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An Introduction to Literature

LITERATURE FOR COMPOSITION

ELEVENTH EDITION

SYLVAN BARNET WILLIAM BURTO WILLIAM E. CAIN CHERYL NIXON

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LITERATURE FOR COM POSITION

A n Introduction to Literature

ELEVENTH EDITION

BARNET BURTO CAIN

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E L E V E N T H E D I T I O N

Literature for Composition An Introduction to Literature

Sylvan Barnet Tufts University

William Burto University of Massachusetts at Lowell

William E. Cain Wellesley College

Cheryl L. Nixon University of Massachusetts at Boston

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Names: Barnet, Sylvan, editor. | Burto, William, editor. | Cain, William E., date-editor. | Pearson, Cheryl L. Nixon, editor. Title: Literature for composition : an introduction to literature / [edited by] Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, Cheryl L. Nixon Pearson. Description: Eleventh edition. | Boston : Pearson, 2016. | Previous editions had other title information: essays, stories, poems, and plays. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015048640| ISBN 9780134099149 (student edition) | ISBN 0134099141 (student edition) | ISBN 9780134101774 (exam copy) | ISBN 0134101774 (exam copy) Subjects: LCSH: College readers. | English language—Rhetoric—Problems, exercises, etc. | Criticism—Authorship—Problems, exercises, etc. | Academic writing—Problems, exercises, etc. Classification: LCC PE1417 .L633 2016 | DDC 808/.0427—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015048640

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Contents

Contents by Genre xxiii Preface xxvii

P A R T I

Thinking Critically about Literature

C H A P T E R 1   How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash Course 1

The Basic Strategy 1 Reading Closely: Approaching a First Draft 2

✔ Checklist: Generating Ideas for a Draft 5 Writing and Revising: Achieving a Readable Draft 6

✔ Checklist: Writing and Revising a Draft 9 Revising: Working with Peer Review 9 Preparing the Final Draft 10

C H A P T E R 2   How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course 11

The Basic Strategy 11 What Is Critical Thinking? 12 How Do We Engage in Critical Thinking? 13 Close Reading 14

✔ Checklist: Close Reading 15 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, Argument 15

Inquiry 16 ✔ Checklist: Inquiry and Question-Asking 17 Interpretation 18 ✔ Checklist: Interpretation 19 Argument 19 ✔ Checklist: Argument 20

Comparison and Synthesis 21 ✔ Checklist: Comparison and Synthesis 22

Revision and Self-Awareness 22 Standing Back: Kinds of Writing 23 Nonanalytical versus Analytical Writing 23

v

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C H A P T E R 3   The Writer as Reader 25 Reading and Responding 25

KATE CHOPIN • Ripe Figs 25 Reading as Re-creation 26 Reading for Understanding: Collecting Evidence and Making Reasonable

Inferences 27 Reading with Pen in Hand: Close Reading and Annotation 28 Reading for Response: Recording First Reactions 29 Reading for Inquiry: Ask Questions and Brainstorm Ideas 30 Reading in Context: Identifying Your Audience and Purpose 31

From Reading to Writing: Developing an Analytical Essay with an Argumentative Thesis 32

Student Analytical Essay: “Images of Ripening in Kate Chopin’s ‘Ripe Figs’” 32 The Analytical Essay: Argument and Structure Analyzed 34 The Writing Process: From First Responses to Final Essay 35 Other Possibilities for Writing 37

From Reading to Writing: Moving from Brainstorming to Analytical Essay 37 BRUCE HOLLAND ROGERS • Three Soldiers 37 The Writing Process: From Response Writing to Final Essay 38 Student Analytical Essay: “Thinking about Three Soldiers Thinking” 39 The Analytical Essay: The Development of Ideas Analyzed 42

From Reading to Writing: Moving from Preliminary Outline to Analytical Essay 43 RAY BRADBURY • August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains 43 The Writing Process: From Outlining to Final Essay 47 Student Analytical Essay: “The Lesson of ‘August 2026’” 48

Your Turn: Additional Stories for Analysis 51 MICHELE SERROS • Senior Picture Day 51 HARUKI MURAKAMI • On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful

April Morning 56 JOHN UPDIKE • A & P 59

C H A P T E R 4   The Reader as Writer 64 Developing Ideas through Close Reading and Inquiry 64

Getting Ideas 64 Annotating a Text 64 KATE CHOPIN • The Story of an Hour 65 Brainstorming Ideas 66 Focused Freewriting 67 Listing Ideas, Details, and Quotations 67 Asking Questions 68 Keeping a Journal 69

Developing a Thesis through Critical Thinking 70 Arguing with Yourself 70 Arguing a Thesis 71 ✔ Checklist: The Thesis Sentence 72

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From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting an Argument in an Analytical Essay 72 Student Analytical Essay: “Ironies in an Hour” (Preliminary Draft) 73 Revising an Argument 75 Outlining an Argument 75 Soliciting Peer Review, Thinking about Counterarguments 76

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Finalizing an Analytical Essay 77 Student Analytical Essay: “Ironies of Life in Kate Chopin’s ‘The Story of an

Hour’” (Final Draft) 77 The Analytical Essay: The Final Draft Analyzed 80

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting an Analytical Essay 80 KATE CHOPIN • Désirée’s Baby 80 Student Analytical Essay: “Race and Identity in ‘Désirée’s Baby’” 84

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting a Comparison Essay 87 KATE CHOPIN • The Storm 87 Student Comparison Essay: “Two New Women” 91 The Comparison Essay: Organization Analyzed 94

Your Turn: Additional Stories for Analysis 95 DAGOBERTO GILB • Love in L.A. 95 ELIZABETH TALLENT • No One’s a Mystery 97 JUNOT DíAZ • How to Date a Brown Girl (Black Girl, White Girl, or Halfie) 100 T. CORAGHESSAN BOYLE • Greasy Lake 103 MARY HOOD • How Far She Went 110

C H A P T E R 5   The Pleasures of Reading, Writing, and Thinking about Literature 116

The Pleasures of Literature 116 ALLEN WOODMAN • Wallet 117

The Pleasures of Analyzing the Texts That Surround Us 118 The Pleasures of Authoring Texts 119 The Pleasures of Interacting with Texts 120 Interacting with Fiction: Literature as Connection 121

JAMAICA KINCAID • Girl 122 Personal Response Essay 123

Student Personal Response Essay: “The Narrator in Jamaica Kincaid’s ‘Girl’: Questioning the Power of Voice” 123

Interacting with Graphic Fiction: Literature as (Making and Breaking) Rules 127 LYNDA BARRY • Before You Write 128

Interacting with Poetry: Literature as Language 129 JULIA BIRD  • 14: a txt msg poM 130 BILLY COLLINS  • Twitter Poem 131

Interacting with Drama: Literature as Performance 131 OSCAR WILDE  • Excerpt from The Importance of Being Earnest 132

Interacting with Essays: Literature as Discovery 134 ANNA LISA RAYA  • It’s Hard Enough Being Me 135

Your Turn: Additional Poems, Stories, and Essay for Pleasurable Analysis 138

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Poems JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA • Green Chile 138 ALBERTO RIOS • Nani 140 WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS • This Is Just to Say 141 HELEN CHASIN • The Word Plum 142 GARY SOTO  • Oranges 143 SARAH N. CLEGHORN • The Golf Links 145 STEVIE SMITH • Not Waving but Drowning 145

Stories AMBROSE BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge 146 MARGARET ATWOOD • Happy Endings 153

Essay GEORGE SAUNDERS • Commencement Speech on Kindness 156

P A R T I I

Writing Arguments about Literature

C H A P T E R 6   Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication 165

What Is Literature? 165 Literature and Form 165 Form and Meaning 167 ROBERT FROST • The Span of Life 167

Close Reading: Reading in Slow Motion 169 Exploring a Poem and Its Meaning 170

LANGSTON HUGHES • Harlem 170 Paraphrase 171 Summary 173 Explication 175

Working toward an Explication 176 Student Explication Essay: “Langston Hughes’s ‘Harlem’” 178

Explication as Argument 180 ✔ Checklist: Drafting an Explication 182 Student Argumentative Explication Essay: “Giving Stamps Personality in

‘Stamp Collecting’” 182 CATHY SONG • Stamp Collecting 183

Your Turn: Additional Poems for Explication 187 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 73 188 JOHN DONNE • Holy Sonnet XIV 189 EMILY BRONTË • Spellbound 189 LI-YOUNG LEE • I Ask My Mother to Sing 190 RANDALL JARRELL • The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner 191

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C H A P T E R 7   Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument 192

Analysis 192 Understanding Analysis as a Process of Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument 193 Analyzing a Story from the Hebrew Bible: The Judgment of Solomon 194

The Judgment of Solomon 194 Developing an Analysis of the Story 195 Opening Up Additional Ways to Analyze the Story 196

Analyzing a Story from the New Testament: The Parable of the Prodigal Son 197 The Parable of the Prodigal Son 198 Asking Questions that Trigger an Analysis of the Story 198

From Inquiry to Interpretation to Argument: Developing an Analytical Paper 199 ERNEST HEMINGWAY • Cat in the Rain 200 Close Reading 202 Inquiry Questions 203 Interpretation Brainstorming 204 The Argument-Centered Paper 205 Student Argument Essay: “Hemingway’s American Wife” 206 From Inquiry to an Analytical Paper: A Second Example 208 Student Analytical Essay: “Hemingway’s Unhappy Lovers” 210

Breaking Down the Analytical Essay 213 Choosing a Topic and Developing a Thesis 213 Developing an Argument 215

Introductory Paragraphs 215 Middle Paragraphs 217 Concluding Paragraphs 218 Coherence in Paragraphs: Using Transitions 219 ✔ Checklist: Revising Paragraphs 219

From Inquiry to Interpretation to Argument: Organizing Ideas in an Analytical Paper 220

JAMES JOYCE • Araby 220 Finding and Organizing an Interpretation 224 Student Analytical Essay: “Everyday and Imagined Settings in ‘Araby’” 226

From Inquiry to Interpretation to Argument: Maintaining an Interpretation in an Analytical Paper 231

APHRA BEHN • Song: Love Armed 231 Maintaining Interpretive Interest Notes 231 Student Analytical Essay: “The Double Nature of Love” 233 ✔ Checklist: Editing a Draft 235

Your Turn: Additional Short Stories and Poems for Analysis 236 Stories

EDGAR ALLAN POE • The Cask of Amontillado 236 LESLIE MARMON SILKO • The Man to Send Rain Clouds 242

Poems BILLY COLLINS • Introduction to Poetry 245 ROBERT FROST • The Road Not Taken 246

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JOHN KEATS • Ode on a Grecian Urn 247 MARTÍN ESPADA • Bully 249

C H A P T E R 8   Pushing Analysis Further: Reinterpreting and Revising 251

Interpretation and Meaning 251 Is the Author’s Intention a Guide to Meaning? 252 What Characterizes a Sound Interpretation? 252 Interpreting Pat Mora’s “Immigrants” 253 PAT MORA • Immigrants 254 ✔ Checklist: Developing an Interpretation 255

Strategy #1: Pushing Analysis by Rethinking First Responses 255 JEFFREY WHITMORE • Bedtime Story 257 DOUGLAS L. HASKINS • Hide and Seek 258 MARK PLANTS • Equal Rites 258

Strategy #2: Pushing Analysis by Exploring Literary Form 259 ✔ Checklist: Using Formal Evidence in an Analytical Essay 260 LANGSTON HUGHES • Mother to Son 261 Student Analytical Essay: “Accepting the Challenge of a Difficult Climb in

Langston Hughes’s ‘Mother to Son’” 264 Strategy # 3: Pushing Analysis by Emphasizing Concepts and Insights 268

ROBERT FROST • Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening 269 Student Analytical Essay: “Stopping by Woods—and Going On” 270 Analyzing the Analytical Essay’s Development of a Conceptual

Interpretation 273 Student Analytical Essay: “‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ as a

Short Story” 274 Strategy #4: Pushing Analysis through Revision 278

Revising for Ideas versus Mechanics 278 Revising Using Instructor Feedback, Peer Feedback, and Self-Critique 278 Examining a Preliminary Draft with Revision in Mind 279 HA JIN • Saboteur 280 Student Analytical Essay: “Morals in Ha Jin’s ‘Saboteur’” (Preliminary Draft) 287 Developing a Revision Strategy: Thesis, Ideas, Evidence, Organization, and

Correctness 288 ✔ Revision Checklist 289 Student Analytical Essay: “Individual and Social Morals in Ha Jin’s ‘Saboteur’”

(Final Draft) 291 Your Turn: Additional Poems and Story for Interpretation 297 Poems

T. S. ELIOT • The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock 297 THOMAS HARDY • The Man He Killed 301 ANNE BRADSTREET • Before the Birth of One of Her Children 302 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI • After Death 303 FRED CHAPPELL • Narcissus and Echo 304

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Story JOYCE CAROL OATES • Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? 305

C H A P T E R 9  Comparison and Synthesis 317 Comparison and Critical Thinking 317 Organizing a Comparison Essay 318 Comparison and Close Reading 320 Comparison and Asking Questions 322 Comparison and Analyzing Evidence 323 Comparison and Arguing with Yourself 323

E. E. CUMMINGS • Buffalo Bill ’s 324 ✔ Checklist: Developing a Comparison 328

Synthesis through Close Reading: Analyzing a Revised Short Story 328 RAYMOND CARVER • Mine 329 RAYMOND CARVER  • Little Things 330

Synthesis through Building a Concept Bridge: Connecting Two Poems 332 THYLIAS MOSS • Tornados 333 KWAME DAWES • Tornado Child 333

Synthesis Using Theme 336 SANDRA CISNEROS • Barbie-Q 337 MARYANNE O’HARA • Diverging Paths and All That 338 JAYNE ANNE PHILLIPS • Sweethearts 339

Synthesis Using Form 341 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a

Summer’s Day? 342 HOWARD MOSS • Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? 342 Student Comparison Essay: “Condensing Shakespeare: A Comic Re-writing of a

Shakespeare Sonnet” 342 ✔ Checklist: Revising a Comparison 348

Your Turn: Additional Poems and Stories for Comparison and Synthesis 348 Carpe Diem (“Seize The Day”) Poems

ROBERT HERRICK • To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 348 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE • The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 349 SIR WALTER RALEIGH • The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd 350 ANDREW MARVELL • To His Coy Mistress 351 JOHN DONNE • The Bait 353

Poems about Blackberries GALWAY KINNELL • Blackberry Eating 354 SYLVIA PLATH  • Blackberrying 355 SEAMUS HEANEY • Blackberry-Picking 356 YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA • Blackberries 357

Poems about America WALT WHITMAN • I Hear America Singing 359 LANGSTON HUGHES • I, Too [Sing America] 359

Stories about Reading and Writing

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JULIO CORTÁZAR • The Continuity of Parks 361 A. M. HOMES • Things You Should Know 362

Stories about Grandmothers LAN SAMANTHA CHANG • Water Names 364 KATHERINE ANNE PORTER • The Jilting of Granny Weatherall 368

C H A P T E R 10  Research: Writing with Sources 374 Creating a Successful Research Plan 374

Enter Research with a Plan of Action 374 What Resources Does Your Institution Offer? 375 What Type of Research Do You Want to Do? 376

Selecting a Research Topic and Generating Research Questions 376 Use Close Reading as Your Starting Point 376 Select Your Topic 377 Skim Resources through Preliminary Research 377 Narrow Your Topic, and Form a Working Thesis 377 Generate Key Concepts as Keywords 380 Create Inquiry Questions 380

Locating Materials through Productive Searches 381 Generate Meaningful Keywords 382 ✔ Checklist: Creating Meaningful Keywords for a Successful Search 382

Using Academic Databases to Locate Materials 382 Search the MLA Database 382 Search Full-Text Academic Databases 383 Perform Advanced Keyword Searches 383 Evaluate the Results List, and Revise Your Search 384 Evaluate the Individual Titles 384

Using the Library Catalog to Locate Materials 385 Locate Books and Additional Resources 386 Use a Catalog Entry to Locate More Sources 386

Using the Internet to Perform Meaningful Research 387 Locate Academic Sites on the Internet 388 Locate Information-Rich Sites on the Internet 389 Avoid Commercial Sites on the Internet 389 Locate Well-known Literary Sites on the Internet 389 Locate Primary Sources on the Internet 389

Evaluating Sources for Academic Quality 390 ✔ Checklist: Evaluating Web Sites for Quality 390

Evaluating Sources for Topic “Fit” 392 ✔ Checklist: Evaluating Sources for Topic “Fit” 393

Taking Notes on Secondary Sources 395 A Guide to Note Taking 395

Drafting the Research Paper 399 Focus on Primary Sources 400

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Integrate Secondary Sources 400 Create a Relationship between Your Writing and the Source 400 Surround the Source with Your Writing 401 Agree with a Source in Order to Develop Your Ideas 401 Apply a Source in Order to Develop Your Ideas 401 Disagree with a Source in Order to Develop Your Ideas 402 Synthesize Critics’ Ideas to Show Scholarly Debate 403

Avoiding Plagiarism 403 Student Research Essay: “Dickinson’s Representation of Changing Seasons and

Changing Emotions” 404

P A R T I I I

Analyzing Literary Forms and Elements

C H A P T E R 11  Reading and Writing about Essays 415 Types of Essays 415 Elements of Essays 416

The Essayist’s Persona 416 Voice 417 Tone 417 Topic and Thesis 418 BRENT STAPLES • Black Men and Public Space 419 ✔ Checklist: Getting Ideas for Writing about Essays 421

Student Writing Portfolio Summary Paper 422 Writing a Summary Paper 422 Annotation: Reading for Information 424 Note Taking: Using Inquiry Notes to Summarize Information 425

Inquiry: Paragraph-by-Paragraph Notes 425 Crafting a Thesis and Creating a Concise Summary 426

Drafting: Crafting a Strong Thesis 426 Drafting: Creating a Concise Summary 428 Student Summary Paragraph: Summary Paragraph on Staples

(Preliminary Draft) 429 Revision: Using a Revision Strategy 430

✔ Revision Checklist 430 Revision: Revising to Integrate Evidence 430 Student Summary Paragraph: “Exploring Racial Fear: A Summary of Brent

Staples’ ‘Black Men and Public Spaces’” (Final Draft) 431 Your Turn: Additional Essays for Analysis 431

LANGSTON HUGHES • Salvation 432 LAURA VANDERKAM • Hookups Starve the Soul 433 STEVEN DOLOFF • The Opposite Sex 435 GRETEL EHRLICH • About Men 437

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C H A P T E R 12  Reading and Writing about Stories 440 Stories True and False 440

GRACE PALEY • Samuel 441 Elements of Fiction 443

Character 443 Plot 444 Foreshadowing 445 Setting and Atmosphere 446 Symbolism 446 Narrative Point of View 448 Style and Point of View 449 Theme 450 WILLIAM FAULKNER • A Rose for Emily 451 ✔ Checklist: Getting Ideas for Writing about Stories 457

Student Writing Portfolio Analytical Paper 460 Writing an Analytical Paper 460 Annotation: Reading for Form and Content 461 Note Taking: Using Inquiry Notes to Generate Ideas 462

Inquiry: Double- (or Triple-) Entry Notes 462 Inquiry: Listing Notes 463 Inquiry: Journal Writing 464

Drafting: Creating an Argument and Explaining Your Interpretation 465 Student Analytical Essay: “Homer’s Murder in ‘A Rose for Emily’”

(Preliminary Draft) 466 Revision: Using a Revision Strategy 469

✔ Revision Checklist 470 Revision: Revising to Strengthen the Thesis 470 Revision: Revising to Develop Ideas 471 Revision: Revising to Improve Organization 472 Student Analytical Essay: “The Townspeople’s Responsibility for

Homer’s Murder in ‘A Rose for Emily’” (Final Draft) 474 Your Turn: Additional Stories for Analysis 480

KATHERINE MANSFIELD • Miss Brill 481 TIM O’BRIEN • The Things They Carried 484 GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ • A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings:

A Tale for Children 495 An Author in Depth: Flannery O’Connor 500

FLANNERY O’CONNOR • A Good Man Is Hard to Find 500 Remarks from Essays and Letters 511

From “The Fiction Writer and His Country” 511 From “Some Aspects of the Grotesque in Southern Fiction” 512 From “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” 512 From “Writing Short Stories” 513 On Interpreting “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” 513 “A Reasonable Use of the Unreasonable” 514

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C H A P T E R 13   Reading and Writing about Graphic Fiction 517

Letters and Pictures, Words and Images 517 Reading an Image: A Short Story Told in One Panel 520

TONY CARRILLO • F Minus 520 Elements of Graphic Fiction 522

Visual Elements 522 Narrative and Graphic Jumps 523 Graphic Style 523

Reading a Series of Images: A Story Told in Sequential Panels 524 ART SPIEGELMAN • Nature vs. Nurture 525 ✔ Checklist: Getting Ideas for Writing Arguments about Graphic Fiction 527

Your Turn: Additional Graphic Fiction for Analysis 529 WILL EISNER • Hamlet on a Rooftop 529 R. CRUMB and DAVID ZANE MAIROWITZ • A Hunger Artist 541

C H A P T E R 14  Reading and Writing about Plays 547 Types of Plays 547

Tragedy 547 Comedy 549

Elements of Drama 550 Theme 550 Plot 550 Gestures 552 Setting 552 Characterization and Motivation 553 ✔ Checklist: Getting Ideas for Writing Arguments about Plays 554

Thinking about a Film Version of a Play 555 Getting Ready to Write about a Filmed Play 556 ✔ Checklist: Writing about a Filmed Play 556

Student Writing Portfolio Comparison Paper 557 Writing a Comparison Paper 557

SUSAN GLASPELL • Trifles 558 SUSAN GLASPELL • A Jury of Her Peers 567

Annotation: Marginal Notes 582 Comparison as a Form of Critical Thinking 584 Inquiry Notes: Comparison Grid 584 Inquiry Notes: Journal Writing 585 Drafting and Revision: Using Comparison to Create Interpretation and Argument 587

Student Analytical Essay: “Trifles, the Play, versus ‘A Jury of Her Peers,’ the Short Story” (Preliminary Draft) 587

Revision: Using a Revision Strategy 593 ✔ Revision Checklist 593

Revision: Revising to Develop Ideas 594

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Revision: Revising to Clarify Style 595 ✔ Writing Style Checklist 595 Student Analytical Essay: “The Dramatic Action of Trifles: Making the

Audience into Detectives” (Final Draft) 597 Your Turn: Additional Plays for Analysis 605 A Modern Comedy 605

DAVID IVES • Sure Thing 606 A Note on Greek Tragedy 614 A Greek Tragedy 616

SOPHOCLES • Antigone 616 An Author in Depth: William Shakespeare 640

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 640 A Note on the Elizabethan Theater 641 A Note on Hamlet on the Stage 642 A Note on the Text of Hamlet 646 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE • The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 652 ANNE BARTON • The Promulgation of Confusion 756 STANLEY WELLS • On the First Soliloquy 759 ELAINE SHOWALTER • Representing Ophelia 761 BERNICE W. KLIMAN • The BBC Hamlet: A Television Production 762 WILL SARETTA • Branagh’s Film of Hamlet 764

C H A P T E R 15  Reading and Writing about Poems 766 Elements of Poetry 766

The Speaker and the Poet 766 EMILY DICKINSON • I’m Nobody! Who are you? 766 EMILY DICKINSON • Wild Nights—Wild Nights 768 The Language of Poetry: Diction and Tone 769 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 146 769 Figurative Language 770 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 130 772 Imagery and Symbolism 773 EDMUND WALLER • Song 773 WILLIAM BLAKE • The Sick Rose 774 Verbal Irony and Paradox 775 Structure 775

Rhythm and Versification: A Glossary for Reference 776 Meter 777 Patterns of Sound 780 Stanzaic Patterns 781 BILLY COLLINS • Sonnet 782 Blank Verse and Free Verse 783 ✔ Checklist: Getting Ideas for Writing Arguments about Poems 783

Student Writing Portfolio Explication Paper 785 Writing an Explication Paper 785

✔ Checklist: Explication 786 GWENDOLYN BROOKS • kitchenette building 787

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Contents    xvii

Annotation: Highlighting First Reactions 788 Explication as a Form of Critical Thinking 789 Annotation: Rereading and Adding Inquiry Questions 790 Inquiry: Mapping, Clustering, and Creating Graphic Notes 791 Inquiry: Journal Writing 793 Drafting and Revision: Explaining a Close Reading 794

Student Explication Essay: “Life in a ‘kitchenette building’” (Preliminary Draft) 795

Revision: Using a Revision Strategy 798 ✔ Revision Checklist 798

Revision: Revising to Strengthen the Thesis 799 Revision: Revising to Integrate and Explain Evidence 800

Student Analytical Essay: “The Contest between Dreams and Everyday Life in Brooks’s ‘kitchenette building’” (Final Draft) 802

Your Turn: Additional Poems for Analysis 807 ROBERT BROWNING • My Last Duchess 807 E. E. CUMMINGS • Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town 809 SYLVIA PLATH • Daddy 811 GWENDOLYN BROOKS • We Real Cool 813 ETHERIDGE KNIGHT • For Malcolm, a Year After 814 ANNE SEXTON • Her Kind 815 JAMES WRIGHT • Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine

Island, Minnesota 816 An Author in Depth: Robert Frost 817 Robert Frost on Poetry 818

ROBERT FROST • The Figure a Poem Makes 818 ROBERT FROST • The Pasture 819 ROBERT FROST • Mowing 820 ROBERT FROST • The Wood-Pile 820 ROBERT FROST • The Oven Bird 821 ROBERT FROST • The Need of Being Versed in Country Things 822 ROBERT FROST • The Most of It 823 ROBERT FROST • Design 824

P A R T I V

Enjoying Literary Themes: A Thematic Anthology

C H A P T E R 16  The World around Us 825 Essays

HENRY DAVID THOREAU • Where I Lived, and What I Lived For 825 HENRY DAVID THOREAU • The Ponds 825 BILL MCKIBBEN • Now or Never 828

Stories AESOP • The Ant and the Grasshopper 832 AESOP • The North Wind and the Sun 833

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xviii    Contents

JACK LONDON • To Build a Fire 833 SARAH ORNE JEWETT • A White Heron 844 PATRICIA GRACE • Butterflies 850

Poems MATTHEW ARNOLD • In Harmony with Nature 852 THOMAS HARDY • Transformations 853 GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS • God’s Grandeur 854 WALT WHITMAN • A Noiseless Patient Spider 855 EMILY DICKINSON • A Narrow Fellow in the Grass 856 EMILY DICKINSON • There’s a certain Slant of light 857 EMILY DICKINSON • The name—of it—is ‘Autumn’ 857 JOY HARJO • Vision 858 MARY OLIVER • The Black Walnut Tree 859 KAY RYAN • Turtle 860

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 861

C H A P T E R 17  Technology and Human Identity 862 Essay

NICHOLAS CARR • Is Google Making Us Stupid? 862 Stories

KURT VONNEGUT, JR. • Harrison Bergeron 870 AMY STERLING CASIL • Perfect Stranger 874 MARK TWAIN • A Telephonic Conversation 884 MARIA SEMPLE • Dear Mountain Room Parents 887 ROBIN HEMLEY • Reply All 890 JOHN CHEEVER • The Enormous Radio 895 RAY BRADBURY • The Veldt 902 STEPHEN KING • Word Processor of the Gods 912 KIT REED • The New You 924

Poems WALT WHITMAN • To a Locomotive in Winter 931 EMILY DICKINSON • I Like to See it Lap the Miles 932 DANIEL NYIKOS • Potato Soup 933 A. E. STALLINGS • Sestina: Like 934 MARCUS WICKER • Ode to Browsing the Web 935

Play LUIS VALDEZ • Los Vendidos 937

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 946

C H A P T E R 18  Love and Hate, Men and Women 948 Essay

JUDITH ORTIZ COFER • I Fell in Love, or My Hormones Awakened 948 Stories

ZORA NEALE HURSTON • Sweat 953 JHUMPA LAHIRI • This Blessed House 961

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Contents    xix

Poems ANONYMOUS • Western Wind 972 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 116 972 JOHN DONNE • A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning 973 EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY • Love Is Not All: It Is Not Meat

nor Drink 975 ROBERT BROWNING • Porphyria’s Lover 976 NIKKI GIOVANNI • Love in Place 978 ANONYMOUS • Higamus, Hogamus 979 DOROTHY PARKER • General Review of the Sex Situation 979 FRANK O’HARA • Homosexuality 980 MARGE PIERCY • Barbie Doll 981

Play TERRENCE MCNALLY • Andre’s Mother 982

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 985

C H A P T E R 19  Innocence and Experience 986 Essay

GEORGE ORWELL • Shooting an Elephant 986 Stories

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN • The Yellow Wallpaper 991 JOHN STEINBECK • The Chrysanthemums 1002 ALICE WALKER • Everyday Use 1010

Poems WILLIAM BLAKE • Infant Joy 1016 WILLIAM BLAKE • Infant Sorrow 1017 WILLIAM BLAKE • The Lamb 1018 WILLIAM BLAKE • The Tyger 1018 THOMAS HARDY • The Ruined Maid 1019 E. E. CUMMINGS • in Just- 1020 LOUISE GLÜCK • The School Children 1021 LINDA PASTAN • Ethics 1022 THEODORE ROETHKE • My Papa’s Waltz 1023 SHARON OLDS • Rites of Passage 1024 NATASHA TRETHEWEY • White Lies 1025

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 1026

C H A P T E R 20  All in a Day’s Work 1028 Essay

BARBARA EHRENREICH • Wal-Mart Orientation Program 1028 Stories

JACOB GRIMM AND WILHELM GRIMM • Mother Holle 1031 WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS • The Use of Force 1034 WILL EISNER • The Day I Became a Professional 1037 DANIEL OROZCO • Orientation 1041

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xx    Contents

Poems WILLIAM WORDSWORTH • The Solitary Reaper 1045 CARL SANDBURG • Chicago 1046 GARY SNYDER • Hay for the Horses 1048 ROBERT HAYDEN • Those Winter Sundays 1049 SEAMUS HEANEY • Digging 1049 JULIA ALVAREZ • Woman’s Work 1050 MARGE PIERCY • To be of use 1051 JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA • So Mexicans Are Taking Jobs from

Americans 1052 Plays

JANE MARTIN • Rodeo 1054 ARTHUR MILLER • Death of a Salesman 1057

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 1123

C H A P T E R 21  American Dreams and Nightmares 1125 Essays

CHIEF SEATTLE • My People 1125 ELIZABETH CADY STANTON • Declaration of Sentiments and

Resolutions 1128 ABRAHAM LINCOLN • Address at the Dedication of the Gettysburg

National Cemetery 1132 STUDS TERKEL • Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Dream 1133 ANDREW LAM • Who Will Light Incense When Mother’s Gone? 1135

Stories SHERMAN ALEXIE • The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven 1137 RALPH ELLISON • Battle Royal 1142 TONI CADE BAMBARA • The Lesson 1152 AMY TAN • Two Kinds 1158

Poems ROBERT HAYDEN • Frederick Douglass 1166 LORNA DEE CERVANTES • Refugee Ship 1167 EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON • Richard Cory 1168 W. H. AUDEN • The Unknown Citizen 1169 EMMA LAZARUS • The New Colossus 1170 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH • The Unguarded Gates 1171 JOSEPH BRUCHAC III • Ellis Island 1172 AURORA LEVINS MORALES • Child of the Americas 1174 GLORIA ANZALDÚA • To Live in the Borderlands Means You 1175 MITSUYE YAMADA • To the Lady 1177 nila northSUN • Moving Camp Too Far 1179 YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA • Facing It 1180 BILLY COLLINS • The Names 1182

Play LORRAINE HANSBERRY • A Raisin in the Sun 1185

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 1240

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Contents    xxi

C H A P T E R 22  Law and Disorder 1241 Essay

MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. • Letter from Birmingham Jail 1242 Stories

ELIZABETH BISHOP • The Hanging of the Mouse 1254 URSULA K. LE GUIN • The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas 1257 SHIRLEY JACKSON • The Lottery 1261 WILLIAM FAULKNER • Barn Burning 1267 TOBIAS WOLFF • Powder 1279

Poems ANONYMOUS • Birmingham Jail 1282 A. E. HOUSMAN • The Carpenter’s Son 1284 A. E. HOUSMAN • Oh who is that young sinner 1285 DOROTHY PARKER • Résumé 1286 CLAUDE MCKAY • If We Must Die 1287 JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA • Cloudy Day 1287 CAROLYN FORCHÉ • The Colonel 1289 HAKI MADHUBUTI • The B Network 1290 JILL MCDONOUGH • Three a.m. 1291

Play BILLY GODA • No Crime 1292

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 1296

C H A P T E R 23  Journeys 1297 Essay

JOAN DIDION • On Going Home 1297 Stories

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE • Young Goodman Brown 1299 EUDORA WELTY • A Worn Path 1308 JAMES JOYCE • Eveline 1313 RAYMOND CARVER • Cathedral 1317

Poems JOHN KEATS • On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer 1326 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY • Ozymandias 1327 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON • Ulysses 1328 COUNTEE CULLEN • Incident 1330 WILLIAM STAFFORD • Traveling through the Dark 1331 ADRIENNE RICH • Diving into the Wreck 1332 DEREK WALCOTT • A Far Cry from Africa 1335 SHERMAN ALEXIE • On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City 1336 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS • Sailing to Byzantium 1338 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI • Uphill 1339

Play HENRIK IBSEN • A Doll’s House 1340

Chapter Overview: Looking Backward/Looking Forward 1390

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xxii    Contents

A P P E N D I X A   Writing about Literature: an Overview of Critical Strategies 1391

The Nature of Critical Writing 1391 Criticism as Argument: Assumptions and Evidence 1391 Some Critical Strategies 1392

Formalist Criticism (New Criticism) 1393 Deconstruction 1394 Reader-Response Criticism 1394 Archetypal Criticism (Myth Criticism) 1395 Historical Criticism 1396 Biographical Criticism 1397 Marxist Criticism 1397 New Historicist Criticism 1398 Psychological or Psychoanalytic Criticism 1398 Gender Criticism (Feminist, and Lesbian and Gay Criticism) 1399

Your Turn: Putting Critical Strategies to Work 1401

A P P E N D I X B  The Basics of Manuscript Form 1403 Basic Manuscript Form 1403 Quotations and Quotation Marks 1404

Quotation Marks or Italics? 1406 A Note on the Possessive 1406

Documentation: Internal Parenthetical Citations and a List of Works Cited (MLA Format) 1406

Internal Parenthetical Citations 1407 Parenthetical Citations and List of Works Cited 1407 Forms of Citation in Works Cited 1409

Citing Internet Sources 1415 ✔ Checklist: Citing Sources on the Web 1415

Credits 1417 Index of Authors, Titles, First Lines 1427 Index of Terms 1435

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xxiii

Contents by Genre Essays Anne Barton The Promulgation of

Confusion 756 Nicholas Carr Is Google Making Us

Stupid? 862 Judith Ortiz Cofer I Fell in Love, or My

Hormones Awakened 948 Joan Didion On Going Home 1297 Steven Doloff The Opposite Sex 435 Barbara Ehrenreich Wal-Mart

Orientation Program 1028 Gretel Ehrlich About Men 437 Langston Hughes Salvation 431 Martin Luther King Jr. Letter from

Birmingham Jail 1241 Bernice W. Kliman The BBC Hamlet:

A Television Production 762 Andrew Lam Who Will Light Incense

When Mother’s Gone? 1135 Abraham Lincoln Address at the

Dedication of the Gettysburg National Cemetery 1132

Bill McKibben Now or Never 828

George Orwell Shooting an Elephant 986

Anna Lisa Raya It’s Hard Enough Being Me 135

George Saunders Commencement Speech on Kindness 156

Will Saretta Branagh’s Film of Hamlet 764

Chief Seattle My People 1125 Elizabeth Cady Stanton Declaration of

Sentiments and Resolutions 1128 Brent Staples Black Men and Public

Space 419 Elaine Showalter Representing

Ophelia 761 Studs Terkel Arnold Schwarzenegger’s

Dream 1133 Henry David Thoreau From

Walden 825 Laura Vanderkam Hookups Starve the

Soul 433 Stanley Wells On the First Soliloquy 759

Short Stories Aesop The Ant and the Grasshopper 832

The North Wind and the Sun  833 Sherman Alexie The Lone Ranger and

Tonto Fistfight in Heaven 1137 Anonymous The Judgment of

Solomon 194 The Parable of the Prodigal Son 198

Margaret Atwood Happy Endings 152 Toni Cade Bambara The Lesson 1152 Ambrose Bierce An Occurrence at Owl

Creek Bridge 146 Elizabeth Bishop The Hanging of the

Mouse 1254 T. Coraghessan Boyle Greasy Lake 103 Ray Bradbury August 2026: There Will

