—whether any public functionary of the United States, either in the civil or military line, has ever had such a patriarchal body of veterans under his orders as myself. The whereabouts of the Oldest Inhabitant was at once settled when I looked at them. For upwards of twenty years before this epoch, the independent position of the Collector had kept the Salem Custom-House out of the whirlpool of political vicissitude, which makes the tenure of office generally so fragile. A soldier—New England’s most distinguished soldier—he stood firmly on the pedestal of his gallant services; and, himself secure in the wise liberality of the successive administrations through which he had held office, he had been the safety of his subordinates in many an hour of danger and heart-quake. General Miller was radically conservative; a man over whose kindly nature habit had no slight influence; attaching himself strongly to familiar faces, and with difficulty moved to change, even when change might have brought unquestionable improvement. Thus, on taking charge of my department, I found few but aged men. They were ancient sea-captains, for the most part, who, after being tossed on every sea, and standing up sturdily against life’s tempestuous blast, had finally drifted into this quiet nook, where, with little to disturb them, except the periodical terrors of a Presidential election, they one and all acquired a new lease of existence. Though by no means less liable than their fellow-men to age and infirmity, they had evidently some talisman or other that kept death at bay. Two or three of their number, as I was assured, being gouty and rheumatic, or perhaps bed-ridden, never dreamed of making their appearance at the Custom-House during a large part of the year; but, after a torpid winter, would creep out into the warm sunshine of May or June, go lazily about what they termed duty, and, at their own leisure and convenience, betake themselves to bed again. I must plead guilty to the charge of abbreviating the official breath of more than one of these venerable servants of the republic. They were allowed, on my representation, to rest from their arduous labours, and soon afterwards—as if their sole principle of life had been zeal for their country’s service—as I verily believe it was—withdrew to a better world. It is a pious consolation to me that, through my interference, a sufficient space was allowed them for repentance of the evil and corrupt practices into which, as a matter of course, every Custom-House officer must be supposed to fall. Neither the front nor the back entrance of the Custom-House opens on the road to Paradise.

The greater part of my officers were Whigs. It was well for their venerable brotherhood that the new Surveyor was not a politician, and though a faithful Democrat in principle, neither received nor held his office with any reference to political services. Had it been otherwise—had an active politician been put into this influential post, to assume the easy task of making head against a Whig Collector, whose infirmities withheld him from the personal administration of his office—hardly a man of the old corps would have drawn the breath of official life within a month after the exterminating angel had come up the Custom-House steps. According to the received code in such matters, it would have been nothing short of duty, in a politician, to bring every one of those white heads under the axe of the guillotine. It was plain enough to discern that the old fellows dreaded some such discourtesy at my hands. It pained, and at the same time amused me, to behold the terrors that attended my advent, to see a furrowed cheek, weather-beaten by half a century of storm, turn ashy pale at the glance of so harmless an individual as myself; to detect, as one or another addressed me, the tremor of a voice which, in long-past days, had been wont to bellow through a speaking-trumpet, hoarsely enough to frighten Boreas himself to silence. They knew, these excellent old persons, that, by all established rule—and, as regarded some of them, weighed by their own lack of efficiency for business—they ought to have given place to younger men, more orthodox in politics, and altogether fitter than themselves to serve our common Uncle. I knew it, too, but could never quite find in my heart to act upon the knowledge. Much and deservedly to my own discredit,

Reviews for The Scarlet Letter

[deusxmachina-1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

No fan of this classic. I get why it's considered a masterpiece, but it also seems to me as if the biggest fans judge from a position where the moral of a story is more important than the story itself.Over the course of this novel, we sadly get to know nothing of the inner workings and conditions of the characters, nothing but what the few, very reduced and stilted lines of dialogue reveal of which each additionally gets commented on by the narrator. This narrator is so far detached from the events and the persons who were involved that the whole thing reads like a historical report, with the additional effect that the characters have no nuances or real personalities. Everyone, men and women alike (though apart from Hester, women don't play any important part anyway) are Puritans and nothing else - only concerned with their soul's salvation, their morals and most of all the morals of others, with nothing distinguishing them from each other or giving them individuality. Hester herself is obviously different, but even with her we get to know nothing about her motivations and development, the reasons why she acts like she acts. The only character who breaks the mould is Pearl, and only because she's consistently described as different and weird.These shortcomings are actually a real pity, because I really liked the story itself, as a thought experiment and insight into a society that is . The theme of shame, stigma and the way how a society is held together by common morals give the frame for a tale that is, with the view of a modern reader, unbelievably full of bigotry, mercilessness, sexism, self-pity and factitiousness. Unfortunately, the way Hawthorne handles it, it's more like a sermon to be preached from a pulpit than a story to be told at a campfire. Cautionary and lecturing instead of entertaining, and no effort was made to combine both.On the topic of style, I guess Hawthorne really loved to hear himself talk. The introductory "Custom House" sketch took 1,5 hours in the audio version and nearly caused a dnf tag. There was no substance, nothing with any tangible insight, just rambling and digressing and going off on tangents that ultimately went nowhere, preferrably in run-on sentences that put half a dozen ideas into a single paragraph.Yes, I know, it's the style of the time and I can't expect modern efficiency in storytelling in a novel from 1850. Actually, I don't even want to. And still, it's so far over the top that it becomes tedious very fast. Pride and Prejudice is from 1813, and stylistically it's so much more varied and interesting, with real dialogue where not every line gets a comment and real characters the reader can understand and relate to.

