This is one of those books that is wonderful and awful at the same time. Wonderful because the skill level here is so high, the descent into madness so painfully and carefully layered, that it's a masterpiece and a pleasure to read. Awful because it reflects the historical reality of medical care that Gilman suffered through herself and found absolutely crushing. The narrator of the book, who is affected by what we would refer to today as post-natal depression, is forced by her husband and brother to undergo the accepted treatment for a nervous breakdown - near total isolation and want of activity. It's essentially solitary confinement in the room with the yellow wall-paper, and after three months of fighting to retain a sense of identity and energy and self against the pull of the paper and the absolutely patronising, infantilising attitude of her doctor husband, the narrator goes insane. It is terrifyingly plausible, especially when you're aware of the historical context.