Come Soft Rains 43 The Veldt 902

Raymond Carver Cathedral 1317 Mine 329 Little Things 330

Lan Samantha Chang Water Names 364 John Cheever The Enormous Radio 894 Kate Chopin Ripe Figs 25

The Story of an Hour 65 Désirée’s Baby 80 The Storm 87

Sandra Cisneros Barbie-Q 336 Julio Cortázar The Continuity of

Parks 360 Junot Diaz How to Date a Brown Girl,

Black Girl, White Girl, or Halfie 100 Will Eisner The Day I Became a

Professional 1037 Ralph Ellison Battle Royal 1142

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xxiv    Contents by Genre

William Faulkner A Rose for Emily 451 Barn Burning 1267

Amy Sterling Casil Perfect Stranger 874 Dagoberto Gilb Love in L.A. 95 Charlotte Perkins Gilman The Yellow

Wallpaper 991 Susan Glaspell A Jury of Her Peers 567 Patricia Grace Butterflies 850 Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm

Grimm Mother Holle 1031 Ursula K. Le Guin The Ones Who Walk

Away from Omelas 1256 Douglas L. Haskins Hide and Seek 258 Nathaniel Hawthorne Young Goodman

Brown 1299 Ernest Hemingway Cat in the Rain 199 Robin Hemley Reply All 890 A.M. Homes Things You Should

Know 362 Mary Hood How Far She Went 110 Zora Neale Hurston Sweat 952 Shirley Jackson The Lottery 1261 Sarah Orne Jewett A White Heron 843 Ha Jin Saboteur 280 James Joyce Araby 220

Eveline 1313 Jamaica Kincaid Girl 121 Stephen King Word Processor of the

Gods 911 Jhumpa Lahiri This Blessed House 960 Jack London To Build a Fire 833 Katherine Mansfield Miss Brill 480 Gabriel García Márquez A Very

Old Man with Enormous Wings: A Tale for Children 495

Haruki Murakami On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning 55

Joyce Carol Oates Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? 305

Tim O’Brien The Things They Carried 484

Flannery O’Connor A Good Man Is Hard to Find 500

Maryanne O’Hara Diverging Paths and All That 338

Daniel Orozco Orientation 1041 Grace Paley Samuel 440 Dorothy Parker A Telephone Call Edgar Allan Poe The Cask of

Amontillado 236 Mark Plants Equal Rites 258 Jayne Anne Phillips Sweethearts 338 Katherine Anne Porter The Jilting of

Granny Weatherall 367 Kit Reed The New You 924 Bruce Holland Rogers Three Soldiers 37 Maria Semple Dear Mountain Room

Parents 887 Michele Serros Senior Picture Day 51 Leslie Marmon Silko The Man to Send

Rain Clouds 241 John Steinbeck The

Chrysanthemums 1002 Elizabeth Tallent No One’s a Mystery 97 Amy Tan Two Kinds 1158 Mark Twain A Telephonic

Conversation 884 John Updike A & P 58 Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Harrison

Bergeron 869 Alice Walker Everyday Use 1009 Eudora Welty A Worn Path 1308 Jeffrey Whitmore Bedtime Story 257 William Carlos Williams The Use of

Force 1033 Tobias Wolff Powder 1279 Allen Woodman Wallet 117

Drama Susan Glaspell Trifles 558 Billy Goda No Crime 1292 Lorraine Hansberry A Raisin in the

Sun 1184 Henrik Ibsen A Doll’s House 1340 David Ives Sure Thing 605 Jane Martin Rodeo 1054 Terrence McNally Andre’s Mother 982

Arthur Miller Death of a Salesman 1056 William Shakespeare The Tragedy of

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 652 Sophocles Antigone 616 Luis Valdez Los Vendidos 937 Oscar Wilde Excerpt from The Importance

of Being Ernest 132

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Contents by Genre    xxv

Thomas Bailey Aldrich The Unguarded Gates 1171

Sherman Alexie On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City 1336

Julia Alvarez Woman’s Work 1050 Anonymous Higamus, Hogamus 979

Western Wind 972 Birmingham Jail 1282

Gloria Anzaldúa To Live in the Borderlands Means You 1175

W. H. Auden The Unknown Citizen 1169

Matthew Arnold In Harmony with Nature 851

Aphra Behn Song: Love Armed 231 Julia Bird 14: a txt msg pom 130 William Blake The Sick Rose 774

Infant Joy 1016 Infant Sorrow 1017 The Lamb 1018 The Tyger 1018

Jimmy Santiago Baca Green Chili 138 So Mexicans Are Taking Jobs from

Americans 1052 Cloudy Day 1287

Anne Bradstreet Before the Birth of One of Her Children 302

Emily Brontë Spellbound 189 Gwendolyn Brooks kitchenette

building 787 We Real Cool 813

Robert Browning My Last Duchess 807

Porphyria’s Lover 976 Joseph Bruchac III Ellis Island 1172 Lorna Dee Cervantes Refugee

Ship 1167 Fred Chapelle Narcissus and

Echo 304 Helen Chasin The Word Plum 142 Sarah N. Cleghorn The Golf Links 144 Billy Collins Introduction to Poetry 245

Twitter Poem 131 Sonnet 782 The Names 1181

Countee Cullen Incident 1330 E. E. Cummings Buffalo Bill ’s 324

anyone lived in a pretty how town 809 in Just- 1020

Kwame Dawes Tornado Child 333

Emily Dickinson I’m Nobody! Who are you? 766

Wild Nights—Wild Nights 768 A Narrow Fellow in the Grass 856 I Like to see it lap the Miles 932 There’s a certain Slant of light 857 The name—of it—is “Autumn” 857

John Donne Holy Sonnet XIV 188 The Bait 352 A Valediction: Forbidding

Mourning 973 T. S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred

Prufrock 297 Martin Espada Bully 249 Carolyn Forché The Colonel 1289 Robert Frost The Span of Life 167

The Road Not Taken 246 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy

Evening 269 The Pasture 819 Mowing 820 The Wood-Pile 820 The Oven Bird 821 The Need of Being Versed in Country

Things 822 The Most of It 823 Design 824

Nikki Giovanni Love in Place 978 Louise Glück The School Children 1021 Thomas Hardy The Man He Killed 301

Transformations 853 The Ruined Maid 1019

Joy Harjo Vision 858 Robert Hayden Those Winter

Sundays 1048 Frederick Douglass 1166

Seamus Heaney Blackeberry-Picking 356 Digging 1049

Robert Herrick To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 348

Gerard Manley Hopkins God’s Grandeur 853

A. E. Housman The Carpenter’s Son 1283

Oh who is that young sinner 1285 Langston Hughes Harlem 170

Mother to Son 261 I, Too [Sing America] 359

Randall Jarrell The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner 191

Poetry

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xxvi    Contents by Genre

John Keats Ode on a Grecian Urn 247 On First Looking into Chapman’s

Homer 1326 Galway Kinell Blackberry Eating 354 Etheridge Knight For Malcolm, a Year

After 814 Yusef Komunyakaa Blackberries 357

Facing It 1180 Emma Lazarus The New Colossus 1170 Li-Young Lee I Ask My Mother to Sing 190 Christopher Marlowe The Passionate

Shepherd to His Love 349 Andrew Marvell To His Coy Mistress 351 Haki Madhubuti The B Network 1290 Jill McDonough Three a.m. 1291 Claude McKay If We Must Die 1286 Edna St. Vincent Millay Love Is Not All: It

Is Not Meat nor Drink 975 Pat Mora Immigrants 253 Aurora Levins Morales Child of the

Americas 1174 Thylias Moss Tornados 332 Howard Moss Shall I Compare Thee to a

Summer’s Day 342 nila northSun Moving Camp Too

Far 1179 Daniel Nyikos Potato Soup 933 Frank O’hara Homosexuality 980 Sharon Olds Rites of Passage 1024 Mary Oliver The Black Walnut Tree 859 Dorothy Parker General Review of the Sex

Situation 979 Résumé 1286

Linda Pastan Ethics 1022 Marge Piercy Barbie Doll 981

To be of use 1051 Sylvia Plath Blackberrying 355

Daddy 810 Sir Walter Raleigh The Nymph’s Reply to

the Shepherd 350 Alberto Rios Nani 139

Edwin Arlington Robinson Richard Cory 1168

Theodore Roethke My Papa’s Waltz 1023 Christina Rossetti After Death 303

Uphill 1339 Kay Ryan Turtle 860 Carl Sandburg Chicago 1046 Anne Sexton Her Kind 815 William Shakespeare Sonnet 73 187

Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? 342

Sonnet 146 769 Sonnet 130 772 Sonnet 116 (Let me not to the marriage of

true minds) 972 Percy Bysshe Shelley Ozymandias 1327 Stevie Smith Not Waving but Drowning 145 Gary Snyder Hay for the Horses 1047 Cathy Song Stamp Collecting 183 Gary Soto Oranges 143 William Stafford Traveling through the

Dark 1331 A. E. Stallings Sestina: Like 934 Alfred, Lord Tennyson Ulysses 1328 Natasha Trethewey White Lies 1025 Derek Walcott A Far Cry from Africa 1335 Edmund Waller Song (Go, lovely rose) 773 Walt Whitman I Hear America Singing 358

A Noiseless Patient Spider 855 To a Locomotive in Winter (from Leaves of

Grass) 931 Marcus Wicker Ode to Browsing the

Web 935 James Wright Lying in a Hammock at

William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota 816

William Carlos Williams This Is Just to Say 141

Mitsuye Yamada To the Lady 1177 William Butler Yeats Sailing to

Byzantium 1337

Graphic Fiction Lynda Barry Before You Write 128 Tony Carrillo F Minus 520 R. Crumb and David Zane Mairowitz

A Hunger Artist 540

Will Eisner Hamlet on a Rooftop 529 Art Spiegelman Nature vs. Nurture 524 Grant Wood Death on the Ridge Road 518

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Preface to Instructors Literature for Composition is based on the assumption that students in composition or literature courses should encounter first-rate writing—not simply competent prose, but the powerful reports of experience that have been recorded by highly skilled writers of the past and present, reports of experiences that must be shared.

We assume that you share our belief that the study of such writing offers plea- sure and insight into life and also leads to increased skill in communicating. Here, at the beginning, we want to point out that the skills we emphasize in our discus- sions of communication are relevant not only to literature courses but to all courses in which students analyze texts or write arguments.

What Is New in the Eleventh Edition? Instructors who are familiar with earlier editions will notice that we retain our em- phasis on critical thinking and argument. For the convenience of instructors who have used an earlier edition, we briefly summarize here the major changes:

New Essays, Short Stories, Poems

• Essays by Nicholas Carr (“Is Google Making Us Stupid?) and George Saunders (“Commencement Speech on Kindness”).

• Short stories by Haruki Murakami (“On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl…”), Junot Diaz (“How to Date a Brown Girl, Black Girl, White Girl, or Halfie”), Jhumpa Lahiri (“This Blessed House”), Dagoberto Gilb (“Love in L.A.”), and Lan Samantha Chang (“Water Names”), among others.

• Poems by Billy Collins (“Twitter Poem”), Walt Whitman (“To a Locomotive in Winter”), Thylias Moss (“Tornados”), Sylvia Plath (“Blackberrying”), Seamus Heaney (“Blackberry-Picking”), Alberto Rios (“Nani”), and Helen Chasin (“The Word Plum”), among others.

New Thematic Chapter on Technology and Human Identity

• A new Chapter 17 in Part 4, comprised of selections from a mix of classic and contemporary authors, provides a lens through which students can see how technology both informs and impedes our lives. Several stories use sci- ence fiction elements to imagine utopian and dystopian futures. Authors in this chapter include Mark Twain, Stephen King, Maria Semple, Ray Brad- bury, John Cheever, and Amy Sterling Casil.

Reimagined Thematic Chapters

• Thematic chapters have been collapsed and combined to promote ease of use and to avoid repetition. Each theme has been carefully cultivated to feature the most representative selections for that theme.

xxvii

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xxviii    Preface

New Chapter on Research

• An extensive new Chapter 10 on research walks students step-by-step through the process, from creating a research plan and selecting a topic to locating and evaluating sources and avoiding plagiarism. Woven throughout the chapter is one student’s writing process, culminating with a paper on Emily Dickinson’s use of nature imagery.

New Chapter on Critical Thinking about Literature

• A streamlined Chapter 2 provides an overview of critical thinking early in the text, defining the term and discussing the importance of close reading, analysis, and synthesis.

New Chapter on Close Reading

• A revised Chapter 6 on close reading now includes discussions of both para- phrasing and summarizing, complete with new student samples.

New Chapter on the Pleasures of Reading, Writing, and Thinking about Literature

• A revised Chapter 5 designed to help students think productively about their writing, this material has been updated to reflect contemporary writing (such as blogging and texting) and now contains examples from each of the genres represented in the text, complete with a new personal response essay and new selections.

New Chapter on Comparison and Synthesis

• A new Chapter 9 on comparison walks students through drafting and revis- ing to final production of this type of paper, with student samples through- out.

New Student Writing Portfolios

• Part 3 contains four unique, genre-specific student writing portfolios. These self-contained portfolios (located in Chapters 11, 12, 14, and 15) each pres- ent one student’s writing process step-by-step, from assignment to finished product. Every portfolio is framed with a brief description of the paper “type,” a short assignment that defines the writing, and helpful marginal an- notations next to each step of the student’s writing process, which highlight notable structures and provide guidance for readers to emulate in their own writing.

New Checklists

• Designed to help students produce successful writing, even more checklists are now included in the text at key points in the writing process, including ideas for generating a draft, revising a comparison essay, and evaluating sources for topic “fit.”

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Preface    xxix

More Student Samples of Works-in-Progress

• Throughout the text, every part of the writing process is demonstrated through student models. In addition, Part 3 contains four self-contained, genre-specific student writing portfolios that each showcase one student’s writing process for a particular assignment.

Key Features Here are the key features of the eleventh edition of Literature for Composition.

Extensive instruction in composition: Students are guided through the entire process of writing (especially writing arguments), beginning with generating ideas (for instance, by listing or by annotating a text), developing a thesis, supporting the thesis with evidence, and on through the final stages of documenting and editing. Twenty-four sample student essays are included; most are prefaced with the stu- dents’ preliminary notes, some include first and revised drafts, and some are annotated or otherwise analyzed. Each literary genre chapter includes a new “Student Writing Portfolio” that collects sample materials generated by each step of the writing process, demonstrating how a paper evolves from initial note taking to a final draft.

Strategies for writing effective arguments: The eleventh edition focuses on argument and evaluation, not only in the case studies, but also in the discussion topics that follow every reading (headed “Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing”). We emphasize the importance of questioning one’s own assumptions— a key principle in critical thinking—and we also emphasize the importance of pro- viding evidence in the course of setting forth coherent, readable arguments.

Wide range of literary selections: The book includes some three hundred selections, ranging from ancient classics such as Sophocles’s Antigone to works written in the twenty-first century by authors such as Junot Diaz and Jhumpa Lahiri.

Abundant visual material, with suggestions about visual analysis: The book is rich in photographs. The images are chosen to enhance the student’s understanding of particular works of literature. For example, we include photos of Buffalo Bill and a facsimile of a draft of E. E. Cummings’s poem about Buffalo Bill. This edition also remains strong in its representation of graphic fiction.

Introductory genre anthology: After preliminary chapters on generating ideas and thinking critically, students encounter chapters devoted to essays, fiction, drama, and poetry.

Thematic anthology: The chapters in Part 4 are arranged under eight themes: The World around Us; Technology and Human Identity; Love and Hate, Men and Women; Innocence and Experience; All in a Day’s Work; American Dreams and Nightmares; Law and Disorder; and Journeys.

Case studies: The three case studies presented in this book (“An Author in Depth”) give a variety of perspectives for writing arguments and organizing research: Flan- nery O’Connor (page 500), William Shakespeare (page 640), and Robert Frost (page 817).

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xxx    Preface

Extensive material on research and the Internet: Because instructors are in- creasingly assigning research papers, the eleventh edition includes material on implementing a productive research plan that incorporates electronic resources, provides up-to-date instruction on evaluating, using, and citing electronic sources, and features a new student research paper that uses electronic resources.

Checklists: Twenty-two checklists focus on topics such as revising paragraphs, editing a draft, and using the Internet. Students can use these checklists to become peer readers of their writing.

Resources for Instructors Instructor’s Manual with detailed comments and suggestions for teaching each selection. This important resource also contains references to critical articles and books that we have found to be the most useful. ISBN 0134101642

REVEL™ is Pearson’s newest way of delivering our respected content. Fully digital and highly engaging, REVEL™ offers an immersive learning experience designed for the way today’s students read, think, and learn. Enlivening course content with media interactives and assessments, REVEL™ empowers educators to increase engagement with the course, and to better connect with students.

With an emphasis on critical thinking and argument, REVEL™ for Literature for Composition offers superior coverage of reading, writing, and arguing about literature enhanced by an array of multimedia interactives that prompt student engagement. Throughout REVEL’s™ flexible online environment, the authors dem- onstrate that the skills emphasized in their discussions of communication are rel- evant not only to literature courses, but to all courses in which students analyze texts or write arguments.

Acknowledgments We would like to thank the following reviewers, who provided their feedback during the revision of the eleventh edition: Karen Guerin, Bossier Parish Commu- nity College; Mary Hubbard, Northwest Arkansas Community College; Jennifer Laufenberg, Bossier Parish Community College; Megan Looney, Northwest Arkan- sas Community College; Joanna Mann, Northwest Arkansas Community College; Timothy McGinn, Northwest Arkansas Community College; Tabitha Miller, Pitt Community College; Stephanie Noll, Texas State University—San Marcos; John Padgett, Brevard College; and Jennifer Wiley, Pima Community College.

In preparing the first eleven editions of Literature for Composition, we were indebted to Cieltia Adams, Elizabeth Addison, Jonathan Alexander, James Allen, Alexander Ames, Kathleen Anderson-Wyman, Larry Armstrong, William D. Atwill, Patricia Baldwin, Mary J. Balkun, Daniel Barwick, David Beach, Daniel Bender, Billie Bennet, Mary Anne Bernal, Phyllis Betz, Kenneth R. Bishop, Margaret Blayney, Bertha Norman Booker, John P. Boots, Paul Keith Boran, Pam Bourgeois, Noelle Brada- Williams, Carol Ann Britt, Jennifer Bruer, Robin W. Bryant, Sharon Buzzard, Kathleen Shine Cain, Diana Cardenas, William Carpenter, Evelyn Cartright, Allan Chavkin, Mike Chu, Alan P. Church, Melinda Cianos, Dennis Ciesielski, Arlene Clift-Pellow,

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Preface    xxxi

Walter B. Connolly, Stanley Corkin, Linda Cravens, Morgan Cutterini, Donald A. Daiker, Bruce Danner, Phebe Davidson, Thomas Deans, Beth DeMeo, John Desjar- lais, Emily Dial-Driver, John Dobelbower, Ren Draya, James Dubinsky, Gail Duffy, Bill Elliott, Leonard W. Engel, William Epperson, Gareth Euridge, Martin J. Fertig, Shelley Fischer, Elinor C. Flewellen, Kay Fortson, Marie Foster, Donna Friedman, Larry Frost, Loris Galford, Charlene Gill, Esther Godfrey, Dwonna Goldstone, Jes- sica Beth Gordon, Kim Greenfield, Chris Grieco, Susan Grimland, Debbie Hanson, Dorothy Hardman, Sandra H. Harris, Syndey Harrison, Sally Harrold, Tom Hayes, Keith Haynes, Michael Hennessey, Mary Herbert, Ana B. Hernandez, Maureen Hoag, Allen Hoey, Diane Houston, Elizabeth Howells, Clayton Hudnall, Joyce A. Ingram, Craig Johnson, Michael Johnson, Angela Jones, Kristianne Kalata, Rodney Keller, Beth Kemper, Glenn Klopfenstein, Alison Kuehner, Donya Lancaster, The- resa René LeBlanc, Regina Lebowitz, Margaret Lindgren, John Loftis, Robert Lynch, Maria Makowiecka, Twister Marquiss, Phil Martin, Kate Massengale, Dennis McDon- ald, Sara McKnight Boone, Delma McLeod-Porter, Linda McPherson, Bill McWil- liams, Martin Meszaros, Zack Miller, JoAnna S. Mink, Dorothy Minor, Owen Mon- roe, Wayne Moore, Charles Moran, Patricia G. Morgan, Nancy Morris, Jonathan Morrow, Christina Murphy, Richard Nielson, Sean Nighbert, David Norlin, Torria Norman, Marsha Nourse, Shanna O’Berry, John O’Connor, Chris Orchard, Phyllis Orlicek, Eric Otto, Suzanne Owens, Janet Palmer, James R. Payne, Stephanie Pel- kowski, Elizabeth Gassel Perkins, Don K. Pierstorff, Gerald Pike, Kenneth Poff, Louis H. Pratt, John Prince, Sharon Prince, Michael Punches, David Raymond, Samantha Regan, Bruce A. Reid, Thomas Reynolds, Linda Robertson, Lois Sampson, Terry Santos, Daniel Schierenbeck, Jim Schwartz, Sigmar J. Schwarz, Robert Schwe- gler, Linda Scott, Herbert Shapiro, William Shelley, David Slater, Janice Slaughter, Martha Ann Smith, Tiga Spitsberg, Judith Stanford, Pam Stinson, Darlene Strawser, Geri Strecker, Jim Streeter, Timothy Stuart, Anthony Stubbs, David Sudol, Beverly Swan, Leesther Thomas, Raymond L. Thomas, Susan D. Tilka, Mary Trachsel, Dorothy Trusock, Billie Varnum, John H. Venne, Mickey Wadia, Nancy Walker, Betty Weldon, Patrick White, Jonathon Wild, Bertha Wise, Arthur Wohlgemuth, Cary Wolfe, Linda Woodson, Sallie Woolf, Kathy J. Wright, Rebecca Wright, Carlson Yost, Dennis Young, and Gary Zacharias.

No book of this kind gets done without a great deal of assistance from the publisher. We received insightful editorial guidance from Joe Terry and Anne Brunell Ehrenworth. Donna Campion (project manager at Pearson) kept things moving smoothly, and Donna Conte expertly copyedited the manuscript. Lois Lombardo (project manager at Cenveo) efficiently solved innumerable last-minute problems, and Gina Cheselka handled the difficult job of securing text permissions.

Sylvan Barnet William Burto

William e. Cain Cheryl l. Nixon

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1

C h a p t e r 1

How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash

Course

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Approach the first draft of an essay purposefully

• Revise a draft effectively

• Participate in the peer review process

• Prepare a final draft of an essay

The Basic Strategy Students have assured us that the following suggestions for writing analytical essays are helpful.

• Choose a topic and a tentative thesis, generating an argument. Aim to explore concepts that can be interpreted and developed rather than to sum- marize information.

• Generate ideas through analysis, engaging in a process of inquiry, inter- pretation, and argument. For instance, ask yourself inquiring questions such as “Why did the author—a woman—tell the story from the point of view of this male character rather than that female character?” and “Does this story give me some insight into family relationships?” Formulate interpretations based on your best questions and answers.

• Select and evaluate evidence, using specific details from the text to develop and support your ideas.

• Make a tentative outline of points that you plan to make. • Rough out a first draft, working from your outline (don’t worry about

spelling, punctuation, etc.), but don’t hesitate to depart from the outline when new ideas come to you in the process of writing.

• Make large-scale revisions in your draft by reorganizing, adding details to clarify and support assertions, or deleting or combining paragraphs.

• Make small-scale revisions by revising and editing sentences, and check- ing spelling and grammar.

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2    Chapter 1 How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash Course

• Revise your opening and concluding paragraphs. Be certain that they are interesting, not mere throat-clearing and not a mere summary.

• Have someone read your revised draft and comment on it. • Revise again, taking into account the reader’s suggestions. Read this latest

version and make further revisions as needed so that your thesis—your argument—is evident.

• Proofread your final version.

All writers must work out their own procedures and rituals, but the following basic suggestions will help you write effective essays. They assume that you have made annotations in the margins of the literary text and have jotted notes in a journal, on index cards, or in a file of documents on your computer. If your paper involves using sources, consult also Chapter 10, “Research: Writing with Sources.”

Reading Closely: Approaching a First Draft

1. Carefully read and reread the work or works you will write about, annotating as you read. Read with a pen in hand, and take notes in the margins of the text. Do not hesitate to reread the sections of the work that are most relevant to your subject, jotting down new notes and brainstorm- ing new interpretations.

2. Keep your purpose in mind. Although your instructor may ask you, per- haps as a preliminary writing assignment, to jot down your early responses— your initial experience of the work—it is more likely that he or she will ask you to write an analysis in which you will connect details, draw inferences, and argue that such and such is the case. That is, almost surely you will be asked to do more than write a summary or to report your responses; you will be asked to engage with the conceptual ideas raised by the work. You prob- ably will be expected to support a thesis, to make a claim, and offer an argu- ment, for example: “The metaphors are chiefly drawn from nature and, broad- ly speaking, they move from sky and sea to the earth and to human beings, which is to say that they become closer at hand, more immediate, more personal.”

3. Choose a worthwhile and interesting subject, and work to generate a thesis argument about that subject. As you determine what you will write about, choose something that interests you and is not so big that your handling of it must be superficial. As you work, shape your topic, narrow- ing it, for example, from “Characterization in Updike’s ‘A & P’” to “Updike’s Use of Contrasting Characters in ‘A & P.’”

Don’t expect to have a sound thesis at the very beginning of your working on an essay. The thesis will probably come to you only after you have done some close reading and have stimulated ideas by asking yourself questions. Almost surely you will see that the initial thesis needs to be modified in the light of evi- dence that you encounter. It might be helpful to think of this writing as creating a working thesis, knowing that you will modify, expand, contract, and change the focus of your thesis as your ideas develop. In short, your thesis will evolve in the course of thinking about what you are reading.

An essay that analyzes a work will not only offer an argument but will also support the argument with evidence. Even an explication—a sort of line-by-line

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Reading Closely: Approaching a First Draft    3

paraphrase (see Chapter 6)—presents an argument, holding that the work conveys a certain meaning. Your analysis will break down the whole of the work into parts and investigate the relationships among those parts. Your argument will show off your critical thinking about the literary work, demonstrating how you engage in original interpretation by highlighting meaningful aspects of the text, drawing inferences, connecting details, and extrapolating larger concepts.

In thinking about your purpose, remember, too, that your audience will, in effect, determine the amount of detail that you must give. Although your instructor may, in reality, be your only reader, probably you should imagine that your audi- ence consists of people like your classmates—intelligent but not especially familiar with the topic on which you have recently become a specialist. In putting yourself into the shoes of your imagined readers, think of reasonable objections the readers might raise, and respond appropriately to these objections.

4. Keep looking at the literary work you are writing about, jotting down brainstorming notes on all relevant matters.

• You can generate ideas for writing about the issues raised by essays, stories, plays, and poems by asking yourself questions such as those given in the Checklists on pages 419–20, 455–57, 525–27, 554–55, and 783–85.

• As you look and think, reflect on your observations, and record them. • As you look and think, move beyond plot summary and information-

based reading. Move toward engagement with the concepts—the most compelling ideas, issues, and concerns—raised by the literary work.

• When you have an idea, jot it down as a marginal annotation on the book or on a Post-it note attached to the margin of the book page. Don’t assume that you will remember your ideas when you begin writing. Develop a strategy for collecting ideas that move beyond marginal anno- tations, allowing your notes to becoming more detailed and interpretive. Many people will keep a journal to jot down brainstorming ideas, develop a system of using 4-by-6-inch index cards, or take notes in electronic files on a laptop or iPad or similar tablet device.

• As you develop your note-taking and brainstorming record, embed orga- nizational techniques within it. For example, if you use index cards, put only one point on each card, and write a brief caption on the card (e.g., “Significance of title,” or “Night = death???” Later you can arrange the cards so that relevant notes are grouped together. Similarly, if you take brain- storming notes in a journal, leave room to label each page or document; if you take notes on a computer, create a system of clearly labeled files and folders.

• Become comfortable rereading your own notes and marking them up. Circle or highlight your best ideas. Jot down more notes next to your original notes, continuing to develop your thinking.

5. When you are taking notes from secondary sources, do not simply highlight or photocopy.

• Take brief notes, summarizing important points and jotting down your own critiques of the material.

• Read the material analytically, thoughtfully, and with an open mind and a questioning spirit.

• When you read in this attentive and tentatively skeptical way, you will find that the material is valuable not only for what it tells you but also for the ideas that you yourself produce in responding to it.

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4    Chapter 1 How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash Course

6. Sort out your notes, putting together what belongs together. The process of rereading and rethinking your own ideas allows you to hone and strengthen your ideas as you organize them. As a first step, create groupings of like ideas. Three notes about the texture of the materials of a building, for instance, probably belong together. Note cards can easily be rearranged to bring connected ideas together. If you are working on a com- puter, cut and paste similar ideas into one document or one subsection of a document. If you are taking notes in a journal, skim through your earlier notes, and rewrite connected ideas on a fresh page. As you select your best ideas, set aside your weakest ideas. Don’t hesitate to delete ideas, moving them into a different file, knowing that you can always return to them later. Reject notes that are irrelevant to your topic.

7. Organize your notes into a reasonable sequence. Your notes contain ideas (or at least facts that you can think about); now the notes have to be put into a coherent sequence. Think of the relationships among your ideas: Is one idea the overarching idea and must come first? Does one idea lead to the next, creating a sequence? Does one idea offer a minor observation and might best become a subpoint presented “under” a more important argument? Does one idea rely on information that is presented in another section and thus could come later in the argument? When you have made a tentative arrangement, review it; you may discover a better way to group your notes, and you may even want to add to them. If so, start reorganizing.

A tripartite organization for your analytical essay usually works. For this struc- ture, tentatively plan to devote your opening paragraph(s) to a statement of the topic or problem and a proposal of your hypothesis or thesis. The essay can then be shaped into three parts:

• a beginning, in which you identify the work(s) that you will discuss, giving the necessary background and, in a sentence or two, setting forth your un- derlying argument, your thesis;

• a middle, in which you develop your thesis in a series of well-organized para- graphs, chiefly by explaining the ideas central to your argument, by offering evidence, and by taking account of possible objections to your argument; and

• a conclusion, in which you wrap things up, perhaps by giving a more gen- eral interpretation or by setting your findings in a larger context.

In general, organize the material from the simple to the complex in order to ensure intelligibility. For instance, if you are discussing the structure of a poem, it will probably be best to begin with the most obvious points and then to turn to the subtler but perhaps equally important ones. Similarly, if you are comparing two characters, it may be best to move from the most obvious contrasts to the least obvious. When you have arranged your notes into a meaningful sequence, you have begun a key step: dividing your material into paragraphs.

8. Get it down on paper. Most essayists find it useful to jot down some sort of outline, a map indicating the main idea of each paragraph and, under each main idea, supporting details that give it substance. An outline will help you to overcome the paralysis called “writer’s block” that commonly afflicts professional as well as student writers. It does not necessarily have to be anything formal, with capital and lowercase letters and Roman and Arabic numerals, but merely key phrases jotted down in some sort of order. We provide numerous examples of jotted notes and outlines that lead to a rough draft and then a polished essay.

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A page of paper with ideas listed in some sort of sequence, however rough, ought to encourage you. You will discover that you do have something to say. And so, despite the temptation to sharpen another pencil, surf the Internet, or have another cup of coffee, follow the advice of Isaac Asimov, author of 225 books: “Sit down and start writing.”

If you do not feel that you can work from notes and a rough outline, try another method: Get something down on paper, writing (in a journal or on a com- puter) freely, sloppily, automatically, or whatever, but allowing your ideas about what the work means to you and how it conveys its meaning—rough as your ideas may be—to begin to take visible form. If you are like most people, you cannot do much precise thinking until you have committed to paper at least a rough sketch of your initial ideas. At this stage, you are trying to find out what your ideas are, and in the course of getting them down on paper, you will find yourself generating new ideas. We think with words. Capture your ideas in words, and then turn them into phrases and sentences. Later you can push and polish your ideas into shape, per- haps even deleting all of them and starting over, but it is a lot easier to improve your ideas once you see them in front of you than it is to do the job in your head. On paper, one word leads to another; in your head, one word often blocks another.

You may realize, as you near the end of a sentence, that you no longer believe it. Okay; be glad that your first idea led you to a better one, and pick up your better one and keep going with it. What you are doing, by trial and error, is moving not only toward clear expression but also toward sharper ideas and richer responses.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Generating Ideas for a Draft

Have I asked myself the following questions?

Have I double-checked my assignment, knowing what the purpose of my reading and writing is?

Am I engaged in an active reading process? Have I read and reread the liter- ary work that I am writing about?

Have I annotated the literary work and written down brainstorming notes? Have I selected an interesting subject for my paper? Can I start to generate a

working thesis for my paper, knowing that I will continue to revise it? Do my notes move beyond recording information and start to engage with

conceptual ideas? Am I capturing my best ideas in my notes? Have I generated notes that explore

the most compelling issues and concerns raised by the literary work? Are my note-taking techniques efficient? Do my notes allow me to sort and

organize my ideas? Can my notes be organized into a sequence that has a beginning, a middle,

and an end? Can I develop an outline from my notes, mapping the main idea of each para-

graph and the supporting evidence that will be presented in each paragraph? Have I gotten ideas down on paper, no matter how rough they are? Can I

move my ideas from words to phrases to sentences? Can I collect and reflect on my annotations, brainstorming notes, thesis, and

outline, and start drafting my paper?

Reading Closely: Approaching a First Draft    5

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6    Chapter 1 How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash Course

Writing and Revising: Achieving a Readable Draft

Good writing is rewriting. The evidence? Heavily annotated drafts by Chekhov, Keats, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Woolf—almost any writer you can name. Of course, it is easy enough to spill out words, but, as the dramatist Richard Sheridan said 200 years ago, “Easy writing’s curst hard reading.” Good writers find writing is dif- ficult because they care; they care about making sense, so they will take time to answer reasonable objections to their arguments and to find the exact words that will enable them to say precisely what they mean so that their readers will under- stand their key ideas in the right way. And they care about holding a reader’s atten- tion; they recognize that part of their job is to be interesting.

1. Keep looking and thinking, asking yourself questions and providing tentative answers, searching for additional material that strengthens or weakens your main point, and taking account of it in your outline or draft. As you return to the literary work and your outline, continue to add more ideas to it. Your draft will grow organically out of these notes.

2. Continue to hone your thesis and develop your argument. Generate a thesis that captures your main argument, making sure that your thesis engages with the most important conceptual ideas that you want to explore and makes a claim about those ideas. Your thesis paragraph should pre- view your development of your argument. Continue to revise your thesis as your paper evolves.

Now is probably the time to think about a title for your essay. It is usually a good idea to let your reader know what your topic is—which works of literature you will discuss—and what your approach will be. For instance, your topic might be Kate Chopin’s “Désirée’s Baby”—a story about the response to a white woman who gives birth to a mixed-race infant—and your approach might be that the story’s theme of racial prejudice is still meaningful today. At this stage, your title is still tentative, but thinking about the title will help you to organize your thoughts and to determine which of your notes are relevant and which are not. Rather than the title “Chopin’s Story about Race,” a title “Chopin’s ‘Désirée’s Baby’ and Lessons about Racial Prejudice and Ignorance” starts to capture your unique ideas about the work. Remember, the title is the first part of the paper that your reader encoun- ters. You will gain the reader’s goodwill by providing a helpful, interesting title.

3. With your outline or draft in front of you, write a more lucid version of your paper, checking your notes for fuller details. If you wrote your draft on a computer, do not revise it on screen. Print a hard copy, and revise it with a pen or pencil. You need to read the essay more or less as your instructor will read it. True, the process of revising by hand takes more time than revising on a computer, but time is exactly what you need to devote to the process of revision. Time spent developing and clarifying your ideas is time well spent; it will save you time in the later stages of finalizing and editing the draft. When you wrote your first draft, you were eager to find out what you thought, what you knew, and what you did not know. Now, in the revising stage, you need to write slowly, thoughtfully. Later, you will type the handwritten revisions into the computer.

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Writing and Revising: Achieving a Readable Draft    7

When you are revising an early draft, it is probably best to start by concentrat- ing on large-scale revisions—reorganization and additions (for instance, you may now see that you need to define a term, or to give an example, or to quote further from the work that you are discussing). You will probably also make substantial deletions because you will now see that some sentences or paragraphs, although interesting, are redundant or irrelevant.

Although it is best to start with large-scale revisions (what teachers of com- position somewhat grandly call “global revision”), the truth is that when most writers revise, whether they are experienced or inexperienced, they do not pro- ceed methodically. Rather, they jump around, paying attention to whatever attracts their attention at the moment, like a dog hunting for fleas—and that is not a bad way to proceed. Still, you might at least plan to work in the following sequence:

• Introductory and concluding sections: Make sure that your title and opening paragraph(s) give your readers an idea of where you will be taking them. Is your thesis evident? Your concluding paragraph should tell them where they’ve been. Is your concluding paragraph conclusive without being merely repetitive?