[john257hopper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This mid 19th century American classic novel is very much set within the ethos and mores of the Puritan community in New England in the mid 17th century. A young woman Hester Prynne with a baby (Pearl) is humiliated by the community and marked with the eponymous letter A for adultery (though the word is never used in the book). The story is about her relationship with her daughter, with an old doctor who is revealed to be her ex-husband, and with the clergyman who is Pearl's father. The story is told within a framework narrative, with an over-long introduction describing the author's personal experiences working in a custom house, where he purported to have found old documents describing Hester's story. Hawthorne is clearly sceptical of the grim joylessness of extreme Puritanism, when he describes one of their rare festive events thus: "Into this festal season of the year ............the Puritans compressed whatever mirth and public joy they deemed allowable to human infirmity; thereby so far dispelling the customary cloud, that, for the space of a single holiday, they appeared scarcely more grave than most other communities at a period of general affliction." The novel is very well written and needs to be read in relatively small doses truly to appreciate the language, though it is short at only 138 pages.

[kellyholmes-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is one of the best books I "had" to read in high school. I think it had something to do with teaching me how wrong it is to judge others.

[stipe168 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

yawwwn, shutup hester. not hester.. shutup nathaniel.

[schmal06 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is one of the most beautifully and intelligently written works I have ever come across. It's just brilliant.

[jenniferrobb · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was required reading for English class. Now that I think about it--it does seem odd that a school would have us reading about a woman being punished for adultery--well, the adultery part in a school book seems odd--though if they were going to have us read about adultery, I don't find it so odd that they would have it be this book. I remember our teacher saying "if you're reading the Cliff Notes, you already know who the baby's father is"--and it was true! The Cliff Notes did reveal the baby's father long before the book did. (But I won't reveal who it was here to avoid any spoilers.)

[thursbest · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of the best classic books I've read.This book seriously got me thinking about the terms of sexism and feminism. The story was very easy to follow, and just overall a great read.

[cyderry · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I'm not a big Classics fan but I do try to read a few each year. This time my Book Club chose A Scarlet Letter because of the Puritan connection and Thanksgiving time-frame. I had never read this book even in high school though I thought I knew the basics. There were aspects of the story to which I was unaware and it added a bit to the story IMO. However, the treatment of anyone - man, woman, or child - in manner, saddened me so I think that it did give me a greater reason to be thankful for the blessings I have.

[crashmyparty · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I feel like the best way to understand another time and place, one that may be so foreign to us now, is through storytelling, through novels. Instantly I am transported somewhere else to observe a world so far removed from my own. It can be frustrating - a lot of the time I wanted to shake various characters for their small mindedness, but then I had to remind myself that this world is all that they know, like mine is all I know. What is acceptable, or maybe frowned upon but not punished in the same way, today was a crime back then. The Scarlet Letter is a fascinating look into a world where God's word was Law, but what happens when you go against it?  

[soireb · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Read it as a class requirement, I like the imagery, but that is about it, not really crazy about the story, sorry. I feel like this being one of the great classics I should be doing backflips for it, but the truth is that the story just wasn't for me.

[atillahoney · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

One of the more boring books I've ever had the displeasure of reading. Sure, I've heard the themes of being out casted are well portrayed, but it's hard to see them if the damn book puts you to sleep.

[buckeyeaholic · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One of my favorite classics.Colonial times. Woman whose husband is not with her a the time. Ooooops! Now she's pregnant! How did that happen?If you missed this must read in high school, you have to pick it up now. BTW...do not pick up the audio! It's horrible. I didn't like this guys voice before he started acting the parts of the characters. I couldn't even get past the first couple of 'pages' once he started using different voices. Some men just shouldn't try to do womens voices.