• Organization: If some of your material now seems to be in the wrong place, move it by cutting and pasting. The Golden Rule is “Put together what belongs together.” Make sure your ideas have a logical sequence or follow a natural flow in which one idea leads to the next.

• Development: Your ideas should not be repetitive and should not remain surface level. Rather, you should be presenting new but related ideas that add layers of depth and insight to your thesis.

• Evidence: Make sure that your assertions are supported by evidence and that the evidence is of varying sorts, ranging from details in the works to quotations from appropriate secondary sources.

• Counterevidence: Consider the objections that a reasonable reader might raise to some or all of your points, and explain why these objections are not substantial.

• Coherence in sentences, in paragraphs, and between paragraphs: Usually, this is a matter of adding transitional words and phrases ( further- more, therefore, for instance, on the other hand ).

• Tone: Your sentences inevitably convey information not only about your topic but also about yourself. Do the sentences suggest stuffiness? Or are they too informal, too inappropriately casual?

• Editorial matters: Check the spelling of any words that you are in doubt about, check the punctuation, check sentence structure, and check the form of footnotes and bibliography (list of works cited).

If you find that some of your earlier notes are no longer relevant, eliminate them, but make sure that your argument flows from one point to the next. It is not enough to keep your thesis in mind; you must keep it in the reader’s mind. As you write, your ideas will doubtless become clearer, and some may prove to be poor ideas. (We rarely know exactly what our ideas are until we write them down on paper or on the computer. As the little girl said, replying to the suggestion that she should think before she speaks, “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?”) Not until you have written a draft do you really have a strong sense of what you feel and know and of how good your essay may be.

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8    Chapter 1 How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash Course

At this point, you can engage in a practice termed “reverse outlining.” You read your draft and pull an outline out of it, in order to make sure that the draft is rea- sonably organized. A reverse outline works to capture what is actually written on the page. Jot down, in sequence, each major point and each subpoint as it is writ- ten in the draft. You may find that some points need amplification, that you have forgotten a key point, or that a point made on one page really ought to go on another page.

Later you will concern yourself with small-scale revisions (polishing sentences, clarifying transitions, varying sentence structure if necessary, checking spelling and documentation).

4. After a suitable interval, preferably a few days, again revise the draft. To write a good essay, you must be a good reader of the essay that you are writing. (We are not talking at this stage about proofreading or cor- recting spelling errors). Van Gogh said, “One becomes a painter by painting.” Similarly, one becomes a writer by writing—and by rewriting and revising. In revising their work, writers ask themselves many questions:

• Do I mean what I say? • Do I say what I mean? (Answering this question will generate other

questions: Do I need to define my terms? Do I need to add examples to clarify? Do I need to reorganize the material so that a reader can grasp it?)

A Rule for Writers: Put yourself in the reader’s shoes to make sure not only that the paper has an organization but also that the organization will be clear to your reader. If you imagine a classmate as the reader of the draft, you may find that you need to add transition words ( for instance, on the other hand ), clarify definitions, and provide additional supporting evidence.

During this part of the process of writing, read the draft in a skeptical frame of mind. You engaged in critical thinking when you made use of the literary work and any secondary sources; now apply the same questioning spirit to your own writing. In taking account of your doubts, you will probably unify, organize, clarify, and polish the draft.

Reminder: If you have written your draft on a computer or a tablet, do not try to revise it on screen. Print the entire draft, and then read it—as your reader will be reading it—page by page, not screen by screen. Almost surely you will detect errors in a hard copy that you miss on screen. Only by reading the printed copy will you be able to see if, for instance, the ideas on page two are repeated on page four.

5. With your draft in near-final form, turn to editing for correctness. After producing a draft that seems good enough to show to someone, writ- ers engage in yet another activity: They edit. Editing includes such work as checking the accuracy of quotations by comparing them with the origi- nal, checking a dictionary for the spelling of doubtful words, and checking a handbook for doubtful punctuation—for instance, whether a comma or a semicolon is needed in a particular sentence.

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Revising: Working with Peer Review    9

Revising: Working with Peer Review Almost all professional writers get help—from friends, from colleagues, and espe- cially from editors who are paid to go over their manuscripts and call attention to matters that need clarification. If possible, get a fellow student to read your manu- script and give you his or her responses. Do not confuse this sort of help— recommended by all instructors—with plagiarism, which is the unacknowledged use of someone else’s words or ideas. Your reader is not rewriting the paper for you but merely suggesting that (for instance) your title is misleading, that here you need a clear example, that there you are excessively repetitive, and so forth. If you are unfamiliar with the process of peer review and uncertain about the nature of plagiarism, we urge you to read the discussions on pages 403-04.

If peer review is a part of the writing process in your course, the instructor may arrange for writing workshops to be held in or out of class. The instructor may also distribute a guide for peer review that offers suggestions and questions. The preceding checklist is an example of such a guide.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Writing and Revising a Draft

Have I asked myself the following questions?

Does the draft fulfill the specifications (e.g., length, scope) of the assignment? Does the draft have a thesis—a central focusing argument that gives my paper

a purpose? Is the title interesting and informative? Does my title create a favorable first

impression? Are the early paragraphs engaging, and do they give the reader a good idea

of what will follow, naming the works of literature, the approach, and the argument?

Are key concepts explained clearly and then developed with supporting ob- servations, insights, and analysis?

Is the organization clear, reasonable, and effective? Can I check the organiza- tion by making a quick reverse outline?

Are arguable assertions supported with evidence? Is the evidence explained? Are my readers kept in mind, for instance, by defining terms that they may be

unfamiliar with? Are possible objections faced and adequately answered? If quotations are included, are they introduced rather than just dumped into

the essay? Are quotations as brief as possible? Might summaries (properly credited to the sources) be more effective than long quotations?

Are all sources cited, including Internet material? Does the final paragraph nicely round off the paper, or does it merely restate—

unnecessarily—the obvious? Does the paper include whatever visual materials the reader may need to

see?

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10    Chapter 1 How to Write an Effective Essay about Literature: A Crash Course

Preparing the Final Draft 1. If you have received comments from a reader, consider them care-

fully. Even when you disagree with them, they may alert you to places in your essay that need revision or clarification.

When a friend, a classmate, or another peer reviewer has given you help, acknowledge that person in a footnote or an endnote. (If you look at almost any book, you will notice that the author acknowledges the help of friends and col- leagues. In your own writing, follow this practice.) Here are sample acknowledg- ments from papers by students:

I wish to thank Anna Aaron for numerous valuable suggestions.

I thank Paul Gottsegen for calling my attention to passages that needed clarifica- tion, and Jane Leslie for suggesting the comparison between Sammy in Updike’s “A & P” and the unnamed narrator in Joyce’s “Araby.”

2. If you have borrowed ideas, be sure to give credit, usually in foot- notes, to your sources. Remember that plagiarism is not limited to the unacknowledged borrowing of words; a borrowed idea, even when put into your own words, requires acknowledgment. (On giving credit to sources, see Appendix B.)

3. Print a clean copy of your final draft, following the principles concern- ing margins, pagination, footnotes, and so on, set forth in Appendix B.

4. Proofread the hard copy, make corrections as necessary, and print it out again.

All of this adds up to a recipe found in a famous Victorian cookbook: “First catch your hare, then cook it.”

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11

C h a p t e r 2

How to Engage in Critical Thinking about

Literature: A Crash Course

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to:

• Define critical thinking

• Use close reading to investigate a literary work

• Engage in analysis, using inquiry, interpretation, and argumentation to come to a deeper understanding of a literary work

• Use comparison and synthesis to connect your ideas to other sources

• Reflect on your ideas and continually revise them to improve your writing

• Identify the differences between nonanalytical and analytical writing

The Basic Strategy In order to develop your critical thinking skills, we suggest that you try the follow- ing strategies:

• Annotate the literary work as you read, engaging in active reading. Take notes in the margins of the text as you read; this will help you to remember key details but will also help to trigger insightful thinking as you read.

• Make sure that you can summarize the literary work, demonstrating that you understand its key ideas. If there is a passage that confuses you or a detail that you have forgotten, go back and reread the passage and clarify your thinking before you start to develop an interpretation of the text.

• Ask questions about the literary work, using an analytical approach to the text by asking conceptual “why” and “how” questions, rather than by asking informational “what” questions.

• Argue with yourself as you generate ideas. Continue to revise your understanding of the text by scrutinizing your assumptions, testing your evidence, thinking of counterarguments, and asking yourself follow-up questions.

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12    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

• Create an interpretation that captures your sense of the meaning of the work. As you write your paper, develop a focused analysis of the work by selecting a key idea for exploration. Define, explain, and add depth to that idea.

• Develop your interpretation by exploring both literary content and form. Literary analysis examines both literary content (the thematic ideas presented by the work) and literary form (the structuring of those ideas through literary elements, such as voice, imagery, and symbolism, among many others). How does the form of the text shape its ideas?

• Collect evidence that supports your interpretation. Look “inward” to literary form and content, and look “outward” to literary contexts and criticism. As you develop your ideas, support them with details from the literary work and, if your assignment allows, information about the cul- tural context of the work or literary criticism written by scholars about the work.

• Create an argument that captures your most important analytical ideas about the text. Develop a thesis that takes a stand. Present your point of view on the key idea that you have selected for analysis.

• Use comparison and contrast to develop relationships among texts and to connect two or more texts by analyzing their similarities and differences. A comparison paper should lead to new insights about each text, clarifying the key ideas that you see in each.

• When performing research, synthesize your sources. Create relation- ships among your ideas and those of critics, working to interweave your sources in your paper.

• Revise your ideas as you revise your writing. An essential component of critical thinking is the ability to revisit and “re-see” your own ideas. Become your own best critic, and revise your ideas as you develop them.

What Is Critical Thinking? When we engage in critical thinking, we are keenly aware of what we are doing. We are, for instance, studying an effect and searching for its causes. “This story bores me, but exactly why does it bore me?” “Is the plot too familiar?” “Are the characters unrealistic?” “Is the language trite?” “Is the language so technical that I can’t follow it?” “Does the author use too many words to say too few?” Or: “I loved the book but hated the movie. Why?” Again, we start to consider the problem closely, probably (again) by examining the parts that make up the whole. And here we are at the heart of critical thinking. Critical thinking is a matter of separating the whole into parts in order to see relationships.

Having said that critical thinking does not necessarily involve faultfinding, we want to modify that statement. There is one writer whose work you should indeed judge severely. That writer is you. When you read a draft of your work, adopt a skeptical spirit. As you read, ask yourself if your assertions are supported with suf- ficient evidence, and ask if other interpretations of the evidence might reasonably be offered. When you engage in this process, you are engaged in critical thinking.

When we engage in critical thinking in an academic setting, we critique in order to come to a deeper understanding of complex ideas. Let’s apply this to

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How Do We Engage in Critical Thinking?    13

literary study: When we engage in critical thinking about literature, we critique in order to come to a deeper understanding of a literary text’s possible meanings, determine what meaning we find most interesting and important, explore how and why a text creates that meaning, and explore how and why that meaning might connect to a larger understanding of the world. Writing takes this critical thinking process one step further: It forces us to slow down and register how we under- stand and evaluate the text, how we develop an interpretation of the text, how we select evidence to support our ideas, how we construct an argument about the text, and how we compare texts and synthesize our ideas with those of others writ- ers. Writing puts our critical thinking skills on display.

How Do We Engage in Critical Thinking? We are constantly engaging with texts, ranging from stories to movies to blogs to YouTube clips, working to understand them and then express our opinions about them. When you go to a movie, you might come out from the screening telling a friend, “I really liked that character, except it was so unrealistic when he was able to overcome that warrior.…” In moments like this, you are engaging in critical thinking without realizing it. You are showing that you understood what happened in the movie, and you are taking the next step of determining what the movie means by questioning its key elements and connecting it to your knowledge about how you think it should work. By explaining your opinions about the movie, you are showing that you’ve created your own interpretation of it. In other words, you’ve generated your own ideas—you’ve used someone else’s work to trigger new ideas of your own.

In academic critical thinking, you take this general process of thinking and make it more directed and purposeful. You aim to understand and organize your thought processes and then apply those processes to challenging texts. You judge and critique those texts in order to hone your ability to develop ideas—and become an idea-creator and text-creator yourself. The process of critical thinking can be broken down into the following simplified stages of thinking:

• Summary, in which you restate the information conveyed by a literary text, demonstrating that you’ve carefully read the text and have fully understood its key ideas

• Analysis, in which you develop your opinion about the meaning of the text by questioning the text, interpreting the text, defining concepts central to the text, locating evidence that supports your ideas, and creating arguments that explain your unique understanding of the text

• Synthesis, in which you connect your reading of the text to other sources, developing relationships among your ideas and the ideas of others (such as critics)

Literature is widely understood to be one of the best ways to develop critical thinking because it is purposefully open-ended and encourages multiple interpre- tations. Literature does not tell you what it means in a straightforward way. It often raises more questions than it answers. It is often purposely complex or unclear. Why? Literature attempts to capture the complexity of the human experi- ence, and human emotions, thoughts, dreams, and memories are far from straight- forward. Crucially, literature does not tell you exactly what to think. Literature is

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14    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

not a lecture, or a sermon, or a political speech, with a clear message or argu- ment. Yet, that is exactly why we read literature—it gives us the freedom to think on our own.

Literature encourages you to come up with your own understanding of it— and this is where critical thinking comes in. When you are reading literature, you are able to develop your interpretation of the text and then create arguments that capture that interpretation.

Literature encourages the development of a particularly rich and multifaceted set of critical thinking skills. Let’s explore these skills in more detail.

Close Reading A strong literary analysis starts with a strong close reading. A close reading takes on a deceptively simple task: It attempts to accurately understand a literary work and then figure out what ideas the work explores. A close reading develops an understanding of the text and investigates how the text makes meaning.

In some ways, the close reading task is straightforward. For example, you know that the sentence, “Go to the store and buy a loaf of bread,” means exactly that, and you do not have to attend to that sentence very closely to understand what it means. When you turn to literature, however, the close reading task gets more complex. For example, take the opening sentence of James Joyce’s short story, “Araby”: “North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free.” We can provide a sum- mary of the information in the sentence: A street named North Richmond Street is the site of a boy’s school, and the street is typically quiet except when the boys are leaving school. However, a literary work encourages you to start a process of analysis. Instantly, questions pop up: What does “being blind” mean—how can a street be blind? What are the boys being set free from? Where are we—in what country and in what time period? Asking questions like this starts a process of thinking, interpreting, arguing—the process of critical thinking.

Close reading asks you to become a detective, picking up clues that can help you figure out what you think the text’s meaning is. Annotating the text, marking it up as you read, is the best way to collect those ideas. As you read, “notice what you notice,” and note any interesting, strange, beautiful, or confusing moments.

In literature, the clues are the interesting words and the interesting ways those words are positioned in a text, such as repetition or sentence placement. Literary structure, literary genre, and literary elements call attention to certain ideas. In a poem, for example, the form that words take on a page (such as a sonnet form) is crucial to discovering the poem’s meaning. A close reading examines not just what is being said but how the text is saying it.

If you reread that first sentence from “Araby,” it starts to make sense. The street must be “blind” like a “blind alley” or a dead end; the boys are being set free from their school, which is holding them in like a prison; the school is in a town with clearly named streets and buildings. Slowing down and rereading the text for clues to its meaning is essential to the close reading process.

As you read “Araby,” continue to notice key words and ask questions about them, connecting details to larger concepts. The second sentence reads, “An unin- habited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbors in a square ground.” “Araby” is not describing a street filled with happiness; the words “uninhabited” and “detached” are creating a feeling of loneliness or

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Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, Argument    15

uneasiness. The word “blind” seems important: It is repeated in the first two sen- tences. Is a pattern being set up? What does “blind” mean? In the story, maybe someone won’t be seeing things clearly? Creating interpretations based on textual clues is the key outcome of close reading. With only two sentences to go on, we’ve already started to create an interpretation: We can hypothesize that “Araby” is going to explore loneliness or unhappiness, might feature a boy, and might be set in a city.

What literary forms are helping to create the text’s meaning?

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Close Reading

How can I perform a close reading? As you think about your reading and writing process, ask yourself:

Have I read with an open mind, asking questions as I read? Did I annotate the text, capturing my thinking in marginal notes? Have I slowed down my reading process, making sure that I am reading both

to gather information and to generate new ideas? Did I read to understand the text? Make sure that you can accurately sum-

marize the text. Reread passages that might be confusing or unclear on a first reading. Use annotations to keep track of important information about the literary work.

Have I formulated ideas about the text’s larger meaning? Collect clues to the text’s meaning. Make sure to “notice what you notice,” marking down any aspects of the text that you find interesting.

Did I highlight specific evidence—words, phrases, images, structures—that seems to be signaling deeper meaning?

Have I looked for patterns among details? Have I connected details to concepts? Make sure to jot down concept words

in the margins of the text. Did I reread and rethink passages that seem particularly rich and passages

that seem to be most connected to the concepts that I found interesting?

Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, Argument Analysis is the process of thinking about (and rethinking and rethinking about!) a literary text in order to explore how it works, to examine the ideas that it raises, and to develop a unique interpretation of its meaning. Analysis asks you to inves- tigate an issue raised by the literary work by breaking down the text into its com- ponent parts; you examine the text’s parts in order to see how the text works as a whole to create its larger conceptual ideas. Analysis includes three critical thinking steps, which lead to and often overlap each other:

• Inquiry: the process of asking questions about a text in order to understand its meaning

• Interpretation: the development of a unique understanding of the text • Argument: the presentation of a claim or a thesis about the text, which is

then explained, developed, and supported with evidence

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16    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

An analysis assignment might ask you to explore the ideal of beauty as pre- sented in Michelle Serros’s “Senior Picture Day,” a short story that appears in Chapter 3. As soon as you start to explore “beauty” as presented in the story, it raises multiple questions and becomes a complex concept: In the story, how is beauty defined—is it defined only as appearance? Why does the narrator think her Mexican or Indian nose is not beautiful? How does American culture define beauty? How does her friend, Terri, reinforce that definition of beauty? Why would Native American beauty not be part of American beauty? How and why does her friend use her looks against her? Is beauty primarily about winning a boyfriend? This is just a start—the questions can keep coming!

As you think through your inquiry questions, you start to hypothesize answers to them. You might determine that you like the questions that connect ideas about friendship to ideas about beauty. Friends using beauty against each other is an unexpected concept. With some more thought, that idea could develop into an interpretation that explores how the story presents a character who uses beauty as a form of competition, showing that ideals of beauty can undermine friendship.

With a clear focusing idea and interpretation in place, you are ready to start writing your paper. When you are writing an analytical paper, you present your interpretation of the text in the form of an argument. You will need to create a central claim—an argument that captures your interpretation and conveys a posi- tion that can be debated. Your paper will work to develop and deepen that one idea. The central claim will become your thesis, serving as your paper’s overarch- ing and organizing principle. As you shape your thesis (such as with the argument that “Senior Picture Day” presents a character who uses beauty as a form of com- petition, showing that ideals of beauty can undermine friendship), you will need to examine any assumptions that you are making (such as the assumption that friendship should not be competitive) and define any terms that are essential to it (such as “beauty” and “American”). You will develop the thesis by explaining the different parts of the text that support your central idea, using details from the text as evidence and using sources that trigger further thinking. Analysis, then, is a process of using your observations about a text to develop a deeper understanding of the text and then presenting your new ideas and insights in a well-organized argument about the text’s form and meaning.

As you read this description of analysis, you can see why it is at the core of critical thinking: It requires determining and exploring ideas, creating concepts, taking ideas apart and putting them back together again, making arguments, find- ing evidence, and developing ideas further. Let’s look at each of these steps in turn.

Inquiry

Inquiry is the process of asking productive questions that lead to further thought and investigation, triggering new ideas and interpretations. The term “inquiry” captures the sense of a curious, inquiring mind asking open-ended questions that will lead to more questions and, ultimately, to the attempt to answer those ques- tions. Inquiry is often positioned as the starting point of a discovery process that generates new ideas—inquiry encompasses a type of activity that we loosely call “brainstorming.”

If you are trying to create new knowledge, you must be able to ask good ques- tions about issues that you are observing, reading about, and researching. So, what is a “good” question? Inquiry-based questions cannot be answered with a quick “yes” or “no.” They cannot be answered with a quick checking of factual information.

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Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, Argument    17

They cannot be answered with a plot summary or a restatement of the author’s argument or findings. Instead, inquiry-based questions are often conceptual ques- tions that seek to “open up” a topic to new thinking. Rather than asking for infor- mation, an inquiry-based question asks “why?” or “how?”

You can start to trigger interpretive thinking by asking general questions such as, “What is the main idea of this work?” or “What is the most important issue that this work explores?” and then moving toward more specific questions such as, “How does this story’s character change to create a changing definition of this idea?” or “How does this poem’s imagery show both positive and negative aspect of this idea?”

If we return to the story “Senior Picture Day,” you might question how it presents “beauty,” asking some of the questions that we’ve already noted. Those questions will become more specific as you reexamine the literary work and ques- tion it further. For example, as you reread your annotations on “Senior Picture Day,” you might start to focus on the role the narrator’s friend, Terri, plays in defining beauty. Why does Terri say to the narrator, “you look like you’re more from Mexico than California”? How does the narrator counter that statement—does it show that she understands stereotypical ideals of beauty? When Terri is talking to Lightning Bolt, what are the ideals of female beauty that she references and why? Why does the narrator say about Terri, “She was saying things about a friend, things a real friend shouldn’t be saying?” Why is Terri’s reference to the narrator’s nose the most painful comment? Why does the narrator leave Terri’s house without telling her?

Inquiry-based questions wrestle with the ideas that are at the heart of the issue under consideration. Something meaningful is at stake in an inquiry-based ques- tion: An idea is being discovered and explained, an argument is being proven or disproven, a topic is being redefined, or a finding is being expanded.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Inquiry and Question-Asking

How can I start my analysis by engaging in inquiry? As you think about your reading and writing process, ask yourself:

Have I approached the text with a curious, inquiring mind? Remember that literary analysis is a process of discovery in which the reader uncovers mean- ings that he or she won’t see at first.

Have I asked as many questions as possible, big and small? Have I asked conceptual questions? Do not ask just fact-based “what” ques-

tions or “yes” and “no” questions. Instead, ask concept-oriented questions or “why” and “how” questions. Ask unexpected questions.

Did I use brainstorming writing—jotting notes, making lists, writing response entries—to formulate answers to my questions?

Have I argued with myself to continue the brainstorming process? Use ques- tions to test your inferences, assumptions, and preexisting knowledge.

Have I defined key terms? Did I use questions and answers to determine what a text might mean? At the

same time, continue to be comfortable with ambiguity and indeterminacy, explore open-ended possibilities, entertain half-formed ideas, investigate opposing ideas, and notice what ideas seem too obvious and what ideas seem richly complex.

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18    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

Interpretation

Analysis encourages you to maintain openness, asking questions while also pre- dicting or hypothesizing the answers that you might discover as you continue your investigation. When you are working with literature, the most obvious outcome of the “questioning and answering” brainstorming process is that you interpret a piece of literature in an analysis paper. You use the annotating process of close reading and the note-taking process of inquiry to figure out what you think that literary text means, and you are then ready to turn to outlining and drafting a paper that solidifies your specific interpretation. Once focused and consolidated, your answers to your inquiry questions become your interpretation; your answers can serve as the arguments that structure your analysis paper.

Central to the interpretative process is evidence. Interpretation works with specific details in the text, asking, “What does this detail mean?” Literature trains you to look carefully at specific words and phrases, and at literary elements such as symbolism, setting, character, plot, and imagery. We discuss the literary elements central to each genre in detail in Chapters 11–15. All of these details become evi- dence for your interpretation, and you will evaluate and select the best evidence to support your ideas, quoting that evidence and citing it in your paper.

Literature also trains you to move back and forth between small details and big conceptual ideas, or to connect literary form (the literary elements) with literary content (the conceptual ideas, such as theme). Your interpretation will determine what ideas are represented by what details and what literary elements of the text are the most important. As you generate ideas, you will employ critical thinking skills, including drawing inferences, uncovering assumptions, connecting details, and entertaining and weighing competing interpretations.

If you look at the questions that we have been asking about “Senior Picture Day,” you can see this movement from small details to larger concepts. An analysis will connect specific words, images, and elements from the story, such as Terri’s comment about the narrator looking “Mexican” and not “blond,” to larger ideas, such as the story’s exploration of American ideals of female beauty and whether Native American women can fit those ideals. As you explore the story, you might analyze Terri’s critique of her friend’s body—how she mentions her being “skinny,” then calls her “flat-chested,” and then labels her nose “Indian.” As you look at those phrases, you might form the opinion that Terri is purposely creating worse and worse insults about her friend. Your interpretation might show that, because the insults are presented in a series (skinny, flat-chested, nose), Terri knows that she is making insulting comments about her friend—they aren’t unintentional. Your inter- pretation might determine that this is a strategic use of beauty by one friend to hurt another friend: Terri seems to move strategically toward the worst insult that she can make—and American ideals of beauty help her to do that.

Interpretation is the process of generating and testing your ideas. As you develop your interpretation, you should work to hone your ideas, making your interpretation more precise. We often think of “going deeper” into a text or “deepening” an inter- pretation, in that we do not want to remain at the surface level of the text and create an obvious or superficial interpretation of it; instead, we want to get to a deeper knowledge of what the text presents and understand its most important ideas. As you finalize your analysis, you will start to sort and organize your questions and answers, finding connections among your ideas. You will discover key ideas that repeat them- selves, revealing that they are central to the literary work. You will also start to discard ideas that seem weak or off-topic. As your interpretation takes shape, it will become an argument, taking the form of a clear statement that will organize your paper.

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Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, Argument    19

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Interpretation

How can I continue my analysis, moving from inquiry to interpretation? As you think about your reading and writing process, ask yourself:

Have I developed my understanding of the literary work, aiming for a focused explanation of the work’s larger meaning? It can be helpful to ask, “What is one of the text’s most important main ideas, and how does the text present and develop that idea?”

Did I analyze both literary content and literary form as I created my interpreta- tion? Literature not only presents complex ideas but also presents them in an artistic way, using specific literary forms. Make sure that your interpretation explores how the work makes meaning by attending to both form and content.

Have I broken down the literary work? Separate the whole into parts in order to see relationships among the parts.

Have I worked with concepts? Define, explain, and develop the work’s key ideas.

Have I worked with evidence? Explore the work’s details, noting the ideas that they trigger. As you work with the evidence, you might:

• draw inferences • uncover assumptions • connect details • organize evidence by categorizing it, locating similarities and differences • trace patterns and repetitions • entertain and weigh competing interpretations • note what seems to be missing, locating interesting gaps

Did I create predictions or hypotheses concerning possible meanings? Did I create an interpretation? (Take a leap: What do you think the text means?)

Argument

An argument is a claim that offers a focused presentation of your interpretation of a literary work. A strong paper will take a specific position on, or make a specific proposition about, a carefully selected and narrowed topic, rather than present an obvious idea about a general topic. Your presentation of your claim and the evi- dence for your claim—and your attempt to win your reader over to your side through logical and well-organized writing—is argumentation.

When a main argument or claim is presented in an academic paper, we often label it a “thesis statement.” A thesis statement allows you to show off your analysis by pre- senting it in a concise manner that highlights the strength of your ideas. This argument is then developed, typically through a series of supporting ideas or subpoints that pres- ent evidence and explain the reasoning behind the argument. A successful paper will answer the “so what” question and explain the significance of the argument.

Imagine yourself having to explain your ideas about a literary work to a friend, and then imagine your friend being somewhat resistant to your ideas so that you have to explain them in a more argumentative way, support them with clear evi- dence, and develop them with a series of related ideas. If you were exploring T. Coraghessan Boyle’s “Greasy Lake,” you might say something along the lines of, “The narrator seems really immature.” If your friend questions you on this, you might decide to make your ideas more argumentative, explaining, “The narrator

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20    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

represents immaturity because he doesn’t think of the consequences of his actions—especially his violence toward the ‘greasy character’ and the ‘fox.’” You might have to explain your ideas further, saying, “Although he can’t handle respon- sibility, the narrator thinks that he is superior to everyone; he shows off how smart he is by making reference to art and literature. He thinks he is smart, but he is not smart about his actions and their consequences. Boyle wants to show that imma- turity can’t be rewarded, and that’s why the narrator is punished with his car get- ting wrecked.” With a bit of revision and development, this type of argument is already on its way to becoming a claim—a thesis—that can be further developed in an analytical paper.

Your thesis presents the main idea of your paper; it is the specific argument that you make about your selected topic. The best thesis arguments come from the ideas and evidence that you return to again and again in your brainstorming—the ideas that you are most interested in and passionate about. A thesis can result from your interest in a(n)

• Pattern: such as repeated images, ideas, or literary techniques • Problem: such as a scene that raises but doesn’t quite resolve a difficult issue • Insight: such as a realization that an image might symbolize a specific idea • Question: such as a questioning of a character’s motivation • Formal element: such as a careful charting of voice throughout a story • Conceptual idea: such as a new insight into a universal concept, like love

Although we are concentrating on writing about literature, you can see how this type of writing develops larger critical thinking skills, such as learning to iden- tify and analyze a problem, which are helpful in all fields and careers.

Once you have a thesis, you will want to develop it. The process of inquiry, of asking and answering questions about a text, can generate many insights. Those insights can be shaped—sorted, selected, and consolidated—into a pattern of ideas that can be developed into your argument. As you develop your interpretation of a text, your ideas can follow a logical order; for example, you might organize your ideas by subtopics, by facets of a topic, by “problems and solutions,” from “most important to least important ideas,” or from “big picture to smaller details.”

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Argument

How can I use my analysis to generate an argument? As you think about your reading and writing process, ask yourself:

Have I turned my interpretation into an argument by focusing on a specific aspect of the literary work and developing a position on that aspect?

Did I create a strong thesis that presents a focused claim? Did I create a strong thesis that moves beyond an obvious statement or gen-

eral idea? Have I developed my argument by selecting my best ideas and deepening

them through further analysis? Have I organized my argument, most typically by breaking down my interpre-

tation into a series of subideas or subconcepts, which I then have organized in a logical fashion? Remember to keep similar ideas together and work to

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Comparison and Synthesis    21

create a flow from one set of ideas to the next. You might create an organiza- tion in which you

• move from the most important idea to the least important idea • move from the most obvious or understandable idea to the most complex idea • trace a “cause/effect” or “causal” relationship, in which one idea leads to

another because it causes it to occur • explain the facets of one idea, showing how they connect (for example,

“love” can encompass romantic love, platonic love, and familial love) • perform an analysis of one literary element, such as a character analysis • move from specific details to larger generalizations (“bottom up” or induc-

tive reasoning) • move from a general statement to smaller details (“top down” or deductive

reasoning) • follow a chronological order • use a “pros/cons,” “problem/solution,” or “similarities/differences” structure

Have I supported ideas with meaningful evidence that is analyzed and explained?

Did I consider counterarguments?

Comparison and Synthesis Comparison and synthesis connect together two or more sources, creating a rela- tionship between them. In both comparison and synthesis, you are looking to find common concerns—areas of connection—that will allow different texts, authors, ideas, interpretations, or insights to be brought together.

Comparison is a well-known means of creating connections among sources, as most of us have written “comparison/contrast” papers at some point. Compari- son focuses on finding similarities, while contrast focuses on finding differences among two or more sources. The development of relationships among texts encourages critical thinking; you cannot rely on a summary of the two texts but must evaluate each text in light of the other. Through comparison, you locate ideas and issues that might not be readily apparent in each text but that are revealed and then explored through the relationships you create.

Synthesis typically indicates a research paper in which multiple sources that comment on a topic are brought together in order to develop a new understanding of that topic. Rather than being compared and contrasted, the sources are often interwoven, taking the best ideas from each in order to help build an understand- ing of what has been discovered or debated about the topic at hand. When engaged in synthesis, you are connecting sources to your own thinking, showing how your ideas fit into larger critical debates. A synthesis will often serve as a strong founda- tion for further analysis, allowing you to show that your ideas are strong because they build on the ideas of critics. When working with critics’ ideas, maintain a clear sense of your own ideas and arguments, explaining how you agree, disagree, or both agree and disagree (“Okay, but…”) with the critics; further their ideas through your use of them; or apply their ideas to a new source. Use correct attribution and citation style, as detailed in Appendix B.

Synthesis requires several forms of critical thinking: You understand each source and can accurately convey its key ideas; you select only the most relevant

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22    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

ideas from each source; you bring together sources in a way that clarifies how they agree, disagree, expand, develop, support, or contradict each other; you explain how each source connects to your thesis and arguments; and you create an orga- nization for your synthesis that allows you to bring together sources without over- whelming your own ideas.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Comparison and Synthesis

How can I engage in comparison and synthesis? As you think about your read- ing and writing process, ask yourself:

Have I collected and selected sources that “speak to each other”—that address shared ideas and information, and thus can create meaningful connections?

Did I create a relationship among my sources, explaining how they connect? Remember that comparison emphasizes similarities among sources, contrast emphasizes differences, and synthesis emphasizes an interweaving of sources.

Have I maintained a strong sense of my own voice when performing research, clarifying how I agree with, disagree with, or further apply the critics’ arguments?

Did I create a strong thesis that emphasizes the relationship that I’ve created? Have I used the relationship that I’ve created to generate new insights into

each text? Did I create a clear argumentative structure in which my paper works to inte-

grate the sources to highlight ideas? Have I selected specific evidence from each source for quotation and analysis? Did I cite each source correctly?

Revision and Self-Awareness An essential part of critical thinking is reflecting on your ideas and continually revising them in order to improve them. Each part of the critical thinking process should be repeated as needed: Reading should include rereading, inquiry should include asking follow-up questions, interpretation should include revisiting insights and reinterpreting evidence, argumentation should include a honing and reorga- nizing of key ideas, and synthesis should include reexamining the relationships created among sources.

The writing process ensures this rethinking by requiring revision. A paper is typically drafted and redrafted, moving from a rough initial draft through several intermediary drafts and then to a final draft that is polished before being submitted. Throughout this book, we provide multiple examples of papers being revised and improved as part of the writing process.

It might be helpful to think of paper “re-vision” as an opportunity to “re-envision” your ideas. Writing captures your thinking on the page. Writing also triggers new thinking: We have all had a lightbulb go off during the process of drafting—our mind is stimulated by the writing process to invent new ideas. When we are revising, we create new opportunities to improve our ideas. Make sure to see revision as an essential critical thinking skill and not a mere afterthought.

Revision forces you to step into the position of critic, asking you to analyze and criticize your own writing. The ability to create your own ideas and then to

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Nonanalytical versus Analytical Writing    23

step outside of yourself, reflect on, and critique those ideas requires advanced criti- cal thinking skills that will serve you well in all of your academic courses and will later transfer into your career and beyond. Critical thinking encourages you to develop a sense of reflective self-awareness of yourself as a reader, writer, and thinker. As you engage in the writing process, use it to think carefully about your audience, the academic context of writing, your strengths and weaknesses as a writer, and how to push yourself to continually improve your thinking processes.

Standing Back: Kinds of Writing Most writing about literature seeks to do one or both of two things:

• to inform (“This play was written only five years ago”; “The images of night suggest death.”)

• to persuade (“This early story is one of her best”; “Despite the widespread view that the images of night suggest death, I will argue that here they do nothing more than indicate a time of day.”)

Whether you are primarily concerned with informing or with persuading (and the two purposes can be nearly indistinguishable, because writers usually want to persuade readers that their information is significant), you ought to be prompted by a strong interest in a work or a body of work. This interest is usually a highly favorable response to the material (essentially, “That’s terrific”), but an unfavorable response (“Awful!”) or a sense of bafflement (“Why would anyone care for that?”) may also motivate writing. In any case, because you have been stimulated by a work, you put words onto paper, perhaps first by jotting down observations in no particular sequence. Later, you will organize them for the benefit of an imagined reader, offering what D. H. Lawrence calls “a reasoned account of the feelings” produced by a work. Don’t be embarrassed if a work produces strong feelings in you, pleasant or unpleasant.

Nonanalytical versus Analytical Writing Writing about literature includes a range of types of writing. Some types of writing are nonanalytical-they try to avoid argument and attempt instead to inform, to describe, or to define. Some types of writing narrate personal responses. Although personal responses can hardly be argued about in rational terms, they can and must be set forth clearly and interestingly so that the reader understands—because the writer points to things in the literary work that evoke the responses—why the writer experiences these responses and why the writer evaluates the work as he or she does. Types of nonanalytical writing include the following:

• Description and summary (“The story is unusually brief, only a page long”; “The narrator explained his morning ritual of making coffee and then described riding the subway to work.”)

• Definition (“The poem is a Shakespearian sonnet, since it is comprised of three quatrains and a couplet, following the rhyme scheme of abab, cdcd, efef, gg.”)

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24    Chapter 2 How to Engage in Critical Thinking about Literature: A Crash Course

• personal report or response or what might be called “confession,” a report of one’s immediate response and perhaps of later responses (“The story reminds me of an experience that I had when I was about the age of the central character”).

• Review, evaluation, or judgment (“The story is shocking” or “There is nothing here that holds my interest.”) In Appendix A, we discuss critical strategies that underlie evaluation. Here, it is enough to say that the two most common sources for judging are: (1) a spontaneous personal response (“The death of a child is deeply disturbing”) and (2) a principle that is alleged to be widely held (“A story ought to be unified”).

Most academic writing about literature is chiefly explanatory and argumenta- tive or, we can say, analytical: It is concerned with examining relationships (for instance, of the parts to the whole within a work, or of historical causes and effects) and creating arguments about how those relationships work and what they mean. Your instructors will probably ask you to write papers that are chiefly ana- lytical, although some description, personal response, and review will almost surely be implicit (if not explicit) in your analyses. Analytical writing attempts to win over its audience through an interesting thesis, strong argumentation, compel- ling evidence, original insight, and clear organization.

• Analysis or explanation of the work, typically focusing on the conceptual ideas developed by the work and the internal relationships—the form and structure—of the work (“The second scene in this play has at least three functions”). As we have seen, an analytical paper results from close reading, inquiry, interpretation, and argumentation.

• Comparison (“While both poems present motherhood as challenging, the first emphasizes the negative feelings of overwork and the second empha- sizes the positive emotions of support.”)

• Synthesis (“These critics agree that the story presents a utopian vision of nineteenth-century farm life.”) Synthesis can also include the application of critical concepts or theories to a literary work (“Freud’s concept of the superego offers a way of understanding this character’s motivations”).

These analytical forms of writing aim to convince the reader of your interpre- tation of the work. Argumentation is central to these analytical forms of writing:

• Argument or writing that makes a strong claim and offers reasons advanc- ing that specific understanding of the literary work. The reasons will be supported by evidence, notably references to passages from the literary works that you are discussing.

As you review the critical thinking process outlined in this chapter, the most obvi- ous outcome of these steps is that you interpret a piece of literature—you figure out what you think that literary work means. In a literature-based class, the act of analysis is what it is all about! The ability to come to your own conclusions about a text’s meaning is the foundation for all sorts of activities—class discussions, class debates, class papers—all of which typically present an argument that a text emphasizes as a key idea. More generally, note the skills that this process develops. A critical thinker learns not only to become a better reader and writer but also to notice details and patterns, to feel comfortable asking questions, to develop interpretations, to remain open to alternate interpretations, to test his or her own ideas, and to make arguments. Literature invites you to develop critical thinking skills at the most sophisticated level.

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25

C h a p t e r 3

The Writer as Reader

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Explain the process of reading and responding to literature

• Use first responses, inquiry notes, and outlining to generate ideas for an essay

• Develop an analytical essay with an argumentative thesis

• Analyze an essay’s argument, structure, and idea development

• Evaluate a student essay

Reading and Responding Learning to write is in large measure learning to read. The text you should read most carefully is the one you yourself write—for example, an essay that makes an argument defending an interpretation. Your writing may start as jotting notes in the margin of a book that you are reading or in a journal, and it will go through sev- eral drafts before it becomes a finished essay. To produce something that another person will find worth reading, you must read each draft with care, trying to imag- ine the effect your words are likely to have on your reader. In writing about litera- ture, you will apply some of the same critical thinking skills to your reading; that is, you will examine your responses to what you are reading, and you will try to account for them.

Let’s begin by looking at a very short story by Kate Chopin.

Kate Chopin Kate O’Flaherty (1851–1904), born into a prosperous family in St. Louis in 1870, married Oscar Chopin, a French-Creole businessman from Louisiana. They lived in New Orleans, where they had six children. Oscar died of malaria in 1882, and in 1884, Kate returned to St. Louis, where, living with her mother and children, she began to write fiction.

Ripe Figs

Maman-Nainaine said that when the figs were ripe Babette might go to visit her cousins down on the Bayou-Lafourche where the sugar cane grows. Not that the ripening of figs had the least thing to do with it, but that is the way Maman- Nainaine was.

It seemed to Babette a very long time to wait; for the leaves upon the trees were tender yet, and the figs were like little hard, green marbles.

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26    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

But warm rains came along and plenty of strong sunshine, and though Maman-Nainaine was as patient as the statue of la Madone, and Babette as rest- less as a humming-bird, the first thing they both knew it was hot summertime. Every day Babette danced out to where the fig-trees were in a long line against the fence. She walked slowly beneath them, carefully peering between the gnarled, spreading branches. But each time she came disconsolate away again. What she saw there finally was something that made her sing and dance the whole long day.

When Maman-Nainaine sat down in her stately way to breakfast, the following morning, her muslin cap standing like an aureole about her white, placid face, Babette approached. She bore a dainty porcelain platter, which she set down be- fore her godmother. It contained a dozen purple figs, fringed around with their rich, green leaves.

“Ah,” said Maman-Nainaine arching her eyebrows, “how early the figs have ripened this year!”

“Oh,” said Babette. “I think they have ripened very late.” “Babette,” continued Maman-Nainaine, as she peeled the very plumpest figs

with her pointed silver fruit-knife, “you will carry my love to them all down on Bayou-Lafourche. And tell your Tante Frosine I shall look for her at Toussaint— when the chrysanthemums are in bloom.”

[1893]

Reading as Re-creation

If we had been Chopin’s contemporaries, we might have read this sketch in Vogue in 1893 or in an early collection of her works, A Night in Acadie (1897). However, since we live more than a century later, we inevitably read “Ripe Figs” in a some- what different way. This gets us to an important truth about writing and reading. A writer writes, sets forth his or her meaning, and attempts to guide the reader’s responses, as we all do when we send a text or an e-mail home saying that we’re thinking of dropping a course or asking for news or money. To this extent, the writer creates the written work and puts meaning in it.

But the reader, whether reading that written work as a requirement or for rec- reation, re-creates it in terms of his or her own experience and understanding. For instance, if your appeal for money is too indirect, the reader may miss it entirely or may sense it but feel that the need is not urgent. If, on the other hand, the appeal is direct or demanding, the reader may feel imposed upon, even assaulted. “Oh, but I didn’t mean it that way,” the writer later protests. Nevertheless, that’s the way the reader took it. The text or e-mail is “out there,” a physical reality standing be- tween the writer and the reader, but its meaning is something that both the reader and the writer make.

Since all readers bring themselves to a written work, they each bring some- thing individual. Although many of Chopin’s original readers knew that she wrote chiefly about the people of Louisiana, especially Creoles (descendants of the early French and Spanish settlers), Cajuns (descendants of the French whom the British had expelled from Canada in the eighteenth century), African Americans, and mu- lattoes, those readers must have varied in their attitudes about such people. And many of today’s readers do not (before they read a work by Chopin) know anything

5

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Reading and Responding    27

about her subject. Some readers may know where Bayou-Lafourche is, and they may have notions about what it looks like, but most readers will not. Indeed, many readers will not know that a bayou is a sluggish, marshy inlet or outlet of a river or lake.

Moreover, even if a present-day reader in Chicago, Seattle, or Juneau knows what a bayou is, he or she may assume that “Ripe Figs” depicts a way of life that is still current, whereas a reader from Louisiana may see in the work a lost way of life, a depiction of the good old days (or perhaps the bad old days, depending on the reader’s point of view). Much depends, we can say, on the reader’s storehouse of experience.

Reading for Understanding: Collecting Evidence and Making Reasonable Inferences

As readers, we can and should make an effort to understand what an author is get- ting at. To begin, we should make an effort to understand unfamiliar words. Per- haps we need not look up every word that we don’t know, at least on the first reading, but if certain unfamiliar words are repeated and thus seem especially important, we will want to look them up.

It happens that, in “Ripe Figs” a French word appears: “Tante Frosine,” which means “Aunt Frosine.” Fortunately, the meaning of the word is not crucial, and the context probably makes it clear that Frosine is an adult, which is all that we really need to know about her. However, a reader who does not know that chry- santhemums bloom in late summer or early autumn will miss part of Chopin’s meaning. The point is this: The writer is pitching, and she expects the reader to catch on.

On the other hand, although writers tell us a good deal, they cannot tell us everything. We know that Maman-Nainaine is Babette’s godmother, but we don’t know exactly how old Maman-Nainaine and Babette are. Further, Chopin tells us nothing of Babette’s parents. It sounds as though Babette and her godmother live alone, but readers’ opinions may differ. One reader may argue that Babette’s par- ents must be dead or ill; another may argue that the status of her parents is irrel- evant and that what counts is that Babette is supervised by only one person, a mature woman.

In short, a text includes indeterminacies (passages that careful readers agree are open to various interpretations) and gaps (things left unsaid in the story, such as why a godmother rather than a mother takes care of Babette). As we work our way through a text, we keep reevaluating what we have read, pull- ing the details together to make sense of them, in a process called consistency building.

Whatever the gaps are, careful readers will collect evidence and draw many reasonable inferences about Maman-Nainaine. We can list them:

• She is older than Babette. • She has a “stately way,” and she is “as patient as the statue of la Madone.” • She has an odd way (is it exasperating, engaging, or a little of each?) of

connecting actions with the seasons. • Given this last point, she seems to act slowly, to be very patient. • She is apparently used to being obeyed.

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28    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

At this point, you may want to go back and reread “Ripe Figs” to see what else you can say about Maman-Nainaine.

What inferences can we list about Babette?

• She is young. • She is active and impatient (“as restless as a humming-bird”). • She is obedient.

At this point, you may want to add to the list. If you compare your additions with those of a classmate, you may find that the

two of you disagree about what may reasonably be inferred from Chopin’s words. Suppose, for instance, that your classmate says that, although Babette is outwardly obedient, inwardly she probably hates Maman-Nainaine. Would you agree that this is an acceptable inference? If you don’t agree, how might you convince your class- mate that such a response is not justified? What arguments (supported by what evidence) would you offer? We are speaking here of an activity of mind we call critical thinking, a topic outlined in Chapter 2 and that will be discussed through- out this book.

Reading with Pen in Hand: Close Reading and Annotation

It’s probably best to read a work of literature straight through, enjoying it and let- ting yourself be carried along to the end. Then, when you have an overall view, you’ll want to read it again, noticing (for example) how certain innocent-seeming details early in the work prove to be important later.

Perhaps the best way to read attentively is, after a first reading, to mark the text, underlining or highlighting passages that seem especially interesting, and to jot down notes or queries in the margins. (Caution: Annotate and highlight, but don’t get so carried away that you highlight entire pages.)

The critical thinking skills developed by close reading are explored in Chapters 2, 4, and 6. Close reading encourages you to “notice what you notice,” using annotation to remark on aspects of the text that seem to convey meaningful ideas, raise interesting questions, or offer rich opportunities for interpretation. Close reading also encourages you to notice how literary content (the ideas conveyed by the text) is created by literary form (the structuring of the text through literary ele- ments, such as voice, imagery, setting, and word choice). By annotating the text, you’ll start the process of asking questions, gathering evidence, and formulating opinions about the text.

Let’s look at some sample annotations written by a student, Antonia Tenori, on “Ripe Figs.”

Student Work: Annotation

Kate Chopin

Ripe Figs

Maman-Nainaine said that when the figs were ripe Ba- bette might go to visit her cousins down on the Bayou- Lafourche where the sugar cane grows. Not that the ripen- ing of figs had the least thing to do with it, but that is the way Maman-Nainaine was.

It seemed to Babette a very long time to wait; for the leaves upon the trees were tender yet, and the figs were like little hard, green marbles.

But warm rains came along and plenty of strong sun- shine, and though Maman-Nainaine was as patient as the statue of la Madone, and Babette as restless as a humming- bird, the first thing they both knew it was hot summertime. Every day Babette danced out to where the fig-trees were in a long line against the fence. She walked slowly beneath them, carefully peering between the gnarled, spreading branches. But each time she came disconsolate away again. What she saw there finally was something that made her sing and dance the whole long day.

When Maman-Nainaine sat down in her stately way to breakfast, the following morning, her muslin cap standing like an aureole about her white, placid face, Babette ap- proached. She bore a dainty porcelain platter, which she set down before her godmother. It contained a dozen purple figs fringed around with their rich, green leaves.

“Ah,” said Maman-Nainaine arching her eyebrows, “how early the figs have ripened this year!”

“Oh,” said Babette. “I think they have ripened very late.” “Babette,”continued Maman-Nainaine, as she peeled the

very plumpest figs with her pointed silver fruit-knife, “you will carry my love to them all down on Bayou-Lafourche. And tell your Tante Frosine I shall look for her at Tous- saint—when the chrysanthemums are in bloom.”

strange

contrast between M-N and B

another contrast ceremonious

Check this?

nice echo contrast like a song

is M-N herself like a plump fig?

time passes fast for M-N slowly for B

B entrusted with a message of love

opens with figs; ends with chrys. (autumn)

fulfillment? Equivalent to figs ripening?

?

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Reading for Response: Recording First Reactions

Another useful way of getting at the meaning of a work of literature is to jot down your initial responses to it, recording your impressions as they come to you, in any order— almost as though you’re talking to yourself. Since no one else is going to read your notes, you can be entirely at ease. You can write in sentences or not; it’s up to you.

You can jot down your responses either before or after you annotate the text. Some readers find that annotating a text helps to produce ideas for further jottings; others prefer to jot down a few thoughts immediately after a first reading, and then, stimulated by these thoughts, they reread and annotate the text.

Write whatever comes into your mind, whatever the literary work triggers in your own imagination, and whatever you think are the important ideas or values, based on your own experience.

Here is Tenori’s first response to “Ripe Figs”:

Student Work: Response Writing

This is a very short story. I didn’t know stories were this short, but I like it because you can get it all quickly and it’s no trouble to reread it carefully. The shortness, though, leaves a lot of gaps for the reader to fill in. So much is not said. Your imagination is put to work.

Maman-Nainaine said that when the figs were ripe Ba- bette might go to visit her cousins down on the Bayou- Lafourche where the sugar cane grows. Not that the ripen- ing of figs had the least thing to do with it, but that is the way Maman-Nainaine was.

It seemed to Babette a very long time to wait; for the leaves upon the trees were tender yet, and the figs were like little hard, green marbles.

But warm rains came along and plenty of strong sun- shine, and though Maman-Nainaine was as patient as the statue of la Madone, and Babette as restless as a humming- bird, the first thing they both knew it was hot summertime. Every day Babette danced out to where the fig-trees were in a long line against the fence. She walked slowly beneath them, carefully peering between the gnarled, spreading branches. But each time she came disconsolate away again. What she saw there finally was something that made her sing and dance the whole long day.

When Maman-Nainaine sat down in her stately way to breakfast, the following morning, her muslin cap standing like an aureole about her white, placid face, Babette ap- proached. She bore a dainty porcelain platter, which she set down before her godmother. It contained a dozen purple figs fringed around with their rich, green leaves.

“Ah,” said Maman-Nainaine arching her eyebrows, “how early the figs have ripened this year!”

“Oh,” said Babette. “I think they have ripened very late.” “Babette,”continued Maman-Nainaine, as she peeled the

very plumpest figs with her pointed silver fruit-knife, “you will carry my love to them all down on Bayou-Lafourche. And tell your Tante Frosine I shall look for her at Tous- saint—when the chrysanthemums are in bloom.”

strange

contrast between M-N and B

another contrast ceremonious

Check this?

nice echo contrast like a song

is M-N herself like a plump fig?

time passes fast for M-N slowly for B

B entrusted with a message of love

opens with figs; ends with chrys. (autumn)

fulfillment? Equivalent to figs ripening?

? Reading and Responding    29

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30    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

But I can see Maman-N sitting at her table—pleasantly powerful—no one you would want to argue with. She’s formal and distant—and definitely has quirks. She wants to postpone Babette’s trip, but we don’t know why. And you can sense B’s frustration. But maybe she’s teaching her that something really good is worth waiting for and that anticipation is as much fun as the trip. Maybe I can develop this idea. Another thing. I can tell they are not poor—from two things. The pointed silver fruit knife and the porcelain platter, and the fact that Maman sits down to breakfast in a “stately” way. They are the leisure class. But I don’t know enough about life on the bayous to go into this. Their life is different from mine; no one I know has that kind of peaceful rural life.

Reading for Inquiry: Ask Questions and Brainstorm Ideas

After getting your initial responses down on paper, you are ready to start moving toward turning those reactions into an analytical paper by engaging in inquiry, or the process of active question asking. Inquiry-based questions aim to generate in- sights into a text and uncover new ideas. They are typically open-ended concep- tual questions rather than information-based questions, asking “how” and “why” and trying to determine a text’s meaning and how that meaning is created.

After reading the story, annotating it, and jotting down her first responses, Antonia reread her notes and highlighted any ideas that she thought were espe- cially noteworthy. She then jotted down more analytical ideas on her laptop.

She generated a series of questions, placing each question on a new page so that she could further develop her thinking. Is “Ripe Figs” a story, or is it just a character sketch? (She put her responses on a page for that topic.) What contrasts are notable? (She recorded the material on another notebook page.) How should we define the relationship between Maman and Babette? (She recorded her ideas on another notebook page.) What words, phrases, or images are unusual? (She recorded this material on another notebook page.) A day later, when she returned to work on her paper, stimulated by another reading of “Ripe Figs” and a review of her notes, Antonia made additional notes that took this shape:

Student Work: Inquiry Notes

Is Ripe Figs a story, or is it just a character sketch?

Story = has a plot, events —there is some conflict and resolution—there is the sense of moving forward —there is a thematic emphasis on time

Character sketch = focuses on characters’ key qualities —this focuses mostly on describing the two characters and their interactions—

these interactions and their emphasis on time seem to make this more of a story

What contrasts are notable?

The contrast between age and youth: time Between patience and impatience Between Babette “restless as a humming-bird” and Maman with a “white, placid

face”

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Between seasons: spring and summer, unripe and ripe, warm and hot Story emphasizes the cycle of seasons? Between observing (the figs) and longing (for visit)

How should we define the relationship between Maman and Babette?

Godmother and goddaughter: wealthy, leisured Mother figure and daughter figure Old age and youth: the cycle of aging? Solid and “stately” vs. energetic and “restless” Sitting vs. dancing Perceived passage of time as “early” vs. perceived changes as “late”: time issue — This raises another question: Why does Babette want to visit her cousins so

much? What is the relationship of Mamam and Babette to her cousins? Are they more fun,

youthful, energetic like Babette?

What words or phrases or images are unusual?

“ripening” leaves: “tender”; figs: “hard” “patient as a statue” vs. “restless as a humming-bird” “Babette danced out,” “sing and dance the whole long day” “sat down in her stately way,” “like an aureole about her white, placid face” “bore a dainty porcelain platter” “how early the figs have ripened this year” vs. “I think they have ripened

very late” “peeled the plumpest fig with her pointed silver fruit-knife” “when the chrysanthemums are in bloom”

Reading in Context: Identifying Your Audience and Purpose

Now, suppose that you are beginning the process of writing about “Ripe Figs” for someone else. The first question to ask yourself is, “For whom am I writing?” That is, who is your audience? (You are probably writing because an instructor has asked you to do so, but you must still imagine an audience. Your instructor may tell you, for instance, to write for your classmates or to write for the best teacher you had in high school.)

• If you are writing for people who are familiar with some of Chopin’s work, you won’t have to say much about the author.

• If you are writing for an audience that perhaps has never heard of Chopin, you may want to include a brief biographical note of the sort that we gave earlier.

• If you are writing for an audience that you believe has read several works by Chopin, you may want to make comparisons, explaining—arguing, really—how “Ripe Figs” resembles or differs from Chopin’s other work.

In a sense, your audience is your collaborator and helps you to decide what you will say. You are also helped by your sense of purpose. If your aim is to introduce readers to Chopin, you will make points that reflect this purpose. If your aim is to tell people what you think “Ripe Figs” means to say about human relationships or about time, you will address that subject. If your aim is to have a little fun and to

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32    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

entertain an audience that is already familiar with “Ripe Figs,” you may decide to write a parody (a humorous imitation) of the story.

From Reading to Writing: Developing an Analytical Essay with an

Argumentative Thesis Let’s assume that you want to describe “Ripe Figs” to someone who has not read it. You will briefly summarize the action, such as it is, and will mention where it takes place; tell who the characters are, including what their relationship is; and note what, if anything, happens to them. Beyond that, you’ll try to explain as hon- estly as you can what makes “Ripe Figs” appealing or interesting—or trifling, or boring, or whatever. You will want to explain what the story means and how it has created that meaning. You will most likely focus on the conceptual ideas raised by the story that you find most important. That is, you will argue a thesis, even though you won’t want to make so formal a statement as “In this essay, I will argue that . . .” or “This essay will attempt to prove that. . . .” Your essay will essentially be an argu- ment because (perhaps after a brief summary of the work) you will point to the evidence that has caused you to respond as you did.

Student Analytical Essay: “Images of Ripening in Kate Chopin’s ‘Ripe Figs’ ”

Here is an essay that Antonia Tenori wrote for an assignment that asked for an analysis of “Ripe Figs” in a paper of “about 500 words (two double-spaced typed pages).”

Tenori 1

Antonia Tenori

Professor Lee

English 102

11 February 2016

Images of Ripening in Kate Chopin’s “Ripe Figs”

Very little happens in Kate Chopin’s one-page story, “Ripe Figs.”

Maman-Nainaine tells her goddaughter Babette that she may “visit her

cousins down on the Bayou-Lafourche” “when the figs were ripe”; the figs

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Tenori 2

ripen, and Babette is given permission to go (25). So little happens in “Ripe

Figs” that the story at first appears merely to be a character sketch that

illustrates, through Babette and her godmother, the contrast between youth

and age. But by means of the natural imagery of the tale, Chopin suggests

more than this: She asks her readers to see the relationship of human time

to nature’s seasons, and she suggests that, try as we may to push the process

of maturity, growth or “ripening” happens in its own time.

The story clearly contrasts the impatience of youth with the patience

and dignity that come with age. Babette, whose name suggests she is still a

“little baby,” is “restless as a humming-bird” (26). Each day when she eagerly

goes to see if the figs have ripened, she doesn’t simply walk but she dances.

By contrast, Maman-Nainaine has a “stately way,” she is “patient as the

statue of la Madone,” and there is an “aureole”—a radiance—”about her

white, placid face” (26). The brief dialog near the end of the story also

emphasizes the difference between the two characters. When the figs finally

ripen, Maman-Nainaine is surprised (she arches her eyebrows), and she

exclaims, “how early the figs have ripened this year!” Babette replies, “I

think they have ripened very late” (26).

Chopin is not simply remarking here that time passes slowly for

young people, and quickly for old people. She suggests that nature moves at

its own pace, regardless of human wishes. Babette, young and “tender” as

the fig leaves, can’t wait to “ripen” (25). Her visit to Bayou-Lafourche is not

a mere pleasure trip, but represents her coming into her own season of

maturity. Babette’s desire to rush this process is tempered by a condition

that her godmother sets: Babette must wait until the figs ripen, since

everything comes in its own season. Maman-Nainaine recognizes the

patterns of the natural world, the rhythms of life. By asking Babette to

await the ripening, the young girl is asked to pay attention to the patterns

as well.

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34    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

Tenori 3

Chopin further suggests that if we pay attention and wait with

patience, the fruits of our own growth will be sweet, plump, and beautiful,

like the “dozen purple figs, fringed around with their rich, green leaves,”

that Babette finally offers her godmother (26). Chopin uses natural imagery

effectively, interweaving the young girl’s growth with the rhythms of the

seasons. In this way, the reader is connected with both processes in an

intimate and inviting way.

Tenori 4

Work Cited

Chopin, Kate. “Ripe Figs.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William

Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017.

25-26. Print.

[New page]

The Analytical Essay: Argument and Structure Analyzed

• The title of the essay is informative; it clearly indicates the focus of the analysis. Notice, too, that it is much more interesting than “An Analysis of a Story” or “An Analysis of Kate Chopin’s ‘Ripe Figs’” or “‘Ripe Figs’: A Study” or “An Analysis of Imagery.” For your own essays, construct titles that inform and interest your reader.

• The first sentence names the author and title being written about. Strictly speaking, this information is redundant, since it appears in the essay’s title, but it is customary to give the author’s full name and the title of the work early in the essay, and it is essential to give such information when it is not in the title.

• The second sentence offers enough plot summary to enable the reader to follow the discussion. Notice, however, that the essay as a whole is much more than a summary of the plot. The summary is offered early in order to make the analysis intelligible. Chiefly, the opening paragraph presents one view (e.g., the view that Antonia Tenori believes is inadequate); then, after a transitional “but,” it offers a second view and presents a thesis—the point that you will argue in the essay.

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Perhaps the most common error that students make in writing about literature is to confuse a summary of the plot with analysis of the work. A little plot telling is acceptable, to remind your reader of what happens, but normally your essay will be devoted to setting forth a thesis about a work and supporting that thesis with evidence. Your readers do not want to know what happens in the work; they want to know what you make of the work— how you interpret it or why you like or dislike it.

• The last sentence of the first paragraph provides the thesis statement: Chopin “asks her readers to see the relationship of human time to nature’s seasons, and she suggests that, try as we may to push the process of matu- rity, growth or ‘ripening’ happens in its own time.” Note that this thesis is conceptual, exploring ideas of human time, the seasons, and maturity. Note also that the thesis is argumentative, maintaining that Chopin presents a spe- cific understanding of time—that the process of maturity cannot be rushed.

• In the second paragraph, Tenori supports her thesis by providing brief quo- tations. These quotations are not padding; rather, they are evidence sup- porting her assertion that Chopin “contrasts the impatience of youth with the patience and dignity that come with age.”

• In the third paragraph, Tenori develops her thesis (“Chopin is not simply. . . . She suggests. . . .”).

• The final paragraph begins with a helpful transition (“Chopin further sug- gests”), offers additional evidence, and ends with a new idea (about the reader’s response to the story) that takes the analysis a step further. The es- say avoids the deadliest kind of conclusion, a mere summary of the essay (“Thus we have seen,” or some such words). Tenori’s effective final sentence nicely draws the reader into the essay. (Effective final sentences can be diffi- cult to write; we give advice about writing them on pages 218 and 274.)

Tenori wrote this paper for an assignment that asked for five hundred words. If the first question to ask is “To whom am I writing?” the second question to ask is “What is the length of the assignment?” The answer to this second question will provide two sorts of guidance: It will give you some sense of how much time you should devote to preparing the paper—an instructor expects you to spend more time on a ten-page paper than on a one-page paper—and it will give you a sense of how much detail you can include. For a short paper—say, one or two pages— you will need to make your main point with directness; you will not have space for lots of details, just those that support the main point. This is what Tenori aims to achieve in her second and third paragraphs, where she highlights the term “ripens” and briefly, but effectively, develops its implications. For a longer paper of three to five pages or more, you can examine the characters, setting, and central themes in depth, and you can focus on more details in the text to strengthen your analysis.

The Writing Process: From First Responses to Final Essay

Antonia Tenori’s essay is good because it is clear and interesting, and especially because it helps to develop a reader’s understanding and enjoyment of Chopin’s story. Now let’s go backstage, so to speak, to see how this student turned her notes into an effective final draft.

Capturing Earliest Responses. After reading the story, Tenori annotated it, marking whatever she thought was especially noteworthy. She then captured her inquiry process by jotting down notes on her laptop, using note-taking software.

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36    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

As seen, she asked interesting questions that pushed her thinking further: Is “Ripe Figs” a story, or is it just a character sketch? What contrasts are notable? How should we define the relationship between Maman and Babette? What words or phrases or images are unusual? Tenori started to answer those questions and then, a day later, returned to her reading and brainstorming and added additional notes.

Organizing Notes. When the time came to turn her notes into a draft essay, Tenori reviewed the notes and added further thoughts. Next, she organized the note pages, putting together into one section the pages about characterization and into another section the pages about the seasons. Reviewing the notes in each sec- tion, on the basis of her review (after making a backup copy), she deleted a few pages that no longer seemed useful and moved an occasional page into a different section (via the Contents view). She then started to think about how she might organize her essay.

As a first step in settling on an organization, she arranged the notebook sections into a sequence that seemed reasonable. It made sense, she thought, to begin with a brief biographical sketch of Chopin, but she soon decided not to include this mate- rial because the reader would probably already know it, it would take up too much of the paper’s length, and, in any case, it was not relevant to the argument that she planned to set forth. She decided to go on to her major points about the story, then to refine some of these points, and finally to offer a conclusion. This organization, she felt, was reasonable and would enable the reader to follow her argument easily.

Preparing a Preliminary Outline. In order to get a clear idea of where she might be going, Tenori then typed an outline, following the sequence of her note packets—the organization of her chief points became an outline. In short, she pre- pared a map to confirm that each part of her paper would lead coherently to the next part.

Surveying her outline, Tenori became aware of points that she should have included but had overlooked. Her first outline and the revised version of it follow.

A tentative outline is a preliminary map that helps the writer to see not only pointless detours that need to be eliminated but also undeveloped areas that need to be worked up. As the two versions of Tenori’s outline indicate, drafting her map enabled her to make important changes before she wrote a first draft.

Student Work: Outlining

First Outline

Bio of Chopin Plot summary Characterization Babette Maman-N Contrasts Youth: activity, impatient Age: stately, ”statue” Differences in perception of nature Point? Meaning?

Revised Outline

Little plot, emph. on contrasting characters Characters related to seasons Contrasts spring vs autumn youth vs maturity impatience vs patience (?) Significance, meaning Maman-N as teacher some things can’t be hurried implication that B is maturing, can carry message, will become aware of the changing seasons, and that there is a right time for each action

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RogeRs • Three Soldiers    37

Writing a Draft. Working from her thoughtfully revised outline, Tenori wrote a first draft, which she then revised. The second draft, when further revised, became the final essay. Microsoft Word, for example, allows you to track the revi- sions made to a document and look at different versions of a document. How- ever, many writers find comfort in having a printed copy of each draft to go over with a pen; the desired changes can then be made (and kept track of) on the computer.

Other Possibilities for Writing

You might write a paper of a very different sort, based on the same story by Chopin but emphasizing creative thinking in addition to analytical thinking. Con- sider the following possibilities:

1. Write a sequel, moving from fall to spring. 2. Write a letter from Babette, at Bayou-Lafourche, to Maman-Nainaine. 3. Imagine that Babette is now an old woman, writing her memoirs. What

does she say about Maman-Nainaine? 4. Write a narrative based on your own experience of learning a lesson in

patience.

From Reading to Writing: Moving from Brainstorming to Analytical Essay

BruCe holland rogers Bruce Holland Rogers, an American writer who has won numerous prizes for his short fiction, teaches in the MFA program of the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. In 2001, a film, The Other Side, was based on his short novel, Lifeboat on a Burning Sea.

The following story consists of three stories, each of which contains sixty-nine words. The form originated with a short-lived, Toronto-based magazine, NFC, which set the limit of sixty-nine words, exclusive of the title. From this limit, there somehow evolved the story that consists of three thematically related stories, each of sixty-nine words, a form now known as the three-six-nine.

Three Soldiers

1. The Hardest Question

My marines bring me questions. “When do we get to shower?” “Sergeant, how do you say ‘Good afternoon’ again?” “Sarge, where can I get more gun oil?” I have answers. “Tomorrow, maybe.” “Maysuh alheer.” “Use mine.” Answering their questions is my job. But when Anaya was shot and bleeding out, he grabbed my arm and said, “Sergeant? Sergeant?” I understood the question, but damn. I didn’t have an answer.

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38    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

2. Foreign War

No U.S. soldier who could see that kid would have shot him. But that’s long-range ordnance for you. Calder stood next to me in the street, looking at the pieces. “We’ve come so far from home,” he said, “that we’ll never get back.” “You dumbass,” I said. But a year later I stood on the tarmac hugging my child, thinking of that kid in pieces, and I wasn’t home.

3. Decisions, Decisions

In morning twilight, far away, my men are making up their minds:

What’s that guy carrying? Friend or foe?

I should be there, helping them decide. My wife and my parents do their best to make Christmas dinner conversation around my silence. An hour ago, I was yell- ing at Angie for turning on the damn news. My father, carving, won’t meet my eyes. He says, “White meat, or dark?”

[2004]

The Writing Process: From Response Writing to Final Essay

Now, for the responses to “Three Soldiers” by a student who had been given only the biographical note that appears above the text and the suggestion that students begin by jotting down their first reactions to each story, such as:

• What puzzles you? • What interests you? • Are there significant connections among the three stories?

Here is the response of one student, Will Holly. Notice how he focuses on asking questions about the text and investigating the questions asked within the text. This is productive inquiry.

Student Work: Response Writing

This business of 69 words seems silly—crazy—to me. I wouldn’t want to learn that Shake- speare wrote Hamlet because he was challenged to write a play of exactly such-and-such a number of words. Nutty—but I am glad that Rogers did write the stories, for whatever reason. What sort of puzzles me is that I like them—even though I ought to be depressed by them—stuff about a soldier dying, a kid blown to pieces, soldiers who can’t get over their terrible experiences. Why do we read this stuff, and—maybe a bigger puzzle—why do I like it? In the first story, exactly what is “the hardest question”? I think the hardest question—not the first three questions but the question hidden in the word “Sergeant?”— the question asked but not asked in words, by the soldier who “was shot and bleeding out” (which I think means he is bleeding to death)—must be, “Why am I dying?” or something close to this. Maybe the question is “Why ME?” but in any case, it is a question about “bleeding out,” and this question is a lot harder than “when do we shower” or “how do you say such-and-such in a foreign language?” or “where can I get oil?” Notice that

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the sergeant does not have an answer for this question. Sure, we can give answers, but we realize that our answers cannot be adequate to the terrifying occasion. In the second story, there is no question, but we are still concerned with death in war. A soldier is looking at the “pieces” of a kid who was killed by long-range gunfire. This soldier says, “We’ve come so far from home that we’ll never get back.” What does he mean? After all, most of the soldiers will actually get back to home. I think he means that we have had an experience—an experience we could not possibly have imagined when we were safe at home, maybe at college or maybe at some job, and now we can never be the same, we can never regain our naivete. We can literally go home, but we will be so changed by the experience that everything will look different. And in fact, in the last line of this very short story this soldier does get home, and he is hugging his own child, but his thoughts are in the warzone. So although he is physically home, he is not mentally home. In the third story, the characters are also back home—the soldier is with his parents and his wife—but it is clear that his mind is still in the war zone. He is thinking— as any soldier in a combat area would think when he sees a stranger—“What’s that guy carrying?” and “Friend or foe?” These questions are different, VERY different—from the trivial question that his father is asking, carving the chicken or turkey at the Christmas dinner, “White meat, or dark?” Again, he is home, but he is so changed from when he was last home that he is not home, he is in another world. The order of the stories: The first story is set in—well, I don’t know where, but I guess maybe Iraq. Certainly in a war zone. The second story, too, is set there, but they talk about home. The third story is set at home—but the soldier is still mentally at war. Further, there is a nice connection between the first and the last stories: The first story pretty much begins with a question, and the last story ends with a question, so, in a way, the wheel has come full circle. There is a sense of unity, of completion. It’s sort of frightening, but, well, one would have to be crazy to think that the experience of war— which can include killing innocent children—is not horrible!

Student Analytical Essay: “Thinking about Three Soldiers Thinking”

The student ultimately wrote the following short essay.

Holly 1

Will Holly

Professor Cargill

English 101A

28 January 2016

Thinking about Three Soldiers Thinking

On the printed page Bruce Holland Rogers’s “Three Soldiers” is three

very short stories, and each of the three can stand alone and can be read

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40    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

Holly 2

with interest, but the three really go together and they form a whole that is

greater than any of the parts.

All of the stories deal with soldiers who are engaged in killing

people—maybe in Vietnam or Iraq, I think but I am not certain, and the

exact locale does not really matter. The first story, “The Hardest Question,”

begins with some trivial questions that soldiers ask a sergeant (“When do we

get to shower”) but it ends, a few sentences later, with a soldier who is

“bleeding out,” and whose question—repeated—is only one word long,

“Sergeant?” (37). The reader probably is supposed to understand that the

soldier is bleeding to death, and the question in his mind is something like,

“Sergeant, will I die?” or maybe it is, “Sergeant, why me?” The sergeant can

easily answer the earlier questions, about showering, and so forth, but he

gives no answer to what the title of the story calls “The Hardest Question.”

When readers start to read a story called “The Hardest Question,” they

probably expect to hear the question stated fully, and they probably also expect

some sort of answer to the question. Here, the question is never stated fully—we

just get “Sergeant?”—and it certainly isn’t answered (37). Does that mean

we are disappointed with the story? No, the story, though painful, is

complete. We know there is no satisfactory answer to the question of the

soldier who is “bleeding out” (37).