[mjayne_12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

How can one dispute the genius and boldness of Hawthorne's masterpiece in the time it was written or it's endurance throughout history? Still poignant today, and rich in symbolism. However, as I freely admit, tedious to read due to archaic language and overly long descriptions in parts.

[thornton37814 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I first read The Scarlet Letter in high school. I read it again about ten years later. After learning an ancestor's wife, although not the one from whom I descend, likely inspired Hawthorne's story, I became interested in the story again and read it about a dozen years ago. This summer AudioSync offered a free download of the version narrated by Donada Peters. I really enjoyed the listening experience. Although the narrator's voice was British, she did a great job narrating the colonial New England Puritan story featuring a woman forced to wear a scarlet A upon her breast. The father the Rev. Arthur Dimsdale suffered more than she because he failed to publicly confess his sin. The woman's husband, living under the assumed name of Roger Chillingsworth, was the clergyman's doctor and tormentor. The classic story reads differently than modern novels, but never fails to provide material for thought. It continues to be studied in schools because of its ability to be discussed. I enjoyed my revisit to Puritan New England through this audio production.

[dcavin-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A really good story. Of course reading a classic is also like reading a different language. I struggled at times but got the gist of what they were saying (or Hawthorne's passages). It was helpful to read the introduction section by Nancy Stade.

[bzedan_2 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

So, like everybody, I had to read this in high school. I remember being not that impressed. But on a re-read, totally diggin' it. And it did not end half as sad and horrible and vengeful as I thought. I had it in my head that what's-his-creepo, the doctor, like, stalked Pearl and shit when she was a teen and tried to do her or something. Interestingly, folks I work with also remembered (different) negative endings as well—not the real ending, which isn't sunshine and rainbows, but is kind of a complete and serene one.

[doko_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In this era of denigrating, dismissing, marginalizing and categorizing our opponents and "enemies", this story remains relevant and reminds us our unchanging human nature. Read a version with notes or annotations to get the full impact. There should be a contest to point out all of the scarlet letters in use today.

[susanbevans · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What do you say about a classic like The Scarlet Letter? I'm going to skip the synopsis this time - trusting to pop culture to give you an adequate summary - but I will give you my thoughts on the novel.Modern readers will no doubt find that The Scarlet Letter drags in places, but if you can get past the ba-jillion commas, 15-letter words, and page long paragraphs, the quality of the plot is exceptionally good. The language is archaic, but the novel is in no way boring. Hawthorne uses intense symbolism and dizzying imagery to transport us back in time to Puritan New England, and gives us an insight into the life of Hester Prynne that we are not likely to forget.The Scarlet Letter is a brilliant, gripping, thoroughly human novel that's characters and themes continue to reverberate in our collective consciousness more than 150 years after its initial publication. The story is thoroughly compelling, the prose rich and poetic, and characters complex. The book moves rather slowly, but it does give the reader time to think about the timeless issues of love, betrayal, and deception.

[aethercowboy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The scarlet letter, as it is used in today's speech refers to a mark of shame, not necessarily adultery, but something that would put you out of the favor of society. It is one of those phrases that derives from a book title (like "catch-22") that is altogether overused with people that I talk to.It's not that the people that I talk to are highly literate (though a few are). It's that they probably had English teachers who used a lot of vocabulary words derived from literature, and as such, after writing each word 25 times, and using it in a sentence, it magically became part of their vocabulary.This novel is part of the "you were forced to read it in high school, so naturally, you hate it" series. And if you hate it, I don't blame you. Many of my English teachers had a knack for sucking all things interesting out of a book.But, hey, read it again, please. You'll find a bizarre love triangle, and betrayal of more than one sort. You'll find parts to smile about, and parts to shed a tear about. And in the end, you'll probably be thinking: "Man, that was a pretty good book," unless you're not a "read-y" person, then you'll probably say "Man, why couldn't I have just watched the movie?!" (and then you're left with the choice of which one to see, but since you're not all that read-y, you'll probably pick the 1995 adaptation with Gary Oldman and Demi Moore.)The story, if you've been living under a rock since 1850, is about adultery. Hester Prynne is caught, pregnant, and shamed in front of her neighbors in Boston. She is forced to wear a scarlet letter in the shape of an A, for, of course, adultery. It's essentially a retelling of the "Let he who is without sin throw the first stone" part of the Bible, only set in New England, and raising questions of purity, even among the clergy.This is definitely one of those books you should read before you die (in fact, I think it's on that one list). I think that if you like classic literature, you'll definitely enjoy this book. Otherwise, you'll probably be "meh" about it. The smallest minority of people will hate this book, but they're just high school students with particularly dull teachers.