The second story, “Foreign War,” is also only a few sentences long. It

begins by saying that a soldier is looking at “the pieces” of a “kid” who has

been killed by “long-range ordnance” (38). A few sentences later the soldier

is home, hugging his own kid, but his mind is back at the scene of the

disaster, and he realizes that although he can return home physically, in

another sense he can never be back home again, can never return to the

place where he had been unaware of such horrors.

The third story, “Decisions, Decisions” continues this theme of being

back home but not being at home. The soldier is with his family (wife and

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Holly 3

parents), and is having Christmas dinner. But when we begin reading the

story we do not know that this is the situation. The story begins, “In morning

twilight, far away, my men are making up their minds” (38). And then we get

two questions, “What’s that guy carrying?” and “Friend or foe?” (38).

Probably when readers first read these questions they think that even though

the speaker says he is “far away” from his men he is still abroad with other

soldiers—soldiers who quite naturally are suspicious of some “guy” carrying

something—it could be a weapon—and who, seeing a stranger, wonder if it is

“Friend or foe?” (38). We then learn where he is physically—although his

mind is still on the battlefield, where his men are in danger, but he really is

safe at home with his family. Here at home the decisions are not the life-and-

death decisions of a soldier in combat (“What’s that guy carrying?” “Friend or

foe?”) but are the utterly trivial decisions concerning whether one prefers the

white meat or the dark meat of the Christmas bird (38). Bruce Holland Rogers

is probably not saying that we should not express our preferences when it

comes to food, but he is saying—or, rather, he is memorably showing us—that

for someone who has gone through such experiences as seeing a man bleed to

death, or seeing the blown-up pieces of a child—to be asked to make

“decisions, decisions” about food preferences is almost intolerable (38).

The three stories are separate and they can be read as separate things,

but they are really three parts of one story. The title is “Three Soldiers,” so we

must assume that the characters in each of the three stories are different,

but they really add up to one character, a soldier who has seen the

unbearable, and who will carry the memories for the rest of his life, whether

he is hugging his child or sitting at a family Christmas dinner. Put this way,

the story sounds deeply depressing, and a reader might wonder why Rogers

thinks we should read this, but in fact, the story is told so effectively, so

vividly, so concisely, so memorably, that it comes across as something that

one wants to tell one’s friends they must read. It’s not that it has an

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42    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

Holly 4

encouraging moral (it doesn’t) or a happy ending (it doesn’t), but it is told

so skillfully—for instance, the first story begins with a question and the last

story ends with a question—and it is told with such apparent simplicity and

honesty that a reader feels he or she must share it with others.

The Analytical Essay: The Development of Ideas Analyzed

Let’s look at this short essay.

• The title, though not exceptionally good, is adequate. Will Holly tells us that, when he was working on his draft, he was very much taken with his percep- tion that the stories are closely related—for instance, that questions begin the first story and a question ends the last story—and he thought he would title his essay “What Goes Around Comes Around.” But, when he drafted the es- say, he realized that this title sounded as though it referred to some aspect of a plot in which a character ends up where he or she started, or gets what he or she deserves, and Holly decided that it wasn’t suitable. He then considered “Thinking About ‘Three Soldiers’” but soon decided that this title was too vague. Holly says he was getting desperate until at the last minute he realized that he was thinking about soldiers who are thinking, and so he came up with his title, “Thinking About Three Soldiers Thinking.” This title is accurate, and it involves a bit of wordplay, so in our view it is appropriate.

• The opening paragraph lets the reader know what author and what work(s) will be discussed—always a good idea!—and it makes the interesting thesis argument that the three works are independent yet also form a unified whole. The reader now expects that the rest of the essay will offer support for this claim.

• The second and third paragraphs discuss the first story. They briefly sum- marize the plot, but they do much more: They explain aspects of the story.

Holly 5

Work Cited

Rogers, Bruce Holland. “Three Soldiers.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan

Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston:

Pearson, 2017. 37-38. Print

[New page]

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BRadBuRy • August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains    43

• The fourth paragraph, devoted to the second story, both summarizes and offers an interpretation of the significance of the plot. It tells the reader what the happenings add up to. The student is thinking, not just retelling what the story clearly says.

• The fifth paragraph, devoted to the third story, connects that story with the preceding story (“The third story . . . continues this theme of being back home”) and then reports that here readers probably have to revise their sense of what is going on in the story. It’s not that the author of the story is clumsy or careless; rather, Rogers wants to bring us back to the battlefield, so rather than offer an objective view of the setting, he puts us in the sol- dier’s mind. Again, the essayist is thinking, analyzing, and offering evidence to support a thesis.

• The final paragraph begins by reasserting the thesis (the three stories are so connected by theme that they cohere as one story), and then it comments on why we are not depressed by reading a story (or three stories) on this theme. You may disagree with the author’s conclusions, but we think you will agree that the essay goes beyond plot telling and offers interesting rea- sons to support its thesis.

From Reading to Writing: Moving from Preliminary Outline to Analytical Essay

ray BradBury Ray Bradbury (1920–2012) was born in Waukegan, Illinois, and was educated there and in Los Angeles. While a high school student, he published his first science fiction in the school’s magazine, and by 1941, he was publishing professionally. The story printed here is from The Martian Chronicles (1950), a collection of linked short stories. Among his other works are Fahrenheit 451 (1953), Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962), and Death Is a Lonely Business (1985).

August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-Tock, seven o’clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o’clock! as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine! In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunny-side up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk. “Today is August 4, 2026,” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, “in the city of Allendale, California.” It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone’s birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills.” Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight- one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was

5

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44    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today. . . .” And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.

At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them into the sink, where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.

Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean. Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were acrawl

with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.

Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.

Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted windowpanes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.

The five spots of paint—the man, the woman, the children, the ball—remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.

The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light. Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had

inquired, “Who goes there? What’s the password?” and, getting no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.

It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!

The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, at- tending, in choirs. But the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion con- tinued senselessly, uselessly.

Twelve noon. A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch. The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and

fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.

For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped into the sighing vent of an incin- erator which sat like evil Baal in a dark corner.

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The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here.

It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich baked odor and the scent of maple syrup.

The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.

Two o’clock, sang a voice. Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly

as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind. Two-fifteen. The dog was gone. In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up

the chimney. Two thirty-five. Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a

shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sand- wiches. Music played.

But the tables were silent and the cards untouched. At four o’clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the pan-

eled walls. Four-thirty. The nursery walls glowed. Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers

cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp, cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of deli- cate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched weed, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes.

It was the children’s hour. Five o’clock. The bath filled with clear hot water. Six, seven, eight o’clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in

the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o’clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here. Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: “Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?” The house was silent. The voice said at last, “Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem

at random.” Quiet music rose to back the voice. “Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite. . . .

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

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46    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.”

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o’clock the house began to die. The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window.

Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant!

“Fire!” screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: “Fire, fire, fire!”

The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.

The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistoled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was gone.

The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings.

Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes! And then, reinforcements. From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gush-

ing green chemical. The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake.

Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.

But the fire was clever. It had sent flames outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronze shrapnel on the beams.

The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes hung there. The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the

heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed, Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a

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forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river. . . .

Ten more voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other cho- ruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the stove working again, hysterically hissing!

The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlor. The parlor into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze, armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered mound deep under.

Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke. Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone.

Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped rubble and steam:

“Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is. . . .” [1950]

The Writing Process: From Outlining to Final Essay

Here is one student‘s response to Bradbury‘s story, preceded by the notes that the student used in preparing a draft. Notice that the final essay does not slavishly fol- low the notes. For instance, although the student jotted down four possible titles for her essay, none of them is the title that she settled on.

Student Work: Outlining

Possible title: Bradbury’s Meaning for us Bradbury and Today Learning from Literature/Bradbury’s Lesson Bradbury’s Lesson for us Begin by quoting first sentence Begin with joke about airline?? Define science fiction? Technology today—can do almost everything—but is this really LIVING? Maybe such a life is a living death. Evidence??

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48    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

End essay: Does Bradbury show us our future? A wake-up call. 2O26 is not really very far away end with an example of unnecessary technology

Student Analytical Essay: “The Lesson of ‘August 2026’”

Working with this sort outline, the student produced the following essay. As the questions that follow the essay indicate, this essay makes an interesting argument, but it could have developed its ideas further. A more detailed outline might have led to a more fully developed paper. As you read the paper, consider how the writer might have expanded the paper by engaging more fully with the story and providing more evidence from the story.

Daniels 1

Esther Daniels

Professor Izzard

English 101a

14 January 2016

The Lesson of “August 2026”

Before discussing some of the implications of Ray Bradbury’s short

story “August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains,” I want to tell a little joke.

The joke goes like this. Passengers are seated on the latest kind of airplane,

a plane that flies without a pilot because all of the controls are operated

mechanically, and the entire flight has been preprogrammed. After all the

passengers have boarded the plane, and the door has closed, and the

passengers, in accordance with the pre-recorded announcement, have

fastened their seat-belts, the plane begins to taxi for a take-off. As the

plane moves down the runway, the sound system says, in its flat mechanical

voice, “You are now beginning your flight on the most technologically

advanced airplane ever designed. There is no pilot or copilot, and there are

no flight attendants. Everything has been preprogrammed. The plane will

taxi for 60 seconds and then will take off. Nothing can go wrong . . . nothing

can go wrong . . . nothing can . . . nothing can . . . nothing can. . . .”

None of us has been on such a plane, but we probably all have had, in

a mild way, the sort of experience that the joke implies. We have bought

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Daniels 2

some wonderful gadget—let’s say an alarm clock, and we have programmed it

according to the complicated instructions, and it has failed to go off the next

morning. Apparently we had set it for p.m. instead of a.m., but we still don’t

see what we did wrong. Or, try as we may we cannot change the margins on

the computer. Or the airline has put our luggage on the wrong airplane. Or . . .

None of us wants to give up the wonderful devices we rely on—let’s

say the automobile, the computer, the iPod. We can even attend an English

composition class, and, if we think it is boring, we can silently be

exchanging messages with a friend a thousand miles away. Despite these

pleasures and these great conveniences, there are times, I think, when most

of us must wonder, “Are we really living, or are our machines doing the living

for us?” In “August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains,” Ray Bradbury gives us

a glimpse—with great exaggeration, of course—of what our lives may be like

in the future when machines have become all-powerful.

In Bradbury’s story, a preprogrammed house runs everything: sounds

wake people up, mechanisms prepare food and clean the house, and other

provide entertainment. If the people don’t make a choice, a machine chooses

something on their behalf. At the opening of the story, the house makes the

people’s breakfast, reminds the people of the weather and their work day,

cleans itself with robot mice, and automatic sprinklers water the lawn.

Are the people who are served by these devices happy? We don’t know,

because there are no people in Bradbury’s story. They have all been

incinerated, and only their silhouettes survive on the wall of the house. We

learn that some major disaster has happened in the future, as the ruined city

near the house is giving off a radioactive glow. Although the preprogrammed

house seems to fill the people’s every need and want, we, as readers of the

story, probably feel that these people could not really have been happy. Things

are too programmed; the people who lived in this society must have become

almost like machines themselves. With everything provided for them, how did

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Daniels 3

these people think and feel for themselves? Probably none of us wants to say

that in our own lives we actually want difficulties, but, still, when we read

Bradbury’s story we probably say that we would not want to live in a society

that was as highly programmed with labor-saving devices as Bradbury shows.

And yet, that is the way we seem to be going, with faster computers,

smarter houses. You can now, from your place of work, phone your home and

turn the oven on and set the temperature and the duration, so that when

you get home the beef has been roasted to medium-rare.

Bradbury first published the story in 1950, so the story was set

seventy-six years in the future. It was set, we can say, at a time when most of his

readers would probably not still be alive. But today, 2026 is not all that far from

us. Most of us who today are reading this story will still be alive in 2026, unless,

as the story warns us, we allow our technology—gadgets that can do just about

anything—to blow ourselves up. Bradbury’s “August 2026: There Will Come Soft

Rains” is a wake-up call, a call that we ought to heed. We have somehow let our

technical knowledge outrun not only our wisdom but our sense of how to live

decent meaningful lives, lives of fun, truly human lives, not just lives in which

everything is easy, everything is done for us. We are allowing our gadgets to do

our living for us—and they may kill us. We are barely living, we are sleep-

walking. This cannot go on without some sort of catastrophic ending. To quote

the first line of Ray Bradbury’s story, it is “time to get up, time to get up” (43).

Daniels 4

Work Cited

Bradbury, Ray. “August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains.” Literature for Composition.

Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon.

11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 43-47. Print.

[New page]

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seRRos • Senior Picture Day    51

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Has Esther Daniels done a good job in writing her title and opening paragraph? Please explain.

2. What is Daniels’s thesis? Where does she state it? 3. Do you think Daniels has provided sufficient evidence for her thesis? 4. How could Daniels engage more fully with Bradbury’s story to develop her

ideas? What details from the story could she cite? Daniels does not explore sev- eral important events in the story, such as the poem that the house recites or the final fire that collapses the house. How could Daniels analyze and interpret these plot elements in her paper?

5. If Daniels added more analysis to each paragraph, what ideas could she empha- size and develop?

6. Daniels does not include direct quotations from the story, except in the last line of her paper. What passages from the story could she use to support and de- velop her ideas? Select one quotation from the story for each of her body paragraphs.

7. Evaluate the final paragraph. Is it effective? Why or why not?

Your Turn: Additional Stories for Analysis

MiChele serros Michele Serros (1966–2015), published her first book of poems and stories, Chicana Falsa and Other Stories of Death, Identity and Oxnard, while she was still a student at Santa Monica City College. We reprint a story from her second book, How to Be a Chicana Role Model (2000), which achieved national attention.

Senior Picture Day

Sometimes I put two different earrings in the same ear. And that’s on a day I’m feeling preppy, not really new wave or anything. One time, during a track meet over at Camarillo High, I discovered way too late that I’d forgot to put on deodor- ant and that was the worst ’cause everyone knows how snooty those girls at Ca- marillo can be. Hmmm. Actually the worst thing I’ve ever forgotten to do was take my pill. That happened three mornings in a row and you can bet I was praying for weeks after that.

So many things to remember when you’re seventeen years old and your days start at six a.m. and sometimes don’t end until five in the afternoon. But today of all days there’s one thing I have to remember to do and that’s to squeeze my nose. I’ve been doing it since the seventh grade. Every morning with my thumb and forefinger I squeeze the sides of it, firmly pressing my nostrils as close as they pos- sibly can get near the base. Sometimes while I’m waiting for the tortilla to heat up, or just when I’m brushing my teeth, I squeeze. Nobody ever notices. Nobody ever asks. With all the other shit seniors in high school go through, squeezing my nose is nothing. It’s just like some regular early-morning routine, like yawning or wiping the egg from my eyes. Okay, so you might think it’s just a total waste of time, but to tell you the truth, I do see the difference. Just last week I lined up all my class pictures and could definitely see the progress. My nose has actually become

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52    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

smaller, narrower. It looks less Indian. I look less Indian and you can bet that’s the main goal here. Today, when I take my graduation pictures, my nose will look just like Terri’s and then I’ll have the best picture in the year-book. I think about this as Mrs. Milne’s Duster comes honking in the driveway to take me to school.

Terri was my best friend in seventh grade. She came from Washington to Rio Del Valle junior high halfway through October. She was the first girl I knew who had contact lenses and four pairs of Chemin de Fers. Can you believe that? She told everyone that her daddy was gonna build ’em a swimming pool for the summer. She told me that I could go over to swim anytime I wanted. But until then, she told me, I could go over and we could play on her dad’s CB.1

“You dad’s really got a CB?” I asked her. “Oh, yeah,” she answered, jiggling her locker door. “You can come over and

we can make up handles for ourselves and meet lots of guys. Cute ones.” “Whaddaya mean, handles?” I asked. “Like names, little nicknames. I never use my real name. I’m ‘G.G.’ when I get

on. That stands for Golden Girl. Oh, and you gotta make sure you end every sen- tence with ‘over.’ You’re like a total nerd if you don’t finish with ‘over.’ I never talk to anyone who doesn’t say ‘over.’ They’re the worst.”

Nobody’s really into citizen band radios anymore. I now see ’em all lined up in pawnshops over on Oxnard Boulevard. But back in the seventh grade, everyone was getting them. They were way better than using a phone ’cause, first of all, there was no phone bill to bust you for talking to boys who lived past the Grade and second, you didn’t have your stupid sister yelling at you for tying up the phone line. Most people had CBs in their cars, but Terri’s dad had his in the den.

When I showed up at Terri’s to check out the CB, her mama was in the front yard planting some purple flowers.

“Go on in already.” She waved me in. “She’s in her father’s den.” I found Terri just like her mama said. She was already on the CB, looking flus-

tered and sorta excited. “Hey,” I called out to her, and plopped my tote bag on her dad’s desk. She didn’t answer but rather motioned to me with her hands to hurry up. Her

mouth formed an exaggerated, “Oh, my God!” She held out a glass bowl of Pring- les and pointed to a glass of Dr Pepper on the desk.

It turned out Terri had found a boy on the CB. An older interested one. He was fifteen, a skateboarder, and his handle was Lightning Bolt.

“Lightning Bolt,” he bragged to Terri. “Like, you know, powerful and fast. That’s the way I skate. So,” he continued, “where you guys live? Over.”

“We live near Malibu.” Terri answered. “Between Malibu and Santa Barbara. Over.”

“Oh, excuse me, fan-ceee. Over.” “That’s right.” Terri giggled. “Over.” We actually lived in Oxnard. Really, in El Rio, a flat patch of houses, churches,

and schools surrounded by lots of strawberry fields and some new snooty stucco homes surrounded by chainlink. But man, did Terri have this way of making things sound better. I mean, it was the truth, geographically, and besides it sounded way more glamorous.

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I took some Pringles from the bowl and thought we were gonna have this wonderful afternoon of talking and flirting with Lightning Bolt until Terri’s dad happened to come home early and found us gabbing in his den.

“What the . . . !” he yelled as soon as he walked in and saw us hunched over his CB. “What do you think this is? Party Central? Get off that thing!” He grabbed the receiver from Terri’s hand. “This isn’t a toy! It’s a tool. A tool for communication, you don’t use it just to meet boys!”

“Damn, Dad,” Terri complained as she slid off her father’s desk. “Don’t have a cow.” She took my hand and led me to her room. “Come on, let’s pick you out a handle.”

When we were in her room, I told her I had decided on Cali Girl as my handle. “You mean, like California?” she asked. “Yeah, sorta.” “But you’re Mexican.” “So?” “So, you look like you’re more from Mexico than California.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, California is like, blond girls, you know.” “Yeah, but I am Californian. I mean, real Californian. Even my great-grandma

was born here.” “It’s just that you don’t look like you’re from California.” “And you’re not exactly golden,” I snapped. We decided to talk to Lightning Bolt the next day, Friday, right after school.

Terri’s dad always came home real late on Fridays, sometimes even early the next Saturday morning. It would be perfect. When I got to her house the garage door was wide open and I went in through the side door. I almost bumped into Terri’s mama. She was spraying the house with Pine Scent and offered me some Hi-C.

“Help yourself to a Pudding Pop, too,” she said before heading into the living room through a mist of aerosol. “They’re in the freezer.”

Man, Terri’s mama made their whole life like an afternoon commercial. Hi-C, Pringles in a bowl, the whole house smelling like a pine forest. Was Terri lucky or what? I grabbed a Pudding Pop out of the freezer and was about to join her when I picked up on her laugh. She was already talking to Lightning Bolt. Dang, she didn’t waste time!

“Well, maybe we don’t ever want to meet you,” I heard Terri flirt with Light- ning Bolt. “How do you know we don’t already have boyfriends? Over.”

“Well, you both sound like foxes. So, uh, what do you look like? Over.” “I’m about five-four and have green eyes and ginger-colored hair. Over.” Green? Ginger? I always took Terri for having brown eyes and brown hair. “What about your friend? Over.” “What about her? Over.” Oh, this was about me! I had to hear this. Terri knew how to pump up things

good. “I mean, what does she look like?” Lightning Bolt asked. “She sounds cute.

Over.” “Well . . .” I overheard Terri hesitate. “Well, she’s real skinny and, uh . . .” “I like skinny girls!” “You didn’t let me finish!” Terri interrupted. “And you didn’t say ‘over.’ Over.” “Sorry,” Lightning Bolt said. “Go ahead and finish. Over.” I tore the wrapper off the Pudding Pop and continued to listen.

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54    Chapter 3 The Writer as Reader

“Well,” Terri continued. “She’s also sorta flat-chested, I guess. Over.” What? How could Terri say that? “Flat-chested? Oh yeah? Over.” Lightning Bolt answered. “Yeah. Over.” Terri paused uncomfortably. It was as if she knew what she was saying was

wrong and bad and she should’ve stopped but couldn’t. She was saying things about a friend, things a real friend shouldn’t be saying about another friend, but now there was a boy involved and he was interested in that other friend, in me, and her side was losing momentum. She would have to continue to stay ahead.

“Yeah, and she also has this, this nose, a nose like . . . like an Indian. Over.” “An, Indian?” Lightning Bolt asked. “What do ya mean an Indian? Over.” “You know, Indian. Like powwow Indian.” “Really?” Lightning Bolt laughed on the other end. “Like Woo-Woo-Woo In-

dian?” He clapped his palm over his mouth and wailed. A sound I knew all too well. “Yeah, just like that!” Terri laughed. “In fact, I think she’s gonna pick ‘Li’l

Squaw’ as her handle!” I shut the refrigerator door quietly. I touched the ridge of my nose. I felt the

bump my mother had promised me would be less noticeable once my face “filled out.” The base of my nose was far from feminine and was broad, like, well, like Uncle Rudy’s nose, Grandpa Rudy’s nose, and yeah, a little bit of Uncle Vincente’s nose, too. Men in my family who looked like Indians and here their Indian noses were lumped together on me, on my face. My nose made me look like I didn’t belong, made me look less Californian than my blond counterparts. After hearing Terri and Lightning Bolt laugh, more than anything I hated the men in my family who had given me such a hideous nose.

I grabbed my tote bag and started to leave out through the garage door when Terri’s mama called out from the living room. “You’re leaving already?” she asked. “I know Terri would love to have you for dinner. Her daddy’s working late again.”

I didn’t answer and I didn’t turn around. I just walked out and went home. And so that’s how the squeezing began. I eventually stopped hanging out with

Terri and never got a chance to use my handle on her dad’s CB. I know it’s been almost four years since she said all that stuff about me, about my nose, but man, it still stings.

During freshman year I heard that Terri’s dad met some lady on the CB and left her mama for this other woman. Can you believe that? Who’d wanna leave a house that smelled like a pine forest and always had Pudding Pops in the freezer?

As Mrs. Milne honks from the driveway impatiently, I grab my books and run down the driveway, squeezing my nose just a little bit more. I do it because today is Senior Picture Day and because I do notice the difference. I might be too skinny. My chest might be too flat. But God forbid I look too Indian.

[2000]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. How would you characterize the narrator of “Senior Picture Day”? Do you re- gard her with amusement, pity, contempt, sympathy—or all of the above, or none? Please explain.

2. Briefly recounted within this story about the narrator is another story about Terri’s parents. Why do you suppose Serros included this story?

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MuRakaMi • On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning    55

3. If someone asked you to write an essay about your body, would you find the assignment easy or difficult? Please explain.

4. a. Describe the impression that the portrait sculpture (shown above) of the most famous Mayan king, Pakal the Great, makes on you.

b. When we say that someone is handsome or beautiful or striking looking, what do we mean? Is this just a strong feeling that we have, or is it a strong feeling that we could explain and support through an argument? Support your answer in an argument of 250–500 words (probably two or three paragraphs).

5. Which statement has the greater effect on you: “That person is very attractive” or “That person is highly intelligent”? Do you think that most people would agree with you? Could you present an argument that would convince others to agree with you? What would your argument consist of? What would your evi- dence be? Set forth your argument in 250–500 words.

haruKi MuraKaMi Born in Kyoto, Japan, in 1949, Haruki Murakami attended Waseda University in Tokyo, where he studied drama. In a well-known story told by Murakami, he was inspired to write his first novel when he attended a baseball game and saw an American player hit a double; he said he instantly knew he could write a novel and went home and started that night. A best-selling novelist, Murakami’s work often uses surrealistic and experimental elements to capture the sense of alienation, un- certainty, and disconnection created by contemporary culture.

One of the most important Mayan portrait sculptures shows Pakal the Great, with an ample nose. Mayan portrait sculpture (mid-seventh century).

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On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either—must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl—one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl corresponds to some precon- ceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers—or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.

“Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone. “Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?” “Not really.” “Your favorite type, then?” “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her—the shape of her

eyes or the size of her breasts.” “Strange.” “Yeah. Strange.” “So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?” “Nah. Just passed her on the street.” She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about her-

self, tell her about myself, and—what I’d really like to do—explain to her the com- plexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock built when peace filled the world.

After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say? “Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little

conversation?” Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman. “Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners

in the neighborhood?” No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s

going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect

girl for me.” No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk

to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation,

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I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd. Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have

been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?”

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the oth- ers. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. “This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not

believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.” “And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d

pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.” They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour

after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves—just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.” And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They

should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impos- sible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feel- ing that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one

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subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special- delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me. He is the 100% perfect boy for me. But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer

had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don’t you think? Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.

[2010]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In Murakami’s short story, the narrator explains that he has passed his ideal match—the “100% perfect girl”—on the streets of Tokyo. How does he recog- nize her as the 100% perfect girl?

2. Why does the narrator not stop and talk to the 100% perfect girl? 3. The narrator imagines what he would have said to the girl and starts to tell a

“once upon a time” story. Why would he tell a story to the girl? What would this story accomplish? Imagine being the girl listening to this story. Would this story intrigue and attract you, or would it confuse and repel you?

4. How does the “once upon a time” story connect to the first half of the short story? For example, are the characters in the “once upon a time” story the same people as in the original short story? How does the “once upon a time” story comment on the first half of the short story?

5. What do you make of the ending of the story and its statement, “A sad story, don’t you think?”? Do you think this is a “sad story” and sad ending? Write a short response paper that analyzes and interprets the story’s ending.

John updiKe John Updike (1932–2009) grew up in Shillington, Penn- sylvania, where his father was a teacher and his mother was a writer. After receiving a BA degree in 1954 from Harvard, where he edited the Harvard Lampoon (for which he both wrote and drew), he studied drawing at Oxford for a year until an offer from the New Yorker brought him back to the United States. He was hired as a reporter for the magazine but soon began contributing poetry, essays, and fiction. In 1957, he left the New Yorker

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in order to write independently full-time, though his stories and book reviews ap- peared regularly in it. In 1959, Updike published his first book of stories (The Same Door) and also his first novel (The Poorhouse Fair); the next year, he published Rabbit, Run, a highly successful novel whose protagonist, “Rabbit” Angstrom, reappears in three later novels: Rabbit Redux (1971), Rabbit Is Rich (1981), and Rabbit at Rest (1990). The first and the last Rabbit books each won a Pulitzer Prize.

A & P

In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I’m in the third checkout slot, with my back to the door, so I don’t see them until they’re over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green two-piece. She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can with those two crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems to hit, at the top of the backs of her legs. I stood there with my hand on a box of HiHo crackers trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and the customer starts giving me hell. She’s one of these cash-register-watchers, a witch about fifty with rouge on her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I know it made her day to trip me up. She’d been watching cash registers for fifty years and probably never seen a mistake before.

By the time I got her feathers smoothed and her goodies into a bag—she gives me a little snort in passing, if she’d been born at the right time they would have burned her over in Salem—by the time I get her on her way the girls had circled around the bread and were coming back, without a pushcart, back my way along the counters, in the aisle between the checkouts and the Special bins. They didn’t even have shoes on. There was this chunky one, with the two-piece—it was bright green and the seams of the bra were still sharp and her belly was still pretty pale so I guessed she just got it (the suit)—there was this one, with one of those chubby berry-faces, the lips all bunched together under her nose, this one, and a tall one, with black hair that hadn’t quite frizzed right, and one of these sunburns right across under the eyes, and a chin that was way too long—you know, the kind of girl other girls think is very “striking” and “attractive” but never quite makes it, as they very well know, which is why they like her so much—and then the third one, that wasn’t quite so tall. She was the queen. She kind of led them, the other two peeking around and making their shoulders round. She didn’t look around, not this queen, she just walked straight on slowly, on these long white prima-donna legs. She came down a little hard on her heels, as if she didn’t walk in her bare feet that much, putting down her heels and then letting the weight move along to her toes as if she was testing the floor with every step, putting a little deliberate extra action into it. You never know for sure how girls’ minds work (do they really think it’s a mind in there or just a little buzz like a bee in a glass jar?) but you got the idea she had talked the other two into coming in here with her, and now she was showing them how to do it, walk slow and hold yourself straight.

She had on a kind of dirty pink—beige maybe, I don’t know—bathing suit with a little nubble all over it and, what got me, the straps were down. They were off her shoulders looped loose around the cool tops of her arms, and I guess as a result the suit had slipped on her, so all around the top of the cloth there was this shining rim. If it hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have known there could have been anything whiter than those shoulders. With the straps pushed off, there was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head except just her,

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this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more than pretty.

She had sort of oaky hair that the sun and salt had bleached, done up in a bun that was unravelling, and a kind of prim face. Walking into the A & P with your straps down, I suppose it’s the only kind of face you can have. She held her head so high her neck, coming up out of those white shoulders, looked kind of stretched, but I didn’t mind. The longer her neck was, the more of her there was.

She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and over my shoulder Stokesie in the second slot watching, but she didn’t tip. Not this queen. She kept her eyes moving across the racks, and stopped, and turned so slow it made my stomach rub the inside of my apron, and buzzed to the other two, who kind of hud- dled against her for relief, and then they all three of them went up the cat and dog food-breakfast cereal-macaroni-rice-raisins-seasonings-spreads-spaghetti-soft drinks-crackers-and-cookies aisle. From the third slot I look straight up this aisle to the meat counter, and I watched them all the way. The fat one with the tan sort of fumbled with the cookies, but on second thought she put the package back. The sheep pushing their carts down the aisle—the girls were walking against the usual traffic (not that we have one-way signs or anything)—were pretty hilarious. You could see them, when Queenie’s white shoulders dawned on them, kind of jerk, or hop, or hiccup, but their eyes snapped back to their own baskets and on they pushed. I bet you could set off dynamite in the A & P and the people would by and large keep reaching and checking oatmeal off their lists and muttering “Let me see, there was a third thing, began with A, asparagus, no, ah, yes, applesauce!” or whatever it is they do mutter. But there was no doubt, this jiggled them. A few house slaves in pin curlers even look around after pushing their carts past to make sure what they had seen was correct.

You know, it’s one thing to have a girl in a bathing suit down on the beach, where what with the glare nobody can look at each other much anyway, and an- other thing in the cool of the A & P, under the fluorescent lights, against all those stacked packages, with her feet paddling along naked over our checker-board green-and-cream, rubber-tile floor.

“Oh, Daddy,” Stokesie said beside me. “I feel so faint.” “Darling,” I said. “Hold me tight.” Stokesie’s married, with two babies chalked

up on his fuselage already, but as far as I can tell that’s the only difference. He’s twenty-two, and I was nineteen this April.

“Is it done?” he asks, the responsible married man finding his voice. I forgot to say he thinks he’s going to be a manager some sunny day, maybe in 1990 when it’s called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company or something.

What he meant was, our town is five miles from a beach, with a big sum- mer colony out on the Point, but we’re right in the middle of town, and the women generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get out of the car into the street. And anyway these are usually women with six children and varicose veins mapping their legs and nobody, including them, could care less. As I say, we’re right in the middle of town, and if you stand at our front doors you can see two banks and the Congregational church and the newspaper store and three real estate offices and about twenty-seven old freeloaders tearing up Central Street because the sewer broke again. It’s not as if we’re on the Cape; we’re north of Boston and there’s people in this town haven’t seen the ocean for twenty years.

The girls had reached the meat counter and were asking McMahon something. He pointed, they pointed, and they shuffled out of sight behind a pyramid of Diet

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Delight peaches. All that was left for us to see was old McMahon patting his mouth and looking after them sizing up their joints. Poor kids, I began to feel sorry for them, they couldn’t help it.

Now here comes the sad part of the story, at least my family says it’s sad, but I don’t think it’s so sad myself. The store’s pretty empty, it being Thursday after- noon, so there was nothing much to do except lean on the register and wait for the girls to show up again. The whole store was like a pinball machine and I didn’t know which tunnel they’d come out of. After a while they come around out of the far aisle, around the light bulbs, records at discount of the Caribbean Six or Tony Martin Sings or some such gunk you wonder they waste the wax on, six-packs of candy bars, and plastic toys done up in cellophane that fall apart when a kid looks at them anyway. Around they come, Queenie still leading the way, and holding a little gray jar in her hand. Slots Three through Seven are unmanned and I could see her wondering between Stokes and me, but Stokesie with his usual luck draws an old party in baggy gray pants who stumbles up with four giant cans of pineapple juice (what do these bums do with all that pineapple juice? I’ve often asked myself) so the girls come to me. Queenie puts down the jar and I take it into my fingers icy cold. Kingfish Fancy Herring Snacks in Pure Sour Cream: 49¢. Now her hands are empty, not a ring or a bracelet, bare as God made them, and I wonder where the money’s coming from. Still with the prim look she lifts a folded dollar bill out of the hollow at the center of her nubbled pink top. The jar went heavy in my hand. Really, I thought that was so cute.

Then everybody’s luck begins to run out. Lengel comes in from haggling with a truck full of cabbages on the lot and is about to scuttle into the door marked MANAGER behind which he hides all day when the girls touch his eye. Lengel’s pretty dreary, teaches Sunday school and the rest, but he doesn’t miss that much. He comes over and says, “Girls, this isn’t the beach.”

Queenie blushes, though maybe it’s just a brush of sunburn I was noticing for the first time, now that she was so close. “My mother asked me to pick up a jar of herring snacks.” Her voice kind of startled me, the way voices do when you see the people first, coming out so flat and dumb yet kind of tony, too, the way it ticked over “pick up” and “snacks.” All of a sudden I slid right down her voice into her living room. Her father and the other men were standing around in ice-cream coats and bow ties and the women were in sandals picking up herring snacks on toothpicks off a big glass plate and they were all holding drinks the color of water with olives and sprigs of mint in them. When my parents have somebody over they get lemonade and if it’s a real racy affair Schlitz in tall glasses with “They’ll Do It Every Time” cartoons stencilled on.

That’s all right,” Lengel said. “But this isn’t the beach.” His repeating this struck me as funny, as if it had just occurred to him, and he had been thinking all these years the A & P was a great big dune and he was the head lifeguard. He didn’t like my smiling—as I say he doesn’t miss much—but he concentrates on giving the girls that sad Sunday-school-superintendent stare.

Queenie’s blush was no sunburn now, and the plump one in plaid, that I liked better from the back—a really sweet can—pipes up, “We weren’t doing any shop- ping. We just came in for the one thing.”

“That makes no difference,” Lengel tells her, and I could see from the way his eyes went that he hadn’t noticed she was wearing at two-piece before. “We want you decently dressed when you come in here.”

“We are decent,” Queenie says suddenly, her lower lip pushing, getting sore now that she remembers her place, a place from which the crowd that runs the

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A & P must look pretty crummy. Fancy Herring Snacks flashed in her very blue eyes.

“Girls, I don’t want to argue with you. After this come in here with your shoul- ders covered. It’s our policy.” He turns his back. That’s policy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is juvenile delinquency.

All this while, the customers had been showing up with their carts but, you know, sheep, seeing a scene, they had all bunched up on Stokesie, who shook open a paper bag as gently as peeling a peach, not wanting to miss a word. I could feel in the silence everybody getting nervous, most of all Lengel, who asks me, “Sammy, have you rung up this purchase?”

I thought and said “No” but it wasn’t about that I was thinking. I go through the punches, 4, 9, GROC, TOT—it’s more complicated than you think and after you do it often enough, it begins to make a little song, that you hear words to, in my case “Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py peepul (splat)!”—the splat being the drawer flying out. I uncrease the bill, tenderly as you may imagine, it just hav- ing come from between the two smoothest scoops of vanilla I had ever known were there, and pass a half and a penny into her narrow pink palm and nestle the herrings in a bag and twist its neck and hand it over, all the time thinking.

The girls, and who’d blame them, are in a hurry to get out, so I say “I quit” to Lengel quick enough for them to hear, hoping they’ll stop and watch me, their unsuspected hero. They keep right on going, into the electric eye; the door flies open and they flicker across the lot to their car, Queenie and Plaid and Big Tall Goony-Goony (not that as raw material she was so bad), leaving me with Lengel and a kink in his eyebrow.

“Did you say something, Sammy?” “I said I quit.” “I thought you did.” “You didn’t have to embarrass them.” “It was they who were embarrassing us.” I started to say something that came out “Fiddle-de-doo.” It’s a saying of my

grandmother’s, and I know she would have been pleased. “I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Lengel said. “I know you don’t,” I said. “But I do.” I pull the bow at the back of my apron

and start shrugging it off my shoulders. A couple customers that had been heading for my slot begin to knock against each other, like scared pigs in a chute.