[bayardus-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I somehow managed to avoid being assigned The Scarlet Letter in high school, but since it is such a well-known text (and frequently cited as one of the most important works of early American literature) I decided that I should give it a read.

My problems with the book started early with the unnecessarily long establishment of a frame narrative. Hawthorne uses the first forty pages of the book largely to discuss life as an employee in a Customs house, something which has no discernible connection to the main story (if there had been such a connection, I'm sure Hawthorne would have pointed it out). There's nothing wrong with a frame narrative, but the same effect could have been accomplished in a tenth the number of pages. This problem reoccurs throughout the text.

The next issue I had manifested immediately after the main story proper starts, when it is revealed that Hawthorne has decided to begin the narrative after the most interesting events have already occurred. Hawthorne paints as best he can a picture of a Puritanical society where religion comes first, and a main character who is supposed to be no pushover. Depicting how a woman like Hester deals with the feelings that she develops for her minister in such a world is potentially fascinating, and provides a way of showing the conflict between personal and societal values, but instead whatever occurred in Hester's mind that led her to the most central (albeit undepicted) event of the narrative is never disclosed.

Instead of an interesting character study we get an opening that offers a quick glimpse of the scorn the people of Boston heap onto sinners, which would also have been an interesting path for the narrative to take- the suffering inflicted upon a woman by others in service of a faith that emphasizes love and forgiveness- but the story quickly jumps forward in Hester's life to a point where the village has largely grown to accept her because of her pious actions (and it is even stated that her ostensible ignominy has led to her skills with a needle being more highly sought after).

The story's opening also introduces Hester's husband, a character who paradoxically is perfectly forgiving of Hester for cheating on him but who then devolves into a mustache-twirling villain for the rest of the text. His evil plan mainly seems to center around giving his target, the minister, very effective medical care mixed with subtle suggestions that the minister isn't a great person- bwa ha ha ha! The husband also represents a wasted narrative opportunity, as instead of exploring the way the husband uncovers who has cuckolded him, the story just chalks it up to the husband being insightful.

There are other problems with the story telling- Pearl is not in any way a realistic or interesting child character, the minister suddenly turns evil for a few pages for no sufficiently good reason, etc.- but the most central flaw of The Scarlet Letter is that Hester, who should be a dynamic female character, is instead relegated to a largely passive figure who goes about suffering her punishment with a stiff upper lip and swallowing the pain caused by everyone, including her child. One wonders how Hester ever had the nerve to engage in a relationship with her minister when it takes her seven years to even tell said minister that the man living with him and feeding him mysterious mixtures is her husband out for revenge. In a story ostensibly about her, Hester is flat and boring, occasionally blaming herself for her lot and otherwise not doing much besides serving as a quiet, suffering martyr, though there is an incongruous line about her feeling jealousy.

All of this is exacerbated by Hawthorne's prose, which is overwritten without painting much imagery or communicating anything with subtlety. I found little beauty in the language, even when the subject was rosebushes, a dell in the woods where a young girl plays in a stream, or the various costumes of the sailors and soldiers assembled in the town square. The latter example highlights how Hawthorne's book would have been better with some serious cuts: he describes at length the various groups attending the Election Day gathering despite the fact that he doesn't do it in an interesting manner and it is of no import for the story. At times my eyes glazed over reading this book, and it quickly became a struggle to force myself to go back and actually read the words, as the odds that I had missed anything important seemed slim.

In sum The Scarlet Letter squanders the parts of its narrative that were potentially interesting, contains characters that are either boring, unrealistic, or nonsensical, and all this is communicated through some truly sub-par writing. My heart goes out to all the high school students who are being forced to read this, and to those who have to teach it as well.