Lengel sighs and begins to look very patient and old and gray. He’s been a friend of my parents for years. “Sammy, you don’t want to do this to your Mom and Dad,” he tells me. It’s true, I don’t. But it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it’s fatal not to go through with it. I fold the apron, “Sammy” stitched in red on the pocket, and put it on the counter, and drop the bow tie on top of it. The bow tie is theirs, if you’ve ever wondered. “You’ll feel this for the rest of your life,” Lengel says, and I know that’s true, too, but remembering how he made that pretty girl blush makes me so scrunchy inside I punch the No Sale tab and the machine whirs “pee-pul” and the drawer splats out. One advantage to this scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up with a clean exit, there’s no fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter into the electric eye in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before, and the door heaves itself open, and out- side the sunshine is skating round on the asphalt.

I look around for my girls, but they’re gone, of course. There wasn’t anybody but some young married screaming with her children about some candy they didn’t get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station wagon. Looking back in the

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big windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn furniture stacked on the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot, checking the sheep through. His face was dark gray and his back stiff, as if he’d just had an injection of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.

[1962]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In what sort of community is this A & P located? To what extent does this com- munity resemble yours?

2. Do you think Sammy is a misogynist? Why, or why not? And, if you think he is, do you find the story offensive? Again, why or why not? Present your response in the form of a detailed argument.

3. In the last line of the story, Sammy says, “I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.” Do you think the world is going to be hard to Sammy? Why, or why not? And, if it is going to be hard to Sammy, will this be because of a virtue or a weakness in Sammy?

4. Write Lengel’s version of the story (500–1,000 words) as he might narrate it to his wife during dinner. Or write the story from Queenie’s point of view.

5. In speaking of contemporary fiction, Updike said:

I want stories to startle and engage me within the first few sentences, and in their middle to widen or deepen or sharpen my knowledge of human activity, and to end by giving me a sensation of completed statement.

Let’s assume that you share Updike’s view of what a story should do. To what extent do you think “A & P” fulfills these demands? (You may want to put your response in the form of a letter to Updike.)

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64

C h a p t e r 4

The Reader as Writer

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Use a wide range of close reading and inquiry strategies to develop ideas for an essay

• Employ critical thinking to develop a thesis

• Engage effectively in the process of drafting and revising an argument

• Evaluate a student’s analysis essay

Developing Ideas through Close Reading and Inquiry

Getting Ideas

How do writers “learn to have ideas”? Among the methods are these: reading with a pen or pencil in hand so that you can annotate the text; using brainstorming and freewriting notes to ask questions and develop answers; keeping a journal in which you jot down reflections about your reading; generating notes in the form of lists and outlines that organize your ideas; and arguing with yourself and talking with others (including your instructor) about the reading.

Let’s take another look at the first of these methods, annotating.

Annotating a Text

When you’re reading, if you own the book that you’re reading, don’t hesitate to mark it up, indicating (by highlighting or underlining or making marginal notes) what puzzles you, what pleases or interests you, and what displeases or bores you. If you plan to return the book, use sticky notes to add annotations to the text or take reading notes in a journal or on your laptop. Later, you’ll want to think further about these responses, asking yourself, on rereading, whether you still feel that way, and if not, why not. These first responses, however, will get you started.

Annotations of the sort shown on pages 28–29, which chiefly call attention to contrasts, indicate that the student is thinking about writing an analysis of the story. That is, she is thinking of writing an essay in which she will examine the parts of a literary work either in an effort to see how they relate to each other or in an effort to see how one part relates to the whole.

Let’s look at a story by Kate Chopin that is a little longer than “Ripe Figs,” fea- tured in Chapter 3, and then we’ll discuss how, in addition to annotating it, you might get ideas for writing about it.

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Kate Chopin For a biographical note, see page 25.

The Story of an Hour

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences, veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a para- lyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild aban- donment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.

When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: “Free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and

5

10

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66    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending her in that blind persis- tence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self- assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being.

”Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole,

imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shud- der that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a god- dess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his gripsack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

But Richards was too late. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that

kills. [1894]

Brainstorming Ideas

Unlike annotating, which consists of making brief notes and small marks on the printed page, “brainstorming”—the free jotting down of ideas—asks that you write down whatever comes to mind, without inhibition. Don’t worry about spelling, writing complete sentences, or unifying your thoughts; just let one thought lead to another. Later, you can review your jottings, deleting some, connecting those that are related, and expanding others, but for now you just want to get going. As we explored in Chapter 2, brainstorming starts the process of inquiry, working to move from your annotations about the text to open-ended writing that captures your questions and answers about the text. These writing strategies allow you to capture your thought process on paper, helping you to develop new insights that are worthy of further investigation.

Thus, you might jot down something about the title:

Title speaks of an hour, and story covers an hour, but maybe takes five minutes to read.

15

20

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Chopin • The Story of an Hour    67

Then, perhaps prompted by “an hour,” you might add something to this effect:

Doubt that a woman who got news of the death of her husband could move from grief to joy within an hour.

Your next jotting might have little or nothing to do with this issue; it might simply say,

Enjoyed “Hour” more than “Ripe Figs” partly because “Hour” is so shocking.

And then you might ask yourself,

By shocking, do I mean “improbable,” or what? Come to think of it, maybe it’s not so improbable. A lot depends on what the marriage was like.

Focused Freewriting

Focused, or directed, freewriting is a form of brainstorming that some writers use to uncover ideas. Concentrating on one issue—for instance, a question that strikes them as worth puzzling over (“What kind of person is Mrs. Mallard?”)—they write at length, nonstop, for perhaps five or ten minutes. They do not stop to evaluate the results or to worry about niceties of sentence structure or spelling. They just pour out their ideas in a steady stream of writing, drawing on whatever associa- tions come to mind.

After the freewriting session, these writers reread what they have written, high- lighting or underlining whatever seems to be of value. At this point, the writers are often able to make a rough outline and begin a draft.

Here is an example of one student’s focused freewriting:

Student Work: Freewriting

What do I know about Mrs. Mallard? Let me put everything down here I know about her or can figure out from what Kate Chopin tells me. When she finds herself alone after the death of her husband, she says, “Free! Body and soul free!” and before that she said, “Free, free, free!” So she has suddenly perceived that she has not been free; she has been under the influence of a “powerful will.” In this case it has been her husband, but she says no one, man or woman, should impose their will on anyone else. So it’s not a feminist issue—it’s a power issue. No one should push anyone else around is what I guess Chopin means, force someone to do what the other person wants. I used to have a friend that did that to me all the time; he had to run everything. They say that fathers—before the women’s movement—used to run things, with the father in charge of all the deci- sions, so maybe this is an honest reaction to having been pushed around by a husband. I think Mrs. Mallard is a believable character, even if the plot is not all that believable—all those things happening in such quick succession.

Listing Ideas, Details, and Quotations

In your preliminary thinking, you may find it useful to make lists. In the previous chapter, we saw that listing the traits of the two characters was helpful in thinking about Chopin’s “Ripe Figs”:

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68    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Student Work: Listing

Maman-Nainaine older than Babette “stately way” “patient as the statue of la Madone” connects actions with seasons expects to be obeyed

Babette young active and impatient obedient

For “The Story of an Hour,” you might list Mrs. Mallard’s traits, or you might list the stages in her development. Such a list is not the same as a summary of the plot. The list helps you to see the sequence of psychological changes.

Mrs. Mallard weeps (when she gets the news) goes to room, alone “pressed down by a physical exhaustion” “dull stare” “something coming to her” strives to beat back “this thing” “Free, free, free!” The “vacant stare went . . . from her eyes” “A clear and exalted perception” rejects Josephine “she was drinking in a very elixir of life” gets up, opens door, “a feverish triumph in her eyes” sees B., and dies

Unlike brainstorming and annotating, which let you go in all directions, listing re- quires that you first make a decision about what you will be listing: traits of char- acter, images, puns, or whatever. Once you make the decision, you can construct a list, and with that list in front of you, you will see patterns that you were not fully conscious of earlier.

Asking Questions

When you feel stuck, ask yourself questions. Questioning can help you to reener- gize the process of inquiry. You’ll recall that the assignment on “Ripe Figs” in effect, asked that students form questions about the work-for instance, questions about the relationship between the characters—and about their responses to it: “You’ll try to explain as honestly as you can what makes ‘Ripe Figs’ appealing or interesting— or trifling, or boring.”

If you are thinking about a work of fiction, ask yourself questions about the plot and the characters: Are they believable, are they interesting, and what does it all add up to? What does the story mean to you?

One student found it helpful to record the following inquiry notes:

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Chopin • The Story of an Hour    69

Student Work: Inquiry Notes

Plot Ending false? Unconvincing? Or prepared for? Character? Mrs. M. unfeeling? Immoral? Mrs. M. unbelievable character? What might her marriage have been like? Many gaps. Can we tell what her husband was like? And yet she loved him—sometimes” Fickle? Realistic? What is “this thing that was approaching to possess her”? Symbolism Set on spring day = symbolic of new life?

You don’t have to be as organized as this student. You may begin by recording notes and queries about what you like or dislike and about what puzzles or amus- es you. What follows are the inquiry notes of a second student. They are in no particular order; the student is brainstorming, putting down whatever occurs to her, although it is obvious that one question sometimes leads to the next:

Title nothing special. What might be a better title? Could a woman who loved her husband be so heartless? Is she heartless? Did she love him? What are (were) Louise’s feelings about her husband? Did she want too much? What did she want? Could this story happen today? Feminist interpretation? Sister (Josephine)–a busybody? Tricky ending–but maybe it could be true. “And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not.” Why does one love someone “sometimes”? Irony: plot has reversal. Are characters ironic too?

These inquiry notes helped this reader think about the story, find a special point of interest, and develop a thoughtful argument about it.

Keeping a Journal

A critical thinking journal is not a diary. Rather, it is a place to store some of the thoughts that you may have inscribed in the margin of the text, such as your initial response to the title of a work or to the ending. It is also a place to capture further reflections, such as thoughts about what the work means to you and what was said in the classroom about writing in general or about specific works.

You may, for instance, want to reflect on why your opinion is so different from that of another student, or you may want to apply a concept such as character or irony or plausibility to a story that later you may write about in an essay. Com- parisons are especially helpful: How does this story (or this character, or this rhyme scheme) differ from last week’s reading?

A student who wrote about “The Story of an Hour” began with the following entry in his journal. When you are reading this entry, notice that one idea stimu- lates another. The student was, quite rightly, concerned with getting and exploring ideas, not with writing a unified paragraph.

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70    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Student Work: Journal Writing

Apparently a “well-made” story, but seems clever rather than moving or real. Doesn’t seem plausible. Mrs. M’s change comes out of the blue—maybe some women might respond like this, but probably not most.

Does literature deal with unusual people, or with usual (typical?) people? Shouldn’t it deal with typical? Maybe not. (Anyway, how can I know?) Is “typical” same as “plausible”? Come to think of it, prob. not.

Anyway, whether Mrs. M is typical or not, is her change plausible, believ- able? Think more about this.

Why did she change? Her husband dominated her life and controlled her ac- tions; he did “impose a private will upon a fellow creature.” She calls this a crime, even if well-intentioned. Is it a crime?

Developing a Thesis through Critical Thinking

Arguing with Yourself

In our discussion of annotating, brainstorming, freewriting, listing, asking ques- tions, and keeping a journal, the emphasis has been on responding freely rather than on responding in any systematic or disciplined way.

The almost random play of mind in brainstorming and the other activities is a kind of thinking, but the term critical thinking (which we addressed in Chapter 2) is reserved for the process of moving these ideas toward analytical writing. When we think critically, we scrutinize our own ideas—for example, by searching out our underlying assumptions or evaluating what we have recorded as evidence. We have seen examples of this sort of analysis of one’s own thinking in the journal entries in which a student wrote that literature should probably deal with “typical” people and then wondered if “typical” and “plausible” were the same, and then added “probably not.”

Speaking broadly, critical thinking is rational, logical thinking. In thinking crit- ically, writers

• scrutinize their assumptions; • define their terms; • test the evidence that they have collected and even look for counterevi-

dence; and • revise their thesis when necessary, in order to make the argument as com-

plete and convincing as possible.

Let’s start with assumptions. If I say that a story is weak because it is improbable, I ought to think about my assumption that improbability is a flaw I can begin by ask- ing myself if all good stories—or all the stories that I value highly—are probable. I may recall that among my favorites is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (or Gulliver’s Travels or Animal Farm)—so I probably have to withdraw my assumption that improbability in itself makes a story less than good. I may go on to refine the idea and decide that improbability is not a fault in satiric stories but is a fault in other kinds of stories, which is not the same as saying bluntly that improbability is a fault.

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Developing a Thesis through Critical Thinking    71

The second aspect of critical thinking, definition, does not refer chiefly to defining technical terms, such as “meter,” for readers who may be unfamiliar with the language of literary criticism; rather, here we are speaking about the need to define controversial terms. For instance, if you are arguing that a particular story is sentimental, you will have to define what you mean by “sentimental” because the word has several meanings.

The third aspect of critical thinking that we have isolated—testing the evidence and searching for counterevidence within the work—involves rereading the work to see whether we have overlooked material or taken a detail out of context. If, for instance, we say that in “The Story of an Hour” Josephine is a busybody, we should reexamine the work to make sure that she is, indeed, meddling needlessly and not offering welcome or necessary assistance. Perhaps the original observation will stand up, but perhaps on rereading the story we may feel, as we examine each of Josephine’s actions, that she cannot reasonably be characterized as a busybody.

Different readers may come to different conclusions; the important thing is that all readers subject their initial responses to critical thinking, testing their re- sponses against all of the evidence. Remember, your instructor expects you to hand in an essay that is essentially an argument, a paper that advances a thesis of your own, and therefore you will want to revise your thinking if you find counter- evidence. Your thesis might be that

• the story is improbable, or • the story is typical of Chopin, or • the story is antiwoman, or • the story is a remarkable anticipation of contemporary feminist thinking.

Whatever your thesis will be, it should be able to withstand scrutiny: That is what a good argument does. You may not convince every reader that you are unques- tionably right, but you should make every reader feel that your argument is thoughtful. If you read your notes and then your drafts critically, you will probably write a paper that meets this standard.

Your first reading of the literary work probably won’t be a critical reading. It is entirely appropriate to begin by reading simply for enjoyment. After all, we read literature (or listen to music, or go to an art museum, or watch dancers) to derive pleasure. However, in this course, you are trying to deepen your understanding of literature, so you are studying literature. On subsequent readings, therefore, you will read the work critically, carefully noting the writer’s view of human nature and the writer’s ways of achieving certain effects.

Arguing a Thesis

If you think critically about your early jottings and about the literary work itself, you will probably find that some of your jottings lead to dead ends but that others will lead to further ideas that hold up under scrutiny. What the thesis of your essay will be—the idea that you will assert and argue (support with evidence)—is still unclear, but you know that a good essay will need a thesis, or a claim that makes an argument. You ought to be able to state your point in a thesis sentence.

Consider the following candidates for a thesis sentence:

1. Mrs. Mallard dies soon after hearing that her husband has died.

True, but this is not a point that can be argued or even developed. About the most an essayist can do with this sentence is to amplify it by summarizing the plot of the story, a task not worth doing unless the plot is unusually obscure. An essay may

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72    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

include a sentence or two of summary to give readers their bearings, but a sum- mary is not an essay.

2. The story is a libel on women.

Unlike the first statement, this one can be developed into an argument. Probably the writer will try to demonstrate that Mrs. Mallard’s behavior is despicable. Whether this point can be argued convincingly is another matter; the thesis may be unten- able, but it is a thesis. A second problem, however, is this: Even if the writer dem- onstrates that Mrs. Mallard’s behavior is despicable, he or she will have to go on to demonstrate that the presentation of one despicable woman constitutes a libel on women in general. That’s a pretty big order.

3. The story is clever but superficial because it is based on an unreal character.

Here, too, is a thesis—a point of view that can be argued. Whether this thesis is true is another matter. The writer’s job will be to support it by presenting evidence. Prob- ably the writer will have no difficulty in finding evidence that the story is “clever”; the difficulty will be in establishing a case that the characterization of Mrs. Mallard is “unreal.” The writer will have to set forth some ideas about what makes a charac- ter real and then show that Mrs. Mallard is an unreal (unbelievable) figure.

4. The irony of the ending is believable partly because it is consistent with earlier ironies in the story.

The student who wrote the essay that appears on pages 73–75 began by drafting an essay based on the third of these thesis topics, but as she worked on a draft, she found that she could not support her assertion that the character was unconvincing. In fact, she came to believe that, although Mrs. Mallard’s joy was the reverse of what a reader might expect, several early reversals in the story helped to make Mrs. Mallard’s shift from grief to joy understandable.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : The Thesis Sentence

Does the thesis sentence make a claim rather than merely offer a description? Is the claim arguable rather than self-evident, universally accepted, or of little

interest? Does the thesis emphasize conceptual thinking? Does it focus on an impor-

tant concept that can be developed? Does the thesis avoid an information- based statement, such as plot summary?

Can evidence be produced to support the claim? Is the claim narrow enough to be supported convincingly in a paper written

within the allotted time and at the assigned length?

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting an Argument in an Analytical Essay After making notes about your reading and then adding more notes stimulated by your rereading and further thinking, you should be able to formulate a tentative thesis. At this point, most writers review their preliminary notes and jot down brief

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From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting an Argument in an Analytical Essay    73

statements of what they think their key points may be. These notes may include quotations of key phrases that the writer thinks will support the thesis.

Having reached this stage in considering irony in “The Story of an Hour,” one student made the following notes:

title? Ironies in an Hour (?) An Hour of Irony (?) Kate Chopin’s Irony (?) thesis: irony at end is prepared for by earlier ironies chief irony: Mrs. M. dies just as she is beginning to enjoy life smaller ironies:? 1. “sad message” brings her joy 2. Richards is “too late” at end 3. Richards is too early at start

These notes are, in effect, a very brief outline. Some writers at this point like to develop a fuller outline, but most writers begin with only a brief outline, knowing that, in the process of developing a draft from their notes, additional ideas will arise. For these writers, the time to make a detailed outline is after they have writ- ten a first or second draft. The outline of the written draft will then help them to make sure that their draft has an adequate organization and that main points are developed.

Student Analytical Essay: “Ironies in an Hour” (Preliminary Draft)

Now for the student’s draft—not the first version, but a revised draft with some irrelevancies of the first draft omitted and some evidence added.

The numbers in parentheses refer to the page numbers from which the quota- tions are drawn, though with so short a work as “The Story of an Hour,” page numbers are limited. (Detailed information about how to document a paper appears in Appendix B.)

Bridas 1

Jennifer Bridas

Professor Lester

English 1102

22 February 2016

Ironies in an Hour

After we know how the story turns out, if we reread it we find irony at

the very start, as is true of many other stories. Mrs. Mallard’s friends assume,

mistakenly, that Mrs. Mallard was deeply in love with her husband, Brently

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74    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Bridas 2

Mallard. They take great care to tell her gently of his death. The friends mean

well, and in fact they do well. They bring her an hour of life, an hour of

freedom. They think their news is sad. Mrs. Mallard at first expresses

grief when she hears the news, but soon she finds joy in it. So Richards’s

“sad message” (57), though sad in Richards’s eyes, is in fact a happy

message.

Among the ironic details is the statement that when Mallard entered

the house, Richards tried to conceal him from Mrs. Mallard, but “Richards

was too late” (58). This is ironic because earlier Richards “hastened” (57) to

bring his sad message; if he had at the start been “too late” (58), Brently

Mallard would have arrived at home first, and Mrs. Mallard’s life would not

have ended an hour later but would simply have gone on as it had before. Yet

another irony at the end of the story is the diagnosis of the doctors. The

doctors say she died of “heart disease—of joy that kills” (58). In one sense

the doctors are right: Mrs. Mallard has experienced a great joy. But of course

the doctors totally misunderstand the joy that kills her.

The central irony resides not in the well-intentioned but ironic

actions of Richards, or in the unconsciously ironic words of the doctors, but

in her own life. In a way she has been dead. She “sometimes” (58) loved her

husband, but in a way she has been dead. Now, his apparent death brings her

new life. This new life comes to her at the season of the year when “the tops

of trees . . . were all aquiver with the new spring life” (57). But, ironically,

her new life will last only an hour. She looks forward to “summer days” (58)

but she will not see even the end of this spring day. Her years of marriage

were ironic. They brought her a sort of living death instead of joy. Her new

life is ironic too. It grows out of her moment of grief for her supposedly dead

husband, and her vision of a new life is cut short.

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Revising an Argument

Jennifer Bridas’s draft, although thoughtful and clear, is not yet a finished essay. First, the draft needs a good introductory paragraph that will let the audience— the readers—know where the writer will be taking them. Doubtless you know from your own experience that readers can follow an argument more easily—and with more pleasure—if early in the discussion the writer tells them what the argu- ment is. (The title, too, can strongly suggest the thesis.) Second, some of the para- graphs could be more effective.

In revising paragraphs—or an entire draft—writers unify, organize, clarify, and polish.

1. Unity is achieved partly by eliminating irrelevancies. Notice that, in the final version of the essay, which begins on page 78, the writer has deleted “as is true of many other stories.”

2. Organization is largely a matter of arranging material in a sequence that will assist the reader to grasp the point.

3. Clarity is achieved largely by providing concrete details and quotations— evidence—to support generalizations and by providing helpful transitions (“for instance,” “furthermore,” “on the other hand,” “however”).

4. Polishing involves making small-scale revisions, such as deleting unneces- sary repetitions. In the second paragraph of the draft, the phrase “the doc- tors” appears four times, but it appears only three times in the final version of the paragraph. Similarly, in polishing, a writer may combine choppy sen- tences into longer ones and break overly long sentences into shorter ones.

Later, after producing a draft that seems close to a finished essay, writers engage in yet another activity:

5. Editing includes checking the accuracy of quotations by comparing them with the original, consulting a dictionary for the spelling of doubtful words, and checking a handbook for appropriate punctuation.

Outlining an Argument

Whether or not you draw up an outline before writing a draft, you will be better able to improve your draft if you prepare an outline of what you have written. This revi- sion strategy of pulling an outline out of an essay that has already been written in

Bridas 3

Work Cited

Chopin, Kate. “The Story of an Hour.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet,

William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston:

Pearson, 2017. 65-66. Print.

[New page]

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting an Argument in an Analytical Essay    75

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76    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

order to check its ideas, organization, and argument, is often termed “reverse outlin- ing.” For each paragraph in your draft, write down the main point of the topic sen- tence or topic idea. Under each of these sentences, indented, add key words for the idea(s) developed in the paragraph. Thus, in an outline for the first two paragraphs of the draft that we have just looked at, you might make the following jottings:

story ironic from start friends think news is sad Ms. M. finds joy some ironic details Richards hastened, but “too late” doctors right and also wrong

An outline of what you have written will help you to see whether your draft is adequate in three important ways. The outline will show you

1. the sequence of major topics, 2. the degree of development of these topics, and 3. the argument, the thesis.

When you are studying your outline, you may realize that your first major point (probably after an introductory paragraph) would be more effective as your third point and that your second point needs to be further developed.

An outline of this sort is a short version of your draft, perhaps even containing phrases from the draft. Another sort of outline indicates not what each paragraph says but what each paragraph does. Such an outline of the three-paragraph draft of the essay on “The Story of an Hour” might look like this:

1. The actions of the friends are ironic. 2. Gives some specific (minor) details about ironies. 3. Explains “central irony.”

We ought to see a red flag here. The aim of this sort of outline is to indicate what each paragraph does, but the jotting for the first paragraph only summarizes its con- tent. Why? Because the paragraph doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t clearly introduce a thesis, or define a crucial term, or set the story in the context of Chopin’s other work.

An outline indicating the function of each paragraph will force you to see whether your essay has an effective structure. We will see that this student later wrote a new opening paragraph for her essay on “The Story of an Hour.”

Soliciting Peer Review, Thinking about Counterarguments

You may be asked to get a review from your peers. Such a procedure is helpful in several ways. First, it gives you a real audience-readers who can point to what pleases or puzzles them, who make suggestions, who may often disagree with you or with each other, and who frequently misread. Though writers don’t always like what they hear about their work, reading and discussing their work with others almost always gives them a fresh perspective on their work, and a fresh perspective can stimulate thoughtful revision.

Your reviewers may suggest that you have overlooked evidence that works against your interpretation. Obviously, you will have to either revise your interpretation or show that, in fact, the supposed counterevidence really does not weaken your interpretation.

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From Reading to Writing to Revising: Finalizing an Analytical Essay    77

The writer whose work is being reviewed is not the sole beneficiary of a re- view. When students serve as readers for each other, they become better readers of their own work and consequently better revisers. As we said in Chapter 2, learn- ing to write is, in large measure, learning to read.

If peer review is a part of the writing process in your course, the instructor may distribute a sheet of questions and suggestions. Here is an example of such a sheet.

QuESTIoNS FoR PEER REvIEW ENgLISH 125A

Read each draft once, quickly. Then read it again, with the following questions in mind.

1. What is the essay’s topic? Is it one of the assigned topics or a variation from it? Does the draft show promise of fulfilling the assignment?

2. Looking at the essay as a whole, what thesis (main idea) is stated or implied? If the thesis is implied, state it in your own words.

3. Is the thesis plausible? How might the argument be strengthened? 4. Looking at each paragraph separately, answer the following questions: a. What is the basic point? (If it isn’t clear to you, ask for clarification.) b. How does the paragraph relate to the essay’s main idea or to the previous

paragraph? c. Should some paragraphs be deleted? Should they be divided into two or more

paragraphs? Should they be combined? Should they be put elsewhere? (If you outline the essay by jotting down the main point of each paragraph, it will help you to answer these questions.)

d. Is each sentence clearly related to the sentence that precedes it and to the sentence that follows it?

e. Is each paragraph adequately developed? f. Are there sufficient details—perhaps brief, supporting quotations from the text? 5. What are the paper’s chief strengths? 6. Make at least two specific suggestions that you think will assist the author to

improve the paper.

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Finalizing an Analytical Essay

Student Analytical Essay: “Ironies of Life in Kate Chopin’s ‘The Story of an Hour’” (Final Draft)

Here is the final version of Jennifer Bridas’s essay. The essay submitted to the in- structor was entirely retyped; but here, so that you can easily see how the draft was revised, we show the draft version with the final changes written in by hand.

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78    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Bridas 1

Jennifer Bridas

Professor Lester

English 1102

4 February 2016

Ironies in an Hour

Despite its title, Kate Chopin’s "The Story of an Hour" ironically takes only a few minutes to read. In addition, the story turns out to have an ironic ending, but on rereading it one sees that the irony is not concentrated only in the outcome of the plot—Mrs. Mallard dies just when she is beginning to live—but is also present in many details.

After we know how the story turns out, if we reread it we

find irony at the very start. as is true of many other stories. Mrs.

Mallard’s friends assume, mistakenly, that Mrs. Mallard was

deeply in love with her husband, Brently Mallard. They take great,

care to tell her gently of his death. The friends mean well, and in

fact they do well., They bring her an hour of life, an hour of

freedom., They think their newsis sad. Mrs. Mallard at first

expresses grief when she hears the news, but soon she finds joy in

it. So Richards’s "sad message" (57), though sad in Richards’s

eyes, is in fact a happy message.

Among the ironic details is the statement that when Mallard

entered the house, Richards tried to conceal him from Mrs.

Mallard, but "Richards was too late" (58). This is ironic because

earlier Richards "hastened" (57) to bring his sad message; if he

had at the start been "too late" (58), Brently Mallard would have

arrived at home first, and Mrs. Mallard’s life would not have ended

an hour later but would simply have gone on as it had before. Yet

another irony at the end of the story is the diagnosis of the

doctors. The doctors say she died of "heart disease—of joy that

kills" (58). In one sense the doctors are right: Mrs. Mallard

experienced a great joy. But of course the doctors totally

misunderstand the joy that kills her.

Ironies of Life in Kate Chopin’s "The Story of an Hour"

Because

and her sister she

They

ing joyous

True,#but it is ironic that

(unknown to her friends)

small but significant near the end of the story

they for the last hour

almost at

the start of the story, in the second paragraph,

It is not joy at seeing her husband alive, but her realization that the great joy she experienced during the last hour is over.

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Bridas 2

Ironies in an Hour

Despite its title, Kate Chopin’s "The Story of an Hour" ironically takes only a few minutes to read. In addition, the story turns out to have an ironic ending, but on rereading it one sees that the irony is not concentrated only in the outcome of the plot—Mrs. Mallard dies just when she is beginning to live—but is also present in many details.

After we know how the story turns out, if we reread it we

find irony at the very start. as is true of many other stories. Mrs.

Mallard’s friends assume, mistakenly, that Mrs. Mallard was

deeply in love with her husband, Brently Mallard. They take great,

care to tell her gently of his death. The friends mean well, and in

fact they do well., They bring her an hour of life, an hour of

freedom., They think their newsis sad. Mrs. Mallard at first

expresses grief when she hears the news, but soon she finds joy in

it. So Richards’s "sad message" (57), though sad in Richards’s

eyes, is in fact a happy message.

Among the ironic details is the statement that when Mallard

entered the house, Richards tried to conceal him from Mrs.

Mallard, but "Richards was too late" (58). This is ironic because

earlier Richards "hastened" (57) to bring his sad message; if he

had at the start been "too late" (58), Brently Mallard would have

arrived at home first, and Mrs. Mallard’s life would not have ended

an hour later but would simply have gone on as it had before. Yet

another irony at the end of the story is the diagnosis of the

doctors. The doctors say she died of "heart disease—of joy that

kills" (58). In one sense the doctors are right: Mrs. Mallard

experienced a great joy. But of course the doctors totally

misunderstand the joy that kills her.

Ironies of Life in Kate Chopin’s "The Story of an Hour"

Because

and her sister she

They

ing joyous

True,#but it is ironic that

(unknown to her friends)

small but significant near the end of the story

they for the last hour

almost at

the start of the story, in the second paragraph,

It is not joy at seeing her husband alive, but her realization that the great joy she experienced during the last hour is over.

dead. . Now, his apparent death brings her new life. This new

life comes to her at the season of the year when "the tops of

trees . . . were all aquiver with the new spring life" (57). But,

ironically, her new life will last only an hour. She looks

forward to "summer days" (58) but she will not see even the

end of this spring day. Her years of marriage were ironic.,

They brought her a sort of living death instead of joy. , Her

new life is ironic too. , It grows out of her moment of grief for

her supposedly dead husband, and her vision of a new life is

cut short.

a body subjected to her husband’s will

She is "free, free, free"—but only until her husband walks through the doorway.

Appropriately

bringing

not only because

but also because her vision of "a long progression of years"

within an hour on a spring day.

If

The central irony resides not in the well-intentioned but

ironic actions of Richards, or in the unconsciously ironic words of

the doctors, but in her own life. In a way she has been dead. She

"sometimes" (58) loved her husband, but in a way she has been

All of these ironic details add richness to the story, but

Mrs. Mallard’s

Bridas 3

Work Cited

Chopin, Kate. “The Story of an Hour.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet,

William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson,

2017. 65-66. Print.

[New page]

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Finalizing an Analytical Essay    79

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80    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

The Analytical Essay: The Final Draft Analyzed

As a review, let’s look at several principles illustrated by Jennifer Bridas’s essay.

• The title of the essay is not merely the title of the work discussed; it should give the reader a clue about the essayist’s topic. Because the title will create that crucial first impression, make sure that it is interesting.

• The opening or introductory paragraph does not begin with the obvi- ous, “In this story…” Rather, by naming the author and the title, it lets the reader know what story is being discussed. It also indicates the writer’s thesis so that readers will know where they are going.

• The organization is effective. The smaller ironies are discussed in the sec- ond and third paragraphs, and the central irony is discussed in the last para- graph. The essay does not dwindle or become anticlimactic; the argument builds from the least important to the most important point. Again, if you outline your draft, you will see whether it has an effective organization.

• Brief quotations are used, both to provide evidence and to let the reader hear—if only fleetingly—Kate Chopin’s writing voice.

• The essay is chiefly devoted to analysis (how the parts relate to each other), not to a summary (a restatement of what happened). The writer, properly assuming that the reader has read the work, does not tell the plot in detail. But, aware that the reader has not memorized the story, the writer gives helpful reminders.

• The present tense is used in narrating the action: “Mrs. Mallard dies”; “Mrs. Mallard’s friends and relatives all assume.”

• Although a concluding paragraph is often useful, when it does more than merely summarize, it is not essential in a short analysis. In this essay, the last sentence explains the chief irony and therefore makes an acceptable ending.

• Documentation follows the form set forth in Appendix B. • If the author has proofread the final version of the paper carefully, it will

contain no typographical errors.

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting an Analytical Essay

Kate Chopin

Désirée’s Baby

As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L’Abri to see Désirée and the baby.

It made her laugh to think of Désirée with a baby. Why, it seemed but yester- day that Désirée was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmondé had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar.

The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for “Dada.” That was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief was that

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Chopin • Désirée’s Baby    81

she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Maïs kept, just below the planta- tion. In time Madame Valmondé abandoned every speculation but the one that Désirée had been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,—the idol of Valmondé.

It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles.

Monsieur Valmondé grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl’s obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille1 from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived, then they were married.

Madame Valmondé had not seen Désirée and the baby for four weeks. When she reached L’Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny’s rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master’s easy-going and indulgent lifetime.

The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself.

Madame Valmondé bent her portly figure over Désirée and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child.

“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the lan- guage spoken at Valmondé in those days.

“I knew you would be astonished,” laughed Désirée, “at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait! 2 Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails,— real fingernails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn’t it true, Zandrine?”

The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, “Mais si,3 Madame.” “And the way he cries,” went on Désirée, “is deafening. Armand heard him the

other day as far away as La Blanche’s cabin.” Madame Valmondé had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it

and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby

5

10

2cochon de lait suckling pig (French). 3Mais si certainly (French).

1corbeille wedding gifts from the groom to the bride.

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82    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze across the fields.

“Yes, the child has grown, has changed,” said Madame Valmondé, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. “What does Armand say?”

Désirée’s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. “Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is

a boy, to bear his name; though he says not—that he would have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn’t true. I know he says that to please me. And mamma,” she added, drawing Madame Valmondé’s head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, “he hasn’t punished one of them—not one of them—since baby is born. Even Négrillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work—he only laughed, and said Négrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, I’m so happy; it frightens me.”

What Désirée said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had soft- ened Armand Aubigny’s imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Désirée so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand’s dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her.

When the baby was about three months old, Désirée awoke one day to the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband’s manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Désirée was miserable enough to die.

She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche’s little quadroon boys—half naked too—stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Désirée’s eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over and over. “Ah!” It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face.

She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes.

She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the pic- ture of fright.

Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.

“Armand,” she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he was human. But he did not notice. “Armand,” she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. “Armand,” she panted once more, clutching his arm, “look at our child. What does it mean? tell me.”

15

20

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He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him. “Tell me what it means!” she cried despairingly.

“It means,” he answered lightly, “that the child is not white; it means that you are not white.”

A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with unwonted courage to deny it. “It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are gray. And my skin is fair,” seizing his wrist. “Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand,” she laughed hysterically.

“As white as La Blanche’s,” he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone with their child.

When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame Valmondé.

“My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For God’s sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live.”

The answer that came was as brief: “My own Désirée: Come home to Valmondé; back to your mother who loves

you. Come with your child.” When the letter reached Désirée she went with it to her husband’s study, and

laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words. He said nothing. “Shall I go, Armand?” she asked in tones sharp with agonized suspense.

“Yes, go.” “Do you want me to go?” “Yes, I want you to go.” He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt,

somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife’s soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name.

She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back.

“Good-by, Armand,” she moaned. He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. Désirée went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery

with it. She took the little one from the nurse’s arms with no word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches.

It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton.

Désirée had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun’s rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation of Valmondé. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.

She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.

Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L’Abri. In the centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze.

25

30

35

40

45

Chopin • Désirée’s Baby    83

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84    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality.

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that Désirée had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not Désirée’s; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband’s love:—

“But, above all,” she wrote, “night and day, I thank the good God for having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery.”

[1892]

Student Analytical Essay: “Race and Identity in ‘Désirée’s Baby’”

Let’s examine a student essay that analyzes “Désirée’s Baby.” The essay features a strong argument and an interesting uses of quotations. After the essay, we ask several questions that encourage you to evaluate the writing strategies used.