[missjomarch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book marks the 8th book read on my Classic's List for the Classic's Reading Challenge. Reading this book for the first time I can honestly attest this popular classic completely lives up to its reputation. An outstanding example of classic literature possessing both lasting value and timeless quality. It's 1642 in Puritan Boston, Hester Prynne is an adultress who becomes pregnant after her husband leaves for sea and thus wears "the scarlet letter" for all to see her shame. Gossiped and scorned within the town she is morally condemned by a community whose ethics and values are paramount and unwavering. When asked to name the father of her child she refuses, thus infuriating those condemning ever more so. The father of Hester's child, Pearl is none other than the town's minister, Arthur Dimmesdale who must now wrestle with his own moral conscience. Committing a sin as well as keeping it secret. While publicly humiliated Hester is required to stand on a scaffold in the town's square as part of her punishment. At this time she spots her husband in the crowd who was believed to be lost at sea. He later visits the prison, wanting to seek revenge on the man, asks Hester who's the father of her child. Once again Hester refuses to name her lover but her husband vows to identify him. Thus ensues the love triangle. Reading this book was an absolute pleasure. Some might fight the language old fashioned and archaic, for me it was soothing and gratifying. I wish everyone would read this book. How I acquired this book: Gift from husband, Mother's Day visit to Moe's Books, Berkeley, CAShelf Life: 8 months

[santhony_35 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

When I think that high school students read this novel, along with such works as Moby Dick and Billy Budd, as an introduction to literature, it is no surprise that most teenagers never develop a love for reading. As a 50 year old man, with thousands of books behind me of all genres, including 17th and 18th century English and Russian classics, I was able to tolerate it, but just barely. In fact, I found it far less approachable than either Dickens or Dostoyevsky. The first half of the novel is painfully slow, improving only gradually near the end. I’m sure there are many who will laud this as a timeless classic, however as one who reads for pleasure, I can say that there is very little pleasure to be had in this novel.Hester Prynne conceives a child out of wedlock and is branded with the scarlet letter “A” by the Puritan settlement of New England. The novel follows her life in the settlement as her young child, Pearl, grows into a mischievous young girl and the paternity of the child is questioned. Several interesting characters appear, but the language is so tortured and florid, that it simply doesn’t read well in the present day, especially to Literature I high school students, by far the book’s largest readership.

[marialluisa-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The language was a little bit difficult to me. The story is interesting and I enjoyed some descriptions but, I found the reflexions about sin, guilt, remorse... and puritan moral in general, too long and sometimes boring.

[natalie_walker-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the story but the writing was a chalenge at times. I do not mean that I could not comprehend it but the sentences were too long. This made the book drag on.

[jessica_reads · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Most people of todays time don't seem to be able to really get this book. It is written for the time of old when women were homemakers and men ruled all. If things were a sin it was likely a womans fault and everything that happened that wasn't typical was considered either a sign from God or the devils work. So, here we have a story of a very naughty girl who got pregnant out of wedlock. So, by custom she was inprisoned and judged because of her sin. This is where the story begins. She keeps her mouth shut about who helped create this heathen child with her, which shows her own character. Then the story goes through the details of what becomes of her life. The town gossips have their hayday and later in the book people from out of town come to town just to see the girl with the scarlet letter. You see how many people treat her because she chose to not move away but to stay and face her persecutors head on. The whole time she also has to keep seeing her thought to be dead husband who is imitating someone else. All the while she faces many more trials and triumphs them all. She almost gets to run away with her love who fathered her child but circumstances keep that from happening. However slightly sad the ending is, it also ties up many loose ends. Overall, even with some rather drawn out details it is written amazingly well and a great read for anyone.

[kr_patterson · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I felt the need to rate this at least 3 stars simply because the writing was so good. In fact, the only reason I finished it was because I loved the use of creative language. But I just don't have the attention span for these classic books! Please never make me read another one! Except maybe I'll re-read Pride and Prejudice again sometime. And maybe Jane Eyre. Maybe.

[jgcorrea-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The story is slow and, honestly, nothing too exciting happens. The development is minimal. But I suppose I'm the odd man out, because I like The Scarlet Letter very much. It is wordy, chapters are sometimes long and uninvolving, there is a lot of symbolism, many details of emotions and thoughts are explored and sometimes you have to really concentrate to understand the full meaning. Through all this, a fascinating story is told. FYI In other books, Hawthorne was a very boring and wordy author who spent an entire chapter obsessing over a rose bush, for instance. An author too flowery and purple for me to truly enjoy.

[engpunk77 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I'll admit that this book was too hard for me in 11th grade. I used it mostly to learn about 50 vocabulary words, but after reading the Cliff's Notes, I actually loved the story and wish I could have comprehended it on my own.

[mbmackay · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An American classic. Great to read and experience, but I found it a bit Henry James-ish - a good concept tiresomely told. Read Samoa Jul 2003

[bonreads-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I haven't read this since high school, and I hated it back then. However, it's our October book for book club. Hopefully I'll like it better this time around.