Hodges 1

gus Hodges

Professor Durocher

English 125, section B

16 January 2016

Race and Identity in “Désirée’s Baby”

“Désirée’s Baby,” says the literary scholar Emily Toth, is “a shocking

story” that deals with the death of “a beautiful young woman”—the subject

that, she notes, Edgar Allan Poe identified as “the perfect subject for poetry”

(145). But in my view this story is shocking because it connects sexuality and

race. It is not just that Désirée suffers a cruel fate, but that she does so

because of her race, or, rather, the race that her husband Armand believes she

belongs to. The tragic revelation is that Armand, not Désirée, is the person of

mixed blood and thus is the cause or source of the mixed blood of their child.

In a key passage midway through the story, Chopin brings the

Désirée/Armand relationship into focus:

When the baby was about three months old, Désirée awoke one day to

the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace.

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Hodges 2

It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting

suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from

far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a

strange, an awful change in her husband’s manner, which she dared not

ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes,

from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented

himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of

her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed

suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Désirée

was miserable enough to die. (82)

Chopin relates the action from Désirée’s point of view—what she is

seeing, thinking, feeling, fearing, as she and her husband grow estranged.

But, at the same time, Chopin makes the reader aware of Armand. She

prompts us to imagine, for ourselves, what might be leading him to shun his

wife and child and, furthermore, what might account for his Satan-like

treatment of his slaves.

This is a powerful insight on Chopin’s part. As the story unfolds, it

becomes clear that Armand has turned against Désirée because, to his horror

and disgust, he has discovered that she possesses black—that is, “not

white”—blood (83). To him, his family has been made impure, contaminated.

He feels betrayed, and he takes out his wrath on his wife and child: he

cannot bear to be in their presence. In addition, he unleashes his wrath on

his slaves; they become the objects of his fury about his family, which is not

what he thought it was.

Chopin is showing the tyranny of male authority and power, but, again,

she is relating it to race. Armand becomes abusive—psychologically, emotionally,

and physically violent—as a result of his reaction to the presence of blackness

in his domestic life. This is intolerable to him, and he drives Désirée and the

baby away, as if their disappearance could cancel out all memories of them.

Chopin • Désirée’s Baby    85

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86    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Hodges 3

The conclusion of the story is shocking: Armand learns that his child

is “not white” (83) not because of Désirée but because of himself. It was his

mother who was “cursed with the brand of slavery” (84) and she and her

husband (Armand’s father) sought to conceal this fact from him. Armand

comes to despise his wife and child when he learns—or so it seems—that

Désirée is black: this is the explanation that he gives to himself and to

Désirée. He loathes himself for making such a marriage in the first place.

I am not sure I can prove this, but I have the feeling that Chopin

wants us to perceive an ambiguity in the ending of her story. The meaning on

the surface is that when Armand reads his mother’s letter, he suddenly realizes

what he had never known. But there may be a deeper meaning. Possibly it is the

case that now Armand is finding confirmation from his mother of an identity—

who he is—that he has known was, or could be, true. Driving away Désirée is,

in truth, a desperate effort to cast out the self that is “not white” (84).

The more we delve into “Désirée’s Baby,” the more it becomes

Armand’s story: to me, he is its central character. In this respect, it is

noteworthy that when the story was first published in a magazine, it was

titled “The Father of Désirée’s Baby” (Knights xxv). I think that this title is

better than the one that Chopin settled on, because it puts the focus on

Armand. It could be that in the end he learns the truth about who he is.

It also could be that in the end he is forced to see something he might

have suspected all along—something he could not believe ever could be

possible.

We thus find ourselves asking a two-part question about Armand: What

does he know, and what might he not want to know? Could he really have been

so blind as never to have imagined the possibility that he at last discovers at

the end—that the “not white” (83) blood is his own? Perhaps. To me, however,

it seems just as likely that he suspected this possibility but could not face it.

We do not want to accept the truth about who we might be, about who we are.

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Chopin • The Storm    87

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Has Gus Hodges chosen a good title for his paper? Why or why not? 2. Do you think it is good strategy to begin a paper with a quotation from a sec-

ondary source? Why or why not? 3. The student begins his closing paragraph with a question. Is this strategy effec-

tive? Why or why not? 4. Do you agree with this student’s decision to center his paper on a single lengthy

quote? Please explain your answer. 5. Let’s now consider the paper as a whole. What is the writer’s thesis? Does the

writer provide evidence? Does he prove his thesis? 6. If you were to give the writer of this paper one piece of advice for improving

his paper, what would it be? 7. Hodges makes an intriguing claim about Armand. Do you agree with him or

not? Can you locate evidence in the text to support the student’s feeling about what Armand has known, or might have known, all along?

8. Is the final paragraph effective? Why or why not?

From Reading to Writing to Revising: Drafting a Comparison Essay

Kate Chopin

The Storm

I

The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was going to rain. Bobinôt, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child’s attention to certain sombre clouds that were rolling with sinister inten- tion from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at

[New page]

Hodges 4

Works Cited

Chopin, Kate. “Désirée’s Baby.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet,

William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston:

Pearson, 2017. 80-84. Print.

Toth, Emily. Unveiling Kate Chopin. Jackson: u of Mississippi, 1999. Print.

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88    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Friedheimer’s store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise.

“Mama’ll be ’fraid, yes,” he suggested with blinking eyes. “She’ll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helpin’ her this evenin’,” Bobinôt

responded reassuringly. “No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin’ her yistiday,” piped Bibi. Bobinôt arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of

which Calixta was very fond. Then he returned to his perch on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst. It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field. Bibi laid his little hand on his father’s knee and was not afraid.

II

Calixta, at home, felt no uneasiness for their safety. She sat at a side window sew- ing furiously on a sewing machine. She was greatly occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She unfastened her white sacque at the throat. It began to grow dark, and suddenly realizing the situation she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and doors.

Out on the small front gallery1 she had hung Bobinôt’s Sunday clothes to air and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell. As she stepped outside, Alcée Laballière rode in at the gate. She had not seen him very often since her marriage, and never alone. She stood there with Bobinôt’s coat in her hands, and the big rain drops began to fall. Alcée rode his horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and there were plows and a harrow piled up in the corner.

“May I come and wait on your gallery till the storm is over, Calixta?” he asked. “Come ’long in, M’sieur Alcée.” His voice and her own startled her as if from a trance, and she seized Bobinôt’s

vest. Alcée, mounting to the porch, grabbed the trousers and snatched Bibi’s braided jacket that was about to be carried away by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside, but it was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open: the water beat in upon the boards in driving sheets, and he went inside, closing the door after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the water out.

“My! what a rain! It’s good two years sence it rain’ like that,” exclaimed Calixta as she rolled up a piece of bagging and Alcée helped her to thrust it beneath the crack.

She was a little fuller of figure than five years before when she married; but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue eyes still retained their melting qual- ity; and her yellow hair, dishevelled by the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples.

The rain beat upon the low, shingled roof with a force and clatter that threat- ened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They were in the dining room— the sitting room—the general utility room. Adjoining was her bed room, with Bibi’s couch along side her own. The door stood open, and the room with its white, monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious.

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1gallery porch, or passageway along a wall, open to the air but protected by a roof sup- ported by columns.

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Alcée flung himself into a rocker and Calixta nervously began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had been sewing.

“If this keeps up, Dieu sait 2 if the levees goin’ to stan’ it!” she exclaimed. “What have you got to do with the levees?” “I got enough to do! An’ there’s Bobinôt with Bibi out in that storm—if he only

didn’ left Friedheimer’s!” “Let us hope, Calixta, that Bobinôt’s got sense enough to come in out of a

cyclone.” She went and stood at the window with a greatly disturbed look on her face.

She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture. It was stiflingly hot. Alcée got up and joined her at the window, looking over her shoulder. The rain was com- ing down in sheets obscuring the view of far-off cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon.

Calixta put her hands to her eyes, and with a cry, staggered backward. Alcée’s arm encircled her, and for an instant he drew her close and spasmodically to him.

“Bonté!”3 she cried, releasing herself from his encircling arm and retreating from the window, “the house’ll go next! If I only knew w’ere Bibi was!” She would not compose herself; she would not be seated. Alcée clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her warm, palpitating body when he had un- thinkingly drawn her into his arms, had aroused all the old-time infatuation and desire for her flesh.

“Calixta,” he said, “don’t be frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck, with so many tall trees standing about. There! aren’t you going to be quiet? say, aren’t you?” He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming. Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a glimpse of her full, firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconscious- ly betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded him of Assumption.4

“Do you remember—in Assumption, Calixta?” he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now—well, now—her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts.

They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious cham- ber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contrib- ute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world.

The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached.

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3Bonté! heavens! 4Assumption a parish (i.e., a county) in southeast Louisiana.

2Dieu sait God only knows.

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When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life’s mystery.

He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders.

The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield.

The rain was over; and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a place of gems. Calixta, on the gallery, watched Alcée ride away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face; and she lifted her pretty chin in the air and laughed aloud.

III

Bobinôt and Bibi, trudging home, stopped without at the cistern to make themselves presentable.

“My! Bibi, w’at will yo’ mama say! You ought to be ashame’. You oughtn’ put on those good pants. Look at ’em! An’ that mud on yo’ collar! How you got that mud on yo’ collar, Bibi? I never saw such a boy!” Bibi was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobinôt was the embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to re- move from his own person and his son’s the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He scraped the mud off Bibi’s bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully removed all traces from his heavy brogans. Then, prepared for the worst—the meeting with an over-scrupulous housewife, they entered cau- tiously at the back door.

Calixta was preparing supper. She had set the table and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in.

“Oh, Bobinôt! You back! My! but I was uneasy. W’ere you been during the rain? An’ Bibi? he ain’t wet? he ain’t hurt?” She had clasped Bibi and was kissing him effusively. Bobinôt’s explanations and apologies which he had been compos- ing all along the way, died on his lips as Calixta felt him to see if he were dry, and seemed to express nothing but satisfaction at their safe return.

“I brought you some shrimps, Calixta,” offered Bobinôt, hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the table.

“Shrimps! Oh, Bobinôt! you too good fo’ anything!” and she gave him a smack- ing kiss on the cheek that resounded. “J’vous reponds,5 we’ll have a feas’ to night! umph-umph!”

Bobinôt and Bibi began to relax and enjoy themselves, and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud that anyone might have heard them as far away as Laballière’s.

IV

Alcée Laballière wrote to his wife, Clarisse, that night. It was a loving letter, full of tender solicitude. He told her not to hurry back, but if she and the babies liked it at Biloxi, to stay a month longer. He was getting on nicely; and though he missed them, he was willing to bear the separation a while longer—realizing that their health and pleasure were the first things to be considered.

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5J’vous reponds Take my word; let me tell you.

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V

As for Clarisse, she was charmed upon receiving her husband’s letter. She and the babies were doing well. The society was agreeable; many of her old friends and acquaintances were at the bay. And the first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the pleasant liberty of her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her husband, their intimate conjugal life was something which she was more than willing to forego for a while.

So the storm passed and everyone was happy. [1898]

Student Work: Comparison Notes

A student in an “Introduction to Literature” class was asked to compare any two of three stories by Kate Chopin presented in this and the previous chapters (“Ripe Figs,” page 25–26; “The Story of an Hour,” page 65; and “The Storm,” page 87). She settled on “The Story of an Hour” and “The Storm.” We print the final version of her essay, preceded by a page of notes (a synthesis of earlier notes) that she prepared on her computer shortly before she wrote her first draft.

Resemblances or differences greater? Resemblances Theme: release from marital bonds; liberated women Setting: nature plays a role in both springtime in “Hour,” storm in “Storm” Characterization: in both stories, no villains forces of nature compel Clarisse presumably happier without husband both seem to emphasize roles of women Differences Ending: “Hour” sad (LM unfulfilled); “Storm” happy all characters seem content But endings different in that “Hour” ends suddenly, surprise “Storm” not surprising at very end. overall view (theme?): “Hour” very restricted view; only one person is of much interest (LM); Josephine

interesting only in terms of LM (contrast) In “Storm,” Cal. and Alc. interesting; but also interesting are simple Bobinot and

even the child, and also even Clarisse, who sort of has the last word Possible titles: Two Women New Women Tragic Louise, Comic Calixta Louise, Calixta, and Clarisse Tone as key difference? Tragic vs. comic

Student Comparison Essay: “Two New Women”

Let’s turn to the essay generated from these notes. This paper takes the ideas that conclude the brainstorming notes, specifically those that emphasize tone, comedy, and tragedy, and uses them to create a thesis and to organize the paper. As you read the essay, consider how it makes clear comparisons between the two stories and uses those comparisons to provide organization.

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92    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

Hernandez 1

Linda Hernandez

Professor Welsh

English 150

18 February 2016

Two New Women

It is not surprising that two stories by an author somewhat resemble

each other. What is especially interesting about Kate Chopin’s “The Story of

an Hour” and “The Storm” is that although they both deal with women who

achieve a sense of new life or growth outside the bonds of marriage, the

stories differ greatly in what we call tone. “The Story of an Hour” is

bittersweet, or perhaps even bitter and tragic, whereas “The Storm” is

romantic and in some ways comic.

The chief similarity is that Louise Mallard in “The Story of an Hour”

and Calixta in “The Storm” both experience valuable, affirming, liberating

sensations that a traditional moral view would condemn. Mrs. Mallard, after

some moments of deep grief, feels a great sense of liberation when she

learns of the death of her husband. She dies almost immediately after this

experience, but even though she is never physically unfaithful to her

husband, there is a sort of mental disloyalty, at least from a traditional point

of view. Calixta’s disloyalty is physical, not merely mental. unlike Louise

Mallard, Calixta does go to bed with a man who is not her husband. But

Calixta, as we will see, is treated just about as sympathetically as is

Mrs. Mallard.

Louise Mallard is sympathetic because she does grieve for her

husband, and because Chopin suggests that Mallard’s sense of freedom is

natural, something associated with the spring, the “delicious breath of

rain,” and “the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life”

(57). Furthermore, Chopin explicitly says that Mallard loved her husband.

But Chopin also tells us that one aspect of the marriage was a “powerful will

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Hernandez 2

bending her” (57). For all of these reasons, then—Mrs. Mallard’s genuine

grief, the association of her new feeling with the power of nature, and the

assertion that Mrs. Mallard loved her husband but was at least in some

degree subject to his will—the reader sympathizes with Mrs. Mallard.

In her presentation of Calixta, too, Chopin takes care to make the

unfaithful woman a sympathetic figure. As in “The Story of an Hour,” nature

plays a role. Here, instead of nature or the outside world being a parallel to

the woman’s emotions, nature in the form of a storm exerts pressure on the

woman. We are told that “the water beat in upon the boards in driving

sheets” (82), and a bolt of lightning causes Calixta to stagger backward, into

Alcée’s arms. These forces of outside nature are parallel to a force of nature

within Calixta. Chopin tells us that during the sexual union Calixta’s “firm,

elastic flesh . . . was knowing for the first time its birthright” (83). And in

one additional way, too, Chopin guards against the reader’s condemning

Calixta. We learn, at the end of the story, that Alcée’s wife, Clarisse, is quite

pleased to be free from her husband for a while:

And the first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the

pleasant liberty of her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her

husband, their intimate conjugal life was something which she was

more than willing to forego for a while. (84)

Since Clarisse is portrayed as somewhat pleased to be relieved of her

husband for a while, we probably do not see Alcée as a villainous betrayer of

his wife. The story seems to end pleasantly, like a comedy, with everybody

happy.

In Louise Mallard and in Calixta we see two women who achieve new

lives, although in the case of Louise Mallard the reader is surprised to learn

in the last sentence that the achievement lasts only a few moments. By “new

lives” I mean emancipation from their husbands, but what is especially

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94    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

The Comparison Essay: Organization Analyzed

A few comments on this student’s essay may help us to see how the student en- gaged in effective comparison.

• The title announces the topic. • The first paragraph announces the thesis, the point that will be argued. The

thesis provides a direct comparison of the two stories being analyzed, assert- ing how these two stories share similarities and exhibit a crucial difference.

• The paper’s body follows a clear organization, devoting one paragraph to the similarities between the stories, followed by paragraphs on each of the stories that emphasize how they differ from each other.

• The second paragraph begins by getting directly to the point: “The chief similarity is. . . .” This paragraph continues to make direct comparisons be- tween the two stories, often directly juxtaposing the stories’ main characters in one sentence.

Hernandez 4

Works Cited

Chopin, Kate. “The Storm.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet,

William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston:

Pearson, 2017. 87-91. Print.

—”The Story of an Hour.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William

Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017.

65-66. Print.

[New page]

Hernandez 3

interesting is that in both cases Chopin guides the reader to feel that

although in fact both women behave in ways that would be strongly

condemned by the codes of Chopin’s day, and even by many people today,

neither woman (as Chopin presents her) is blameworthy. Mrs. Mallard is

presented almost as a tragic victim, and Calixta is presented almost as a

figure in a very pleasant comedy.

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GiLb • Love in L.A.    95

• The third and fourth paragraph each focus on one of the stories for analysis but develop the comparison by making references to the other story.

• The third paragraph advances the argument by giving evidence, introduced by a word that implies reasoning: because.

• The writer provides further evidence in the form of short relevant quotations from the story.

• The final paragraph summarizes but does not boringly repeat the paper’s key comparison; that is, it does not merely say, “Thus, we see. . . .” Rather, it presents the argument in a new, fresh way.

Your Turn: Additional Stories for Analysis

Dagoberto gilb Born in Los Angeles, California, in 1950, Dagoberto Gilb was raised by a Spanish- speaking mother from Mexico. While Gilb was working in the construction trades and as carpenter, he started writing stories that explored the Hispanic and working- class culture of the American Southwest. He has written several award-winning novels, short story collections, and nonfiction essays.

Love in L.A.

Jake slouched in a clot of near motionless traffic, in the peculiar gray of concrete, smog, and early morning beneath the overpass of the Hollywood Freeway on Alvarado Street. He didn’t really mind because he knew how much worse it could be trying to make a left onto the onramp. He certainly didn’t do that every day of his life, and he’d assure anyone who’d ask that he never would either. A steady occupation had its advantages and he couldn’t deny thinking about that too. He needed an FM radio in something better than this ’58 Buick he drove. It would have crushed velvet interior with electric controls for the L.A. summer, a nice warm heater and defroster for the winter drives at the beach, a cruise control for those longer trips, mellow speakers front and rear of course, windows that hum closed, snuffing out that nasty exterior noise of freeways. The fact was that he’d probably have to change his whole style. Exotic colognes, plush, dark nightclubs, maitais and daiquiris, necklaced ladies in satin gowns, misty and sexy like in a tequila ad. Jake could imagine lots of possibilities when he let himself, but none that ended up with him pressed onto a stalled freeway.

Jake was thinking about this freedom of his so much that when he glimpsed its green light he just went ahead and stared bye bye to the steadily employed. When he turned his head the same direction his windshield faced, it was maybe one second too late. He pounced the brake pedal and steered the front wheels away from the tiny brakelights but the smack was unavoidable. Just one second sooner and it would only have been close. One second more and he’d be crawling up the Toyota’s trunk. As it was, it seemed like only a harmless smack, much less solid than the one against his back bumper.

Jake considered driving past the Toyota but was afraid the traffic ahead would make it too difficult. As he pulled up against the curb a few carlengths ahead, it occurred to him that the traffic might have helped him get away too. He slammed the car door twice to make sure it was closed fully and to give himself another second more, then toured front and rear of his Buick for damage on or near the

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96    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

bumpers. Not an impressionable scratch even in the chrome. He perked up. Though the car’s beauty was secondary to its ability to start and move, the body and paint were clean except for a few minor dings. This stood out as one of his few clearcut accomplishments over the years.

Before he spoke to the driver of the Toyota, whose looks he could see might present him with an added complication, he signaled to the driver of the car that hit him, still in his car and stopped behind the Toyota, and waved his hands and shook his head to let the man know there was no problem as far as he was con- cerned. The driver waved back and started his engine.

“It didn’t even scratch my paint,” Jake told her in that way of his. “So how you doin? Any damage to the car? I’m kinda hoping so, just so it takes a little more time and we can talk some. Or else you can give me your phone number now and I won’t have to lay my regular b.s. on you to get it later.”

He took her smile as a good sign and relaxed. He inhaled her scent like it was clean air and straightened out his less than new but not unhip clothes.

“You’ve got Florida plates. You look like you must be Cuban.” “My parents are from Venezuela.” “My name’s Jake.” He held out his hand. “Mariana.” They shook hands like she’d never done it before in her life. “I really am sorry about hitting you like that.” He sounded genuine. He fondled

the wide dimple near the cracked taillight. “It’s amazing how easy it is to put a dent in these new cars. They’re so soft they might replace waterbeds soon.” Jake was confused about how to proceed with this. So much seemed so unlikely, but there was always possibility. “So maybe we should go out to breakfast somewhere and talk it over.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.” “Some coffee then.” “Thanks, but I really can’t.” “You’re not married, are you? Not that that would matter that much to me. I’m

an openminded kinda guy.” She was smiling. “I have to get to work.” “That sounds boring.” “I better get your driver”s license,” she said. Jake nodded, disappointed. “One little problem,” he said. “I didn’t bring it. I

just forgot it this morning. I’m a musician,” he exaggerated greatly, “and, well, I dunno, I left my wallet in the pants I was wearing last night. If you have some paper and a pen I”ll give you my address and all that.”

He followed her to the glove compartment side of her car. “What if we don’t report it to the insurance companies? I’ll just get it fixed for

you.” “I don’t think my dad would let me do that.” “Your dad? It’s not your car?” “He bought it for me. And I live at home.” “Right.” She was slipping away from him. He went back around to the back of

her new Toyota and looked over the damage again. There was the trunk lid, the bumper, a rear panel, a taillight.

“You do have insurance?” she asked, suspicious, as she came around the back of the car.

“Oh yeah,” he lied. “I guess you better write the name of that down too.”

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TaLLenT • No One’s a Mystery    97

He made up a last name and address and wrote down the name of an insur- ance company an old girlfriend once belonged to. He considered giving a real phone number but went against that idea and made one up.

“I act too,” he lied to enhance the effect more. “Been in a couple of movies.” She smiled like a fan. “So how about your phone number?” He was rebounding maturely. She gave it to him. “Mariana, you are beautiful,” he said in his most sincere voice. “Call me,” she said timidly. Jake beamed. “We’ll see you, Mariana,” he said holding out his hand. Her hand

felt so warm and soft he felt like he’d been kissed. Back in his car he took a moment or two to feel both proud and sad about his

performance. Then he watched the rear view mirror as Mariana pulled up behind him. She was writing down the license plate numbers on his Buick, ones that he’d taken off a junk because the ones that belonged to his had expired so long ago. He turned the ignition key and revved the big engine and clicked into drive. His sense of freedom swelled as he drove into the now moving street traffic, though he couldn”t stop the thought about that FM stereo radio and crushed velvet inte- rior and the new car smell that would even make it better.

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Gilb sets his story on a traffic-filled highway in L.A. Why is this an interesting setting for Jake and his daydreams? How does this setting capture elements of contemporary life in L.A.?

2. How does Jake turn a negative event into an opportunity to pick up a woman? Trace the specific phrases that he uses to try to attract Mariana.

3. At the beginning of the story, Jake “was thinking about this freedom,” and at the end of the story, Jake’s “sense of freedom swelled.” Why is freedom important to Jake? Does Jake achieve any form of freedom within this story? Write a short response paper that explores the concept of freedom and Jake’s unique under- standing of it.

4. Why does Mariana give Jake her phone number? How and why does Jake re- create himself for Mariana? What sort of identities does Jake construct? Why are Jake’s fictional versions of himself successful?

5. Why is this short story titled, “Love in L.A.”? How is this story a commentary on love?

elizabeth tallent A professor at Stanford University in California, Elizabeth Tallent was born in Washington, DC, in 1954. Her stories explore the challenges of marriage and family, investigating the emotional complexities of human relationships. She has been pub- lished in magazines, including the New Yorker and Esquire, and her work has been selected for the Best American Short Stories and Best American Essays collections.

No One’s a Mystery

For my eighteenth birthday Jack gave me a five-year diary with a latch and a little key, light as a dime. I was sitting beside him scratching at the lock, which didn’t

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98    Chapter 4 The Reader as Writer

seem to want to work, when he thought he saw his wife’s Cadillac in the distance, coming toward us. He pushed me down onto the dirty floor of the pickup and kept one hand on my head while I inhaled the musk of his cigarettes in the dashboard ashtray and sang along with Rosanne Cash on the tape deck. We’d been drinking tequila and the bottle was between his legs, resting up against his crotch, where the seam of his Levi’s was bleached linen-white, though the Levi’s were nearly new. I don’t know why his Levi’s always bleached like that, along the seams and at the knees. In a curve of cloth his zipper glinted, gold.

“It’s her,” he said. “She keeps the lights on in the daytime. I can’t think of a single habit in a woman that irritates me more than that.” When he saw that I was going to stay still he took his hand from my head and ran it through his own dark hair.

“Why does she?” I said. “She thinks it’s safer. Why does she need to be safer? She’s driving exactly fifty-

five miles an hour. She believes in those signs: ‘Speed Monitored by Aircraft.’ It doesn’t matter that you can look up and see that the sky is empty.”

‘She’ll see your lips move, Jack. She’ll know you’re talking to someone.” “She’ll think I’m singing along with the radio.” He didn’t lift his hand, just raised the fingers in salute while the pressure of his

palm steadied the wheel, and I heard the Cadillac honk twice, musically; he was driving easily eighty miles an hour. I studied his boots. The elk heads stitched into the leather were bearded with frayed thread, the toes were scuffed, and there was a compact wedge of muddy manure between the heel and the sole—the same boots he’d been wearing for the two years I’d known him. On the tape deck Rosanne Cash sang, “Nobody’s into me, no one’s a mystery.”

“Do you think she’s getting famous because of who her daddy is or for her- self!?” Jack said.

“There are about a hundred pop tops on the floor, did you know that? Some little kid could cut a bare foot on one of these, Jack.”

“No little kids get into thiis truck except for you.” “How come you let it get so dirty?” “‘How come,’” he mocked. “You even sound like a kid. You can get back into

the seat now, if you want. She’s not going to look over her shoulder and see you.” “How do you know?” “I just know,” he said. “Like I know I’m going to get meat loaf for supper. It’s

in the air. Like I know what you’ll be writing in that diary.” “What will I be writing?” I knelt on my side of the seat and craned around to

look at the butterfly of dust printed on my jeans. Outside the window Wyoming was dazzling in the heat. The wheat was fawn and yellow and parted smoothly by the thin dirt road. I could smell the water in the irrigation ditches hidden in the wheat.

“Tonight you’ll write, ‘I love Jack. This is my birthday present from him. I can’t imagine anybody loving anybody more than I love Jack.’”

“I can’t.” “In a year you’ll write, ‘I wonder what I ever really saw in Jack. I wonder why

I spent so many days just riding around in his pickup. It’s true he taught me some- thing about sex. It’s true there wasn’t ever much else to do in Cheyenne.’”

“I won’t write that.” “In two years you’ll write, ‘I wonder what that old guy’s name was, the one

with the curly hair and the filthy dirty pickup truck and time on his hands.’” “I won’t write that.”

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“No?” “Tonight I’ll write, ‘I love Jack. This is my birthday present from him. I can’t

imagine anybody loving anybody more than I love Jack.’” “No, you can’t,” he said. “You can’t imagine it.” “In a year I’ll write, ‘Jack should be home any minute now. The table’s set—

my grandmother’s linen and her old silver and the yellow candles left over from the wedding—but I don’t know if I can wait until after the trout a la Navarra to make love to him.’”

“lt must have been a fast divorce.” “In two years I’ll write, ‘Jack should be home by now. Little Jack is hungry for

his supper. He said his first word today besides “Mama” and “Papa.” He said “kaka.” ’ ” Jack laughed. “He was probably trying to finger-paint with kaka on the bath-

room wall when you heard him say it.” “In three years I’ll write, ‘My nipples are a little sore from nursing Eliza Rosa-

mund.’” “Rosamund. Every little girl should have a middle name she hates.” “‘Her breath smells like vanilla and her eyes are just Jack’s color of blue.’” “That’s nice,” Jack said. “So, which one do you like?” “I like yours,” he said. “But I believe mine.” “It doesn’t matter. I believe mine.” “Not in your heart of hearts, you don’t.” “You’re wrong.” “I’m not wrong,” he said. “And her breath would smell like your milk, and it’s

kind of a bittersweet smell, if you want to know the truth.” [1985]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. How would you describe the relationship at the heart of this story? Is this a love relationship? Is this a love story? The narrator states, “I can’t imagine anybody loving anybody more than I love Jack.” Notice that this line is repeated and ap- pears twice in the story. Who makes this statement first? What does this state- ment reveal about the love it expresses?

2. The narrator and Jack try to predict what the narrator will write in her diary one, two, and three years in the future. What are the different stories they create about the future? The previous story in this chapter,“Love in L.A.,” as well as the story in Chapter 3, “On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl,” also feature storytelling. In these stories, love seems to necessitate making up stories. Examine and compare the stories that are told in each story: What types of stories are told and why?

3. Why does the story open with the narrator being pushed to the floor of the pickup truck? What does this action represent?

4. The story contains vivid descriptions of several different settings: the setting of the dirty inside of the car, the Wyoming wheat fields outside the car window, and the imagined table set with wedding candles. Read each description closely, annotating the passage. What words seem most effective and meaningful?

5. What do you think the narrator will write in the diary in one, two, and three years’ time? Engage in some creative thinking, and write those diary entries. Then, write Jack’s response to each entry.

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Junot Díaz Considered one of America’s most important contemporary authors, Junot Díaz is a Dominican American author whose writing often features characters who bridge American and Latin American culture. His novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (2007), won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and in 2012, he received a MacArthur “genius grant” fellowship. He majored in English and studied creative writing at Rutgers University and then earned an MFA in creative writing from Cornell University. He currently teaches creative writing at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT).

How to Date a Brown Girl (Black Girl, White Girl, or Halfie)

Wait for your brother and your mother to leave the apartment. You’ve already told them that you’re feeling too sick to go to Union City to visit that tía who likes to squeeze your nuts. (He’s gotten big, she’ll say.) And even though your moms knows you ain’t sick you stuck to your story until finally she said, Go ahead and stay, malcriado.

Clear the government cheese from the refrigerator. If the girl’s from the Terrace stack the boxes behind the milk. If she’s from the Park or Society Hill hide the cheese in the cabinet above the oven, way up where she’ll never see. Leave your- self a reminder to get it out before morning.or your moms will kick your ass. Take down any embarrassing photos of your family in the campo, especially the one with the half-naked kids dragging a goat on a rope leash. The kids are your cous- ins and by now they’re old enough to understand why you’re doing what you’re doing. Hide the pictures of yourself with an Afro. Make sure the bathroom is pre- sentable. Put the basket with all the crapped-on toilet paper under the sink. Spray the bucket with Lysol, then close the cabinet.

Shower, comb, dress. Sit on the couch and watch TV. If she’s an outsider her father will be bringing her, maybe her mother. Neither of them want her seeing any boys from the Terrace—people get stabbed in the Terrace—but she’s strong- headed and this time will get her way. If she’s a whitegirl you know you’ll at least get a hand job.

The directions were in your best handwriting, so her parents won’t think you’re an idiot. Get up from the couch and check the parking lot. Nothing. If the girl’s local, don’t sweat it. She’ll flow over when she’s good and ready. Sometimes she’ll run into her other friends and a whole crowd will show up at your apartment and even though that means you ain’t getting shit it will be fun anyway and you’ll wish these people would come over more often. Sometimes the girl won’t flow over at all and the next day in school she’ll say sorry, smile and you’ll be stupid enough to believe her and ask her out again.

Wait and after an hour go out to your corner. The neighborhood is full of traffic. Give one of your boys a shout and when he says, Are you still waiting on that bitch? say, Hell yeah.

Get back inside. Call her house and when her father picks up ask if she’s there. He’ll ask, Who is this? Hang up. He sounds like a principal or a police chief, the sort of dude with a big neck, who never has to watch his back. Sit and wait. By the time your stomach’s ready to give out on you, a Honda or maybe a Jeep pulls in and out she comes.

Hey, you’ll say.

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Diaz • How to Date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Halfie    101

Look, she’ll say. My mom wants to meet you. She’s got herself all worried about nothing.

Don’t panic. Say, Hey, no problem. Run a hand through your hair like the whiteboys do even though the only thing that runs easily through your hair is Africa. She will look good. The white ones are the ones you want the most, aren’t they, but usually the out-of-towners are black, blackgirls who grew up with ballet and Girl Scouts, who have three cars in their driveways. If she’s a halfie don’t be surprised that her mother is white. Say, Hi. Her moms will say hi and you’ll see that you don’t scare her, not really. She will say that she needs easier directions to get out and even though she has the best directions in her lap give her new ones. Make her happy.

You have choices. If the girl’s from around the way, take her to El Cibao for dinner. Order everything in your busted-up Spanish. Let her correct you if she’s Latina and amaze her if she’s black. If she’s not from around the way, Wendy’s will do. As you walk to the restaurant talk about school. A local girl won’t need stories about the neighborhood but the other ones might. Supply the story about the loco who’d been storing canisters of tear gas in his basement for years, how one day the canisters cracked and the whole neighborhood got a dose of the military-strength stuff. Don’t tell her that your moms knew right away what it was, that she recog- nized its smell from the year the United States invaded your island.

Hope that you don’t run into your nemesis, Howie, the Puerto Rican kid with the two killer mutts. He walks them all over the neighborhood and every now and then the mutts corner themselves a cat and tear it to shreds, Howie laughing as the cat flips up in the air, its neck twisted around like an owl, red meat showing through the soft fur. If his dogs haven’t cornered a cat, he will walk behind you and ask, Hey, Yunior, is that your new fuckbuddy?

Let him talk. Howie weighs about two hundred pounds and could eat you if he wanted. At the field he will turn away. He has new sneakers, and doesn’t want them muddy. If the girl’s an outsider she will hiss now and say, What a fucking asshole. A homegirl would have been yelling back at him the whole time, unless she was shy. Either way don’t feel bad that you didn’t do anything. Never lose a fight on a first date or that will be the end of it.

Dinner will be tense. You are not good at talking to people you don’t know. A halfie will tell you that her parents met in the Movement, will say, Back then people thought it a radical thing to do. It will sound like something her parents made her memorize. Your brother once heard that one and said, Man, that sounds like a whole lot of Uncle Tomming to me. Don’t repeat this.

Put down your hamburger and say, It must have been hard. She will appreciate your interest. She will tell you more. Black people, she will

say, treat me real bad. That’s why I don’t like them. You’ll wonder how she feels about Dominicans. Don’t ask. Let her speak on it and when you’re both finished eating walk back into the neighborhood. The skies will be magnificent. Pollutants have made Jersey sunsets one of the wonders of the world. Point it out. Touch her shoulder and say, That’s nice, right?

Get serious. Watch TV but stay alert. Sip some of the Bermúdez your father left in the cabinet, which nobody touches. A local girl may have hips and a thick ass but she won’t be quick about letting you touch. She has to live in the same neigh- borhood you do, has to deal with you being all up in her business. She might just chill with you and then go home. She might kiss you and then go, or she might, if she’s reckless, give it up, but that’s rare. Kissing will suffice. A whitegirl might just give it up right then. Don’t stop her. She’ll take her gum out of her mouth, stick it

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to the plastic sofa covers and then will move close to you. You have nice eyes, she might say.

Tell her that you love her hair, that you love her skin, her lips, because, in truth, you love them more than you love your own.

She’ll say, I like Spanish guys, and even though you’ve never been to Spain, say, I like you. You’ll sound smooth.

You’ll be with her until about eight-thirty and then she will want to wash up. In the bathroom she will hum a song from the radio and her waist will keep the beat against the lip of the sink. Imagine her old lady coming to get her, what she would say if she knew her daughter had just lain under you and blown your name, pronounced with her eighth-grade Spanish, into your ear. While she’s in the bath- room call one of your boys and say, Lo hice, loco. Or just sit back on the couch and smile.

But usually it won’t work this way. Be prepared. She will not want to kiss you. Just cool it, she’ll say. The halfie might lean back, breaking away from you. She will cross her arms, say, I hate my tits. Stroke her hair but she will pull away. I don’t like anybody touching my hair, she will say. She will act like somebody you don’t know. In school she is known for her attention-grabbing laugh, as high and far-ranging as a gull, but here she will worry you. You will not know what to say.

You’re the only kind of guy who asks me out, she will say. Your neighbors will start their hyena calls, now that the alcohol is in them. You and the blackboys.

Say nothing. Let her button her shirt, let her comb her hair, the sound of it stretching like a sheet of fire between you. When her father pulls in and beeps, let her go without too much of a good-bye. She won’t want it. During the next hour the phone will ring. You will be tempted to pick it up. Don’t. Watch the shows you want to watch, without a family around to debate you. Don’t go downstairs. Don’t fall asleep. It won’t help. Put the government cheese back in its place before your moms kills you.

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. This story is written in the second person, with the narrator Yunior addressing you as “you.” Do you find this effective? What does this voice do for the story? For example, does it make the story more direct or more energetic?

2. What are the interesting objects that fill Yunior’s home? How do they function as symbols? What ideas do these objects express?

3. What are the interesting actions Yunior engages in as he prepares for dates? What ideas do the actions express? What activities do you like the most? What activities are the most humorous or the most unexpected?

4. Annotate the story carefully, noting the types of girls that Yunior imagines dat- ing. What are the different types of girls? How and why does Yunior treat each type differently? Does this cataloging of different types of girls become offen- sive? Do you find the cataloging realistic? cruel? funny? Is Diaz critiquing or mocking this type of cataloging?

5. Although the story offers directions on dating and thus seems to grant the nar- rator authority on this subject, the story also reveals the narrator’s self-doubt. Locate the moments in the story when the narrator reveals his anxieties and uncertainties about women and dating.

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boyLe • Greasy Lake    103

t. Coraghessan boyle The son of immigrants from Ireland, T. Coraghessan Boyle (the stress in his middle name is on the second syllable) was born in Peekskill, New York, in 1948. A graduate of the State University of New York, Potsdam, Boyle taught history and English in high school for several years. He then attended the Writers’ Workshop at the Univer- sity of Iowa and went on to receive a PhD in 1977. Boyle has won several awards for his fiction.

Greasy Lake

It’s about a mile down on the dark side of Route 88.

—Bruce Springsteen

There was a time when courtesy and winning ways went out of style, when it was good to be bad, when you cultivated decadence like a taste. We were all dangerous characters then. We wore torn-up leather jackets, slouched around with toothpicks in our mouths, sniffed glue and ether and what somebody claimed was cocaine. When we wheeled our parents’ whining station wagons out into the street we left a patch of rubber half a block long. We drank gin and grape juice, Tango, Thun- derbird, and Bali Hai. We were nineteen. We were bad. We read André Gide1 and struck elaborate poses to show that we didn’t give a shit about anything. At night, we went up to Greasy Lake.

Through the center of town, up the strip, past the housing developments and shopping malls, street lights giving way to the thin streaming illumination of the headlights, trees crowding the asphalt in a black unbroken wall: that was the way out to Greasy Lake. The Indians had called it Wakan, a reference to the clarity of its waters. Now it was fetid and murky, the mud banks glittering with broken glass and strewn with beer cans and the charred remains of bonfires. There was a single ravaged island a hundred yards from shore, so stripped of vegetation it looked as if the air force had strafed it. We went up to the lake because everyone went there, because we wanted to snuff the rich scent of possibility on the breeze, watch a girl take off her clothes and plunge into the festering murk, drink beer, smoke pot, howl at the stars, savor the incongruous full-throated roar of rock and roll against the primeval susurrus of frogs and crickets. This was nature.

I was there one night, late, in the company of two dangerous characters. Digby wore a gold star in his right ear and allowed his father to pay his tuition at Cornell; Jeff was thinking of quitting school to become a painter/musician/head- shop proprietor. They were both expert in the social graces, quick with a sneer, able to manage a Ford with lousy shocks over rutted and gutted blacktop road at eighty-five while rolling a joint as compact as a Tootsie Roll Pop stick. They could lounge against a bank of booming speakers and trade “man”s with the best of them or roll out across the dance floor as if their joints worked on bearings. They were slick and quick and they wore their mirror shades at breakfast and dinner, in the shower, in closets and caves. In short, they were bad.

I drove. Digby pounded the dashboard and shouted along with Toots & the Maytals while Jeff hung his head out the window and streaked the side of my

1André Gide French novelist and critic (1869–1951), much concerned with unconventional behavior.

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mother’s Bel Air with vomit. It was early June, the air soft as a hand on your cheek, the third night of summer vacation. The first two nights we’d been out till dawn, looking for something we never found. On this, the third night, we’d cruised the strip sixty-seven times, been in and out of every bar and club we could think of in a twenty-mile radius, stopped twice for bucket chicken and forty-cent hamburgers, debated going to a party at the house of a girl Jeff’s sister knew, and chucked two dozen raw eggs at mailboxes and hitchhikers. It was 2:00 A.M.; the bars were clos- ing. There was nothing to do but take a bottle of lemon-flavored gin up to Greasy Lake.

The taillights of a single car winked at us as we swung into the dirt lot with its tufts of weed and washboard corrugations; ’57 Chevy, mint, metallic blue. On the far side of the lot, like the exoskeleton of some gaunt chrome insect, a chopper leaned against its kickstand. And that was it for excitement: some junkie half-wit biker and a car freak pumping his girlfriend. Whatever it was we were looking for, we weren’t about to find it at Greasy Lake. Not that night.

But then all of a sudden Digby was fighting for the wheel. “Hey, that’s Tony Lovett’s car! Hey!” he shouted, while I stabbed at the brake pedal and the Bel Air nosed up to the gleaming bumper of the parked Chevy. Digby leaned on the horn, laughing, and instructed me to put my brights on. I flicked on the brights. This was hilarious. A joke. Tony would experience premature withdrawal and expect to be confronted by grim-looking state troopers with flashlights. We hit the horn, strobed the lights, and then jumped out of the car to press our witty faces to Tony’s win- dows; for all we knew we might even catch a glimpse of some little fox’s tit, and then we could slap backs with red-faced Tony, roughhouse a little, and go on to new heights of adventure and daring.

The first mistake, the one that opened the whole floodgate, was losing my grip on the keys. In the excitement, leaping from the car with the gin in one hand and a roach clip in the other, I spilled them in the grass—in the dark, rank, mysterious nighttime grass of Greasy Lake. This was a tactical error, as damaging and irrevers- ible in its way as Westmoreland’s decision to dig in at Khe Sanh.2 I felt it like a jab of intuition, and I stopped there by the open door, peering vaguely into the night that puddled up round my feet.

The second mistake—and this was inextricably bound up with the first was identifying the car as Tony Lovett’s. Even before the very bad character in greasy jeans and engineer boots ripped out of the driver’s door, I began to realize that this chrome blue was much lighter than the robin’s-egg of Tony’s car, and that Tony’s car didn’t have rear-mounted speakers. Judging from their expressions, Digby and Jeff were privately groping toward the same inevitable and unsettling conclusion as I was.

In any case, there was no reasoning with this bad greasy character—clearly he was a man of action. The first lusty Rockette3 kick of his steel-toed boot caught me under the chin, chipped my favorite tooth, and left me sprawled in the dirt. Like a fool, I’d gone down on one knee to comb the stiff hacked grass for the keys, my

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2Westmoreland’s decision . . . Khe Sanh General William C. Westmoreland commanded U.S. troops in Vietnam (1964–68). When the north Vietnamese and Viet Cong in 1967 attacked Khe San (or Khesanh), Westmoreland chose to defend an area of little military significance. 3Rockette The Rockettes, a dance troupe at Radio City Music hall in new york City, were famous for precision and for high kicking.

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mind making connections in the most dragged out, testudineous4 way, knowing that things had gone wrong, that I was in a lot of trouble, and that the lost ignition key was my grail5 and my salvation. The three or four succeeding blows were mainly absorbed by my right buttock and the tough piece of bone at the base of my spine.

Meanwhile, Digby vaulted the kissing bumpers and delivered a savage kung- fu blow to the greasy character’s collarbone. Digby had just finished a course in martial arts for phys-ed credit and had spent the better part of the past two nights telling us apocryphal tales of Bruce Lee types and of the raw power invested in lightning blows shot from coiled wrists, ankles, and elbows. The greasy character was unimpressed. He merely backed off a step, his face like a Toltec mask, and laid Digby out with a single whistling roundhouse blow . . . but by now Jeff had got into the act, and I was beginning to extricate myself from the dirt, a tinny com- pound of shock, rage, and impotence wadded in my throat.

Jeff was on the guy’s back, biting at his ear. Digby was on the ground, cursing. I went for the tire iron I kept under the driver’s seat. I kept it there because bad characters always keep tire irons under the driver’s seat, for just such an occasion as this. Never mind that I hadn’t been involved in a fight since sixth grade, when a kid with a sleepy eye and two streams of mucus depending from his nostrils hit me in the knee with a Louisville slugger,6 never mind that I’d touched the tire iron exactly twice before, to change tires: it was there. And I went for it.

I was terrified. Blood was beating in my ears, my hands were shaking, my heart turning over like a dirtbike in the wrong gear. My antagonist was shirtless, and a single cord of muscle flashed across his chest as he bent forward to peel Jeff from his back like a wet overcoat. “Motherfucker,” he spat, over and over, and I was aware in that instant that all four of us—Digby, Jeff, and myself included—were chanting “motherfucker, motherfucker,” as if it were a battle cry. (What happened next? the detective asks the murderer from beneath the turned-down brim of his porkpie hat. I don’t know, the murderer says, something came over me. Exactly.)

Digby poked the flat of his hand in the bad character’s face and I came at him like a kamikaze, mindless, raging, stung with humiliation—the whole thing, from the initial boot in the chin to this murderous primal instant involving no more than sixty hyperventilating, gland-flooding seconds—I came at him and brought the tire iron down across his ear. The effect was instantaneous, astonishing. He was a stunt man and this was Hollywood, he was a big grimacing toothy balloon and I was a man with a straight pin. He collapsed. Wet his pants. Went loose in his boots.

A single second, big as a zeppelin, floated by. We were standing over him in a circle, gritting our teeth, jerking our necks, our limbs and hands and feet twitch- ing with glandular discharges. No one said anything. We just stared down at the guy, the car freak, the lover, the bad greasy character laid low. Digby looked at me; so did Jeff. I was still holding the tire iron, a tuft of hair clinging to the crook like dandelion fluff, like down. Rattled, I dropped it in the dirt, already envisioning the headlines, the pitted faces of the police inquisitors, the gleam of handcuffs, clank of bars, the big black shadows rising from the back of the cell … when suddenly a raw torn shriek cut through me like all the juice in all the electric chairs in the country.

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5grail the holy cup that, according to tradition, Jesus used at the Last Supper. Legend says that the person who finds this object will be saved.

4testudineous turtle-like (here, slow).

6Louisville slugger a brand of baseball bat.

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It was the fox. She was short, barefoot, dressed in panties and a man’s shirt. “Animals!” she screamed, running at us with her fists clenched and wisps of blow- dried hair in her face. There was a silver chain round her ankle, and her toenails flashed in the glare of the headlights. I think it was the toenails that did it. Sure, the gin and the cannabis and even the Kentucky Fried may have had a hand in it, but it was the sight of those flaming toes that set us off—the toad emerging from the loaf in Virgin Spring,7 lipstick smeared on a child: she was already tainted. We were on her like Bergman’s deranged brothers—see no evil, hear none, speak none—panting, wheezing, tearing at her clothes, grabbing for flesh. We were bad characters, and we were scared and hot and three steps over the line—anything could have happened.

It didn’t. Before we could pin her to the hood of the car, our eyes masked with lust and

greed and the purest primal badness, a pair of headlights swung into the lot. There we were, dirty, bloody, guilty, dissociated from humanity and civilization, the first of the Ur-crimes8 behind us, the second in progress, shreds of nylon panty and spandex brassiere dangling from our fingers, our flies open, lips licked-there we were, caught in the spotlight. Nailed.

We bolted. First for the car, and then, realizing we had no way of starting it, for the woods. I thought nothing. I thought escape. The headlights came at me like accusing fingers. I was gone.

Ram-bam-bam, across the parking lot, past the chopper and into the feculent undergrowth at the lake’s edge, insects flying up in my face, weeds whipping, frogs and snakes and red-eyed turtles splashing off into the night: I was already ankle- deep in muck and tepid water and still going strong. Behind me, the girl’s screams rose in intensity, disconsolate, incriminating, the screams of the Sabine women,9 the Christian martyrs, Anne Frank10 dragged from the garret. I kept going, pursued by those cries, imagining cops and bloodhounds. The water was up to my knees when I realized what I was doing: I was going to swim for it. Swim the breadth of Greasy Lake and hide myself in the thick clot of woods on the far side. They’d never find me there!

I was breathing in sobs, in gasps. The water lapped at my waist as I looked out over the moon-burnished ripples, the mats of algae that clung to the surface like scabs. Digby and Jeff had vanished. I paused. Listened. The girl was quieter now, screams tapering to sobs, but there were male voices, angry, excited, and the high-pitched ticking of the second car’s engine. I waded deeper, stealthy, hunted, the ooze sucking at my sneakers. As I was about to take the plunge—at the very instant I dropped my shoulder for the first slashing stroke—I blundered into some- thing. Something unspeakable, obscene, something soft, wet, moss-grown. A patch of weed? A log? When I reached out to touch it, it gave like a rubber duck, it gave like flesh.

In one of those nasty little epiphanies for which we are prepared by films and TV and childhood visits to the funeral home to ponder the shrunken painted forms

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7Virgin Spring film (1960) by ingmar bergman. 8Ur-crimes primitive crimes. 9Sabine women women of an ancient tribe in Rome, raped by Romans and carried off to be their wives. 10Anne Frank German Jewish girl (1929–45) who hid from the nazis in an attic in amsterdam but was found and sent to a concentration camp, where she died. her Diary of a Young Girl has become famous.

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of dead grandparents, I understood what it was that bobbed there so inadmissibly in the dark. Understood, and stumbled back in horror and revulsion, my mind yanked in six different directions (I was nineteen, a mere child, an infant, and here in the space of five minutes I’d struck down one greasy character and blundered into the waterlogged carcass of a second), thinking, The keys, the keys, why did I have to go and lose the keys? I stumbled back, but the muck took hold of my feet- a sneaker snagged, balance lost—and suddenly I was pitching face forward into the buoyant black mass, throwing out my hands in desperation while simultane- ously conjuring the image of reeking frogs and muskrats revolving in slicks of their own deliquescing juices. AAAAArrrgh! I shot from the water like a torpedo, the dead man rotating to expose a mossy beard and eyes cold as the moon. I must have shouted out, thrashing around in the weeds, because the voices behind me suddenly became animated.

“What was that?” “It’s them, it’s them: they tried to, tried to . . . rape me!” Sobs. A man’s voice, flat Midwestern accent. “You sons a bitches, we’ll kill you!” Frogs, crickets. Then another voice, harsh, r-less, Lower East Side: “Motherfucker!” I recog-

nized the verbal virtuosity of the bad greasy character in the engineer boots. Tooth chipped, sneakers gone, coated in mud and slime and worse, crouching breathless in the weeds waiting to have my ass thoroughly and definitively kicked and fresh from the hideous stinking embrace of a three-days-dead-corpse, I suddenly felt a rush of joy and vindication: the son of a bitch was alive! Just as quickly, my bowels turned to ice. “Come on out of there, you pansy mothers!” the bad greasy character was screaming. He shouted curses till he was out of breath.

The crickets started up again, then the frogs. I held my breath. All at once there was a sound in the reeds, a swishing, a splash: thunk-a-thunk. They were throwing rocks. The frogs fell silent. I cradled my head. Swish; swish, thunk-a- thunk. A wedge of feldspar the size of a cue ball glanced off my knee. I bit my finger.

It was then that they turned to the car. I heard a door slam, a curse, and then the sound of the headlights shattering-almost a good-natured sound, celebratory, like corks popping from the necks of bottles. This was succeeded by the dull booming of the fenders, metal on metal, and then the icy crash of the windshield. I inched forward, elbows and knees, my belly pressed to the muck, thinking of guerrillas and commandos and The Naked and the Dead.11 I parted the weeds and squinted the length of the parking lot.

The second car—it was a Trans-Am—was still running, its high beams washing the scene in a lurid stagy light. Tire iron flailing, the greasy bad character was laying into the side of my mother’s Bel Air like an avenging demon, his shadow riding up the trunks of the trees. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp-whomp. The other two guys— blond types, in fraternity jackets—were helping out with tree branches and skull- sized boulders. One of them was gathering up bottles, rocks, muck, candy wrappers, used condoms, pop-tops, and other refuse and pitching it through the window on the driver’s side. I could see the fox, a white bulb behind the windshield of the ’57 Chevy. “Bobbie,” she whined over the thumping, “come on.” The greasy character paused a moment, took one good swipe at the left taillight, and then heaved the tire iron halfway across the lake. Then he fired up the ’57 and was gone.

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11The Naked and the Dead World War ii novel (1948) by norman Mailer.

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Blond head nodded at blond head. One said something to the other, too low for me to catch. They were no doubt thinking that in helping to annihilate my mother’s car they’d committed a fairly rash act, and thinking too that there were three bad characters connected with that very car watching them from the woods. Perhaps other possibilities occurred to them as well—police, jail cells, justices of the peace, reparations, lawyers, irate parents, fraternal censure. Whatever they were thinking, they suddenly dropped branches, bottles, and rocks and sprang for their car in unison, as if they’d choreographed it. Five seconds. That’s all it took. The engine shrieked, the tires squealed, a cloud of dust rose from the rutted lot and then settled back on darkness.

I don’t know how long I lay there, the bad breath of decay all around me, my jacket heavy as a bear, the primordial ooze subtly reconstituting itself to accom- modate my upper thighs and testicles. My jaws ached, my knee throbbed, my coc- cyx was on fire. I contemplated suicide, wondered if I’d need bridgework, scraped the recesses of my brain for some sort of excuse to give my parents—a tree had fallen on the car, I was blindsided by a bread truck, hit and run, vandals had got to it while we were playing chess at Digby’s. Then I thought of the dead man. He was probably the only person on the planet worse off than I was. I thought about him, fog on the lake, insects chirring eerily, and felt the tug of fear, felt the darkness opening up inside me like a set of jaws. Who was he, I wondered, this victim of time and circumstance bobbing sorrowfully in the lake at my back. The owner of the chopper, no doubt, a bad older character come to this. Shot during a murky drug deal, drowned while drunkenly frolicking in the lake. Another headline. My car was wrecked; he was dead.

When the eastern half of the sky went from black to cobalt and the trees began to separate themselves from the shadows, I pushed myself up from the mud and stepped out into the open. By now the birds had begun to take over for the crick- ets, and dew lay slick on the leaves. There was a smell in the air, raw and sweet at the same time, the smell of the sun firing buds and opening blossoms. I contem- plated the car. It lay there like a wreck along the highway, like a steel sculpture left over from a vanished civilization. Everything was still. This was nature.

I was circling the car, as dazed and bedraggled as the sole survivor of an air blitz, when Digby and Jeff emerged from the trees behind me. Digby’s face was crosshatched with smears of dirt; Jeff’s jacket was gone and his shirt was torn across the shoulder. They slouched across the lot, looking sheepish, and silently came up beside me to gape at the ravaged automobile. No one said a word. After a while Jeff swung open the driver’s door and began to scoop the broken glass and garbage off the seat. I looked at Digby. He shrugged. “At least they didn’t slash the tires,” he said.

It was true: the tires were intact. There was no windshield, the headlights were staved in, and the body looked as if it had been sledgehammered for a quarter a shot at the county fair, but the tires were inflated to regulation pressure. The car was drivable. In silence, all three of us bent to scrape the mud and shattered glass from the interior. I said nothing about the biker. When we were finished, I reached in my pocket for the keys, experienced a nasty stab of recollection, cursed myself, and turned to search the grass. I spotted them almost immediately, no more than five feet from the open door, glinting like jewels in the first tapering shaft of sun- light. There was no reason to get philosophical about it: I eased into the seat and turned the engine over.

It was at that precise moment that the silver Mustang with the flame decals rumbled into the lot. All three of us froze; then Digby and Jeff slid into the car and

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slammed the door. We watched as the Mustang rocked and bobbed across the ruts and finally jerked to a halt beside the forlorn chopper at the far end of the lot. “Let’s go,” Digby said. I hesitated, the Bel Air wheezing beneath me.

Two girls emerged from the Mustang. Tight jeans, stiletto heels, hair like frozen fur. They bent over the motorcycle, paced back and forth aimlessly, glanced once or twice at us, and then ambled over to where the reeds sprang up in a green fence round the perimeter of the lake. One of them cupped her hands to her mouth. “Al,” she called, “Hey, Al!”

“Come on,” Digby hissed. “Let’s get out of here.” But it was too late. The second girl was picking her way across the lot, un-

steady on her heels, looking up at us and then away. She was older—twenty-five or -six—and as she came closer we could see there was something wrong with her: she was stoned or drunk, lurching now and waving her arms for balance. I gripped the steering wheel as if it were the ejection lever of a flaming jet, and Digby spat out my name, twice, terse and impatient.

“Hi,” the girl said. We looked at her like zombies, like war veterans, like deaf-and-dumb pencil

peddlers. She smiled, her lips cracked and dry. “Listen,” she said, bending from the waist

to look in the window, “you guys seen Al?” Her pupils were pinpoints, her eyes glass. She jerked her neck. “That’s his bike over there—Al’s. You seen him?”

Al. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to get out of the car and retch, I wanted to go home to my parents’ house and crawl into bed. Digby poked me in the ribs. “We haven’t seen anybody,” I said.

The girl seemed to consider this, reaching out a slim veiny arm to brace herself against the car. “No matter,” she said, slurring the t’s, “he’ll turn up.” And then, as if she’d just taken stock of the whole scene-the ravaged car and our battered faces, the desolation of the place—she said: “Hey, you guys look like some pretty bad characters—been fightin’, huh?” We stared straight ahead, rigid as catatonics. She was fumbling in her pocket and muttering something. Finally she held out a hand- ful of tablets in glassine wrappers: “Hey, you want to party, you want to do some of these with me and Sarah?”

I just looked at her. I thought I was going to cry. Digby broke the silence. “No, thanks,” he said, leaning over me. “Some other time.”

I put the car in gear and it inched forward with a groan, shaking off pellets of glass like an old dog shedding water after a bath, heaving over the ruts on its worn springs, creeping toward the highway. There was a sheen of sun on the lake. I looked back. The girl was still standing there, watching us, her shoulders slumped, hand outstretched.

[1985]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Exactly what does “bad” mean in the first paragraph? Why would some young people think “it was good to be bad”? Notice that the first paragraph ends with a short sentence about Greasy Lake: “This was nature.” Is the narrator saying that “bad” behavior is natural?

2. The third paragraph characterizes Digby as “dangerous” and “bad.” How dan- gerous do you think Boyle wants us to think Digby is?

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3. Suppose the story had a different title, and Greasy Lake was never mentioned in the story. Would anything be lost? In short, why does Boyle introduce the lake?

4. What do you make of the ending of the story? Why, in your view, do the boys reject the girl’s offer?

Mary hooD Mary Hood is often categorized as a Southern writer and praised for capturing Southern voices, communities, and landscapes. In her essay, “On Being a Southern Writer,” she explains that, when she writes fiction, she tries to “sound like the South- ern talkers.” Born in Georgia in 1946, Hood continues to call Georgia her home. She has published several short-story collections, novellas, and a novel. In 1984, she was awarded the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction for the short story collection, How Far She Went.

How Far She Went

They had quarreled all morning, squalled all summer about the incidentals: how tight the girl’s cut-off jeans were, the “Every Inch a Woman” T-shirt, her choice of music and how loud she played it, her practiced inattention, her sullen look. Her granny wrung out the last boiled dishcloth, pinched it to the line, giving the basin a sling and a slap, the water flying out in a scalding arc onto the Queen Anne’s lace by the path, never mind if it bloomed, that didn’t make it worth anything except to chiggers, but the girl would cut it by the everlasting armload and cherish it in the old chum, going to that much trouble for a weed but not bending once-un begged- to pick the nearest bean; she was sulking now. Bored. Displaced.

“And what do you think happens to a chigger if nobody ever walks by his weed?” her granny asked, heading for the house with that sidelong uneager unan- swered glance, hoping for what? The surprise gift of a smile? Nothing. The woman shook her head and said it. “Nothing.” The door slammed behind her. Let it.

“I hate it here!” the girl yelled then. She picked up a stick and broke it and threw the pieces—one from each hand—at the laundry drying in the noon. Missed. Missed.

Then she turned on her bare, haughty heel and set off high—shouldered into the heat, quick but not far, not far enough—no road was that long—only as far as she dared. At the gate, a rusty chain swinging between two lichened posts, she stopped, then backed up the raw drive to make a run at the barrier, lofting, clearing it clean, her long hair wild in the sun. Triumphant, she looked back at the house where she caught at the dark window her granny’s face in its perpetual eclipse of disappointment, old at fifty. She stepped back, but the girl saw her.

“You don’t know me!” the girl shouted, chin high, and ran till her ribs ached.

* * * As she rested in the rattling shade of the willows, the little dog found her. He could be counted on. He barked all the way, and squealed when she pulled the burr from his ear. They started back to the house for lunch. By then the mailman had long come and gone in the old ruts, leaving the one letter folded now to fit the woman’s apron pocket.

If bad news darkened her granny’s face, the girl ignored it. Didn’t talk at all, another of her distancings, her defiances. So it was as they ate that the woman summarized, “Your daddy wants you to cash in the plane ticket and buy you some- thing. School clothes. For here.”

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hooD • How Far She Went    111

Pale, the girl stared, defenseless only an instant before blurting out, “You’re lying.”

The woman had to stretch across the table to leave her handprint on that blank cheek. She said, not caring if it stung or not, “He’s been planning it since he sent you here.”

“I could turn this whole house over, dump it! Leave you slobbering over that stinking jealous dog in the dust!” The girl trembled with the vision, with the strength it gave her. It made her laugh. “Scatter the Holy Bible like confetti and ravel the crochet into miles of stupid string! I could! I will! I won’t stay here!” But she didn’t move, not until her tears rose to meet her color, and then to escape the shame of minding so much she fled. Just headed away, blind. It didn’t matter, this time, how far she went.

* * *

The woman set her thoughts against fretting over their bickering, just went on un- alarmed with chores, clearing off after the uneaten meal, bringing in the laundry, scattering corn for the chickens, ladling manure tea onto the porch flowers. She listened though. She always had been a listener. It gave her a cocked look. She forgot why she. had gone into the girl’s empty room, that ungirlish, tenuous lodg- ing place with its bleak order, its ready suitcases never unpacked, the narrow bed, the contested radio on the windowsill. The woman drew the cracked shade down between the radio and the August sun. There wasn’t anything else to do.

It was after six when she tied on her rough oxfords and walked down the drive and dropped the gate chain and headed back to the creosoted shed where she kept her tools. She took a hoe for snakes, a rake, shears to trim the grass where it grew, and seed in her pocket to scatter where it never had grown at all. She put the tools and her gloves and the bucket in the trunk of the old Chevy, its prime and rust like an Appaloosa’s spots through the chalky white finish. She left the trunk open and the tool handles sticking out. She wasn’t going far.

The heat of the day had broken, but the air was thick, sultry, weighted with honeysuckle in second bloom and the Nu-Grape scent of kudzu. The maple and poplar leaves turned over, quaking, silver. There wouldn’t be any rain. She told the dog to stay, but he knew a trick. He stowed away when she turned her back, leaped right into the trunk with the tools, then gave himself away with exultant barks. Hearing him, her court jester, she stopped the car and welcomed him into the front seat beside her. Then they went on. Not a mile from her gate she turned onto the blue gravel of the cemetery lane, hauled the gearshift into reverse to whoa them, and got out to take the idle walk down to her buried hopes, bending all along to rout out a handful of weeds from between the markers of old acquain- tance. She stood there and read, slow. The dog whined at her hem; she picked him up and rested her chin on his head, then he wriggled and whined to run free, contrary and restless as a child.

The crows called strong and bold MOM! MOM! A trick of the ear to hear it like that. She knew it was the crows, but still she looked around. No one called her that now. She was done with that. And what was it worth anyway? It all came to this: solitary weeding. The sinful fumble of flesh, the fear, the listening for a return that never came, the shamed waiting, the unanswered prayers, the perjury on the certificate—hadn’t she lain there weary of the whole lie and it only beginning? and a voice telling her, “Here’s your baby, here’s your girl,” and the swaddled package meaning no more to her than an extra anything, something store-bought, some- thing she could take back for a refund.

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“Tie her to the fence and give her a bale of hay,” she had murmured, drugged, and they teased her, excused her for such a welcoming, blaming the anesthesia, but it went deeper than that; she knew, and the baby knew: there was no love in the begetting. That was the secret, unforgivable, that not another good thing could ever make up for, where all the bad had come from, like a visitation, a punishment. She knew that was why Sylvie had been wild, had gone to earth so early, and be- fore dying had made this child in sudden wedlock, a child who would be just like her, would carry the hurting on into another generation. A matter of time. No use raising her hand. But she had raised her hand. Still wore on its palm the memory of the sting of the collision with the girl’s cheek; had she broken her jaw? Her heart? Of course not. She said it aloud: “Takes more than that.”

She went to work then, doing what she could with her old tools. She pecked the clay on Sylvie’s grave, new-looking, unhealed after years. She tried again, scattering seeds from her pocket, every last possible one of them. Off in the west she could hear the pulpwood cutters sawing through another acre across the lake. Nearer, there was the racket of motorcycles laboring cross-country, insect-like, distracting.

She took her bucket to the well and hung it on the pump. She had half filled it when the bikers roared up, right down the blue gravel, straight at her. She let the bucket overflow, staring. On the back of one of the machines was the girl. Sylvie’s girl! Her bare arms wrapped around the shirtless man riding between her thighs. They were first. The second biker rode alone. She studied their strangers’ faces as they circled her. They were the enemy, all of them. Laughing. The girl was laughing too, laughing like her mama did. Out in the middle of nowhere the girl had found these two men, some moth-musk about her drawing them (too soon!) to what? She shouted it: “What in God’s—” They roared off without answering her, and the bucket of water tipped over, spilling its stain blood-dark on the red dust.

The dog went wild barking, leaping after them, snapping at the tires, and there was no calling him down. The bikers made a wide circuit of the churchyard, then roared straight across the graves, leaping the ditch and landing upright on the road again, heading off toward the reservoir.

Furious, she ran to her car, past the barking dog, this time leaving him behind, driving after them, horn blowing nonstop, to get back what was not theirs. She drove after them knowing what they did not know, that all the roads beyond that point dead-ended. She surprised them, swinging the Impala across their path, cut- ting them off; let them hit it! They stopped. She got out, breathing hard, and said, when she could, “She’s underage.” Just that. And put out her claiming hand with an authority that made the girl’s arms drop from the man’s insolent waist and her legs tremble.

“I was just riding,” the girl said, not looking up. Behind them the sun was heading on toward down. The long shadows of the

pines drifted back and forth in the same breeze that puffed the distant sails on the lake. Dead limbs creaked and clashed overhead like the antlers of locked and furi- ous beasts.

“Sheeeut,” the lone rider said. “I told you.” He braced with his muddy boot and leaned out from his machine to spit. The man the girl had been riding with had the invading sort of eyes the woman had spent her lifetime bolting doors against. She met him now, face to face.

“Right there, missy,” her granny said, pointing behind her to the car. The girl slid off the motorcycle and stood halfway between her choices. She

started slightly at the poosh! as he popped another top and chugged the beer in one uptilting of his head. His eyes never left the woman’s. When he was through,

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he tossed the can high, flipping it end over end. Before it hit the ground he had his pistol out and, firing once, winged it into the lake.

“Freaking lucky shot,” the other one grudged. “I don’t need luck,” he said. He sighted down the barrel of the gun at the

woman’s head. “POW!” he yelled, and when she recoiled, he laughed. He swung around to the girl: he kept aiming the gun, here, there, high, low, all around. “Y’all settle it,” he said, with a shrug.

The girl had to understand him then, had to know him, had to know better. But still she hesitated. He kept looking at her, then away.

“She’s fifteen,” her granny said. “You can go to jail.” “You can go to hell,” he said. “Probably will,” her granny told him. “I’ll save you a seat by the fire.” She took

the girl by the arm and drew her to the car; she backed up, swung around, and headed out the road toward the churchyard for her tools and dog. The whole way the girl said nothing, just hunched against the far door, staring hard-eyed out at the pines going past.

The woman finished watering the seed in, and collected her tools. As she worked, she muttered, “It’s your own kin buried here, you might have the decency to glance this way one time. . . .” The girl was finger-tweezing her eyebrows in the side mirror. She didn’t look around as the dog and the woman got in. Her granny shifted hard, sending the tools clattering in the trunk.

When they came to the main road, there were the men. Watching for them. Waiting for them. They kicked their machines into life and followed, close, bump- ing them, slapping the old fenders, yelling. The girl gave a wild glance around at the one by her door and said, “Gran’ma?” and as he drew his pistol, “Gran’ma!” just as the gun nosed into the open window. She frantically cranked the glass up be- tween her and the weapon, and her granny, seeing, spat, “Fool!” She never had been one to pray for peace or rain. She stamped the accelerator right to the floor.

The motorcycles caught up. Now she braked, hard, and swerved off the road into an alley between the pines, not even wide enough for the school bus, just a fire scrape that came out a quarter mile from her own house, if she could get that far. She slewed on the pine straw, then righted, tearing along the dark tunnel through the woods. She had for the time being bested them; they were left behind. She was win- ning. Then she hit the wallow where the tadpoles were already five weeks old. The Chevy plowed in and stalled. When she got it cranked again, they were stuck. The tires spattered mud three feet up the near trunks as she tried to spin them out, to rock them out. Useless. “Get out and run!” she cried, but the trees were too close on the passenger side. The girl couldn’t open her door. She wasted precious time having to crawl out under the steering wheel. The woman waited but the dog ran on.

They struggled through the dusky woods, their pace slowed by the thick straw and vines. Overhead, in the last light, the martins were reeling free and sure after their prey.

“Why? Why?” the girl gasped, as they lunged down the old deer trail. Behind them they could hear shots, and glass breaking as the men came to the bogged car. The woman kept on running, swatting their way clear through the shoulder-high weeds. They could see the Greer cottage, and made for it. But it was ivied-over, padlocked, the woodpile dry-rotting under its tarp, the electric meterbox empty on the pole. No help there.

The dog, excited, trotted on, yelping, his lips white-flecked. He scented the lake and headed that way, urging them on with thirsty yips. On the clay shore, treeless, deserted, at the utter limit of land, they stood defenseless, listening to the

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men coming on, between them and home. The woman pressed her hands to her mouth, stifling her cough. She was exhausted. She couldn’t think.

“We can get under!” the girl cried suddenly, and pointed toward the Greers’ dock, gap-planked, its walkway grounded on the mud. They splashed out to it, wading in, the woman grabbing up the telltale, tattletale dog in her arms. They waded out to the far end and ducked under. There was room between the foam floats for them to crouch neck-deep.

The dog wouldn’t hush, even then; never had yet, and there wasn’t time to teach him. When the woman realized that, she did what she had to do. She grabbed him whimpering; held him; held him under till the struggle ceased and the bubbles rose silver from his fur. They crouched there then, the two of them, submerged to the shoulders, feet unsteady on the slimed lake bed. They listened. The sky went from rose to ocher to violet in the cracks over their heads. The motorcycles had stopped now. In the silence there was the glissando of locusts, the dry crunch of boots on the flinty beach, their low man-talk drifting as they prowled back and forth. One of them struck a match.

“—they in these woods we could bum ’em out.” The wind carried their voices away into the pines. Some few words eddied back. “—lippy old smartass do a little work on her knees besides praying—” Laughter. It echoed off the deserted house. They were getting closer. One of them strode directly out to the dock, walked on the planks over their

heads. They could look up and see his boot soles. He was the one with the gun. He slapped a mosquito on his bare back and cursed. The carp, roused by the troubling of the waters, came nosing around the dock, guzzling and snorting. The girl and her granny held still, so still. The man fired his pistol into the shadows, and a wounded fish thrashed, dying. The man knelt and reached for it, chuffing out his beery breath. He belched. He pawed the lake for the dead fish, cursing as it floated out of reach. He shot it again, firing at it till it sank and the gun was empty. Cursed that too. He stood then and unzipped and relieved himself of some of the beer. They had to listen to that. To know that about him. To endure that, unprotesting.

Back and forth on shore the other one ranged, restless. He lit another cigarette. He coughed. He called. “Hey! They got away, man, that’s all. Don’t get your shorts in a wad. Let’s go.”

“Yeah.” He finished. He zipped. He stumped back across the planks and leaped to shore, leaving the dock tilting amid widening ripples. Underneath, they waited.

The bike cranked. The other ratcheted, ratcheted, then coughed, caught, roared. They circled, cut deep ruts, slung gravel, and went. Their roaring died away and away. Crickets resumed and a near frog bic-bic-bicked.

Under the dock, they waited a little longer to be sure. Then they ducked be- low the water, scraped out from under the pontoon, and came up into free air, slogging toward shore. It had seemed warm enough in the water. Now they shiv- ered. It was almost night. One streak of light still stood reflected on the darkening lake, drew itself thinner, narrowing into a final cancellation of day. A plane winked its way west.

The girl was trembling. She ran her hands down her arms and legs, shedding water like a garment. She sighed, almost a sob. The woman held the dog in her arms; she dropped to her knees upon the random stones and murmured, private, haggard, “Oh, honey,” three times, maybe all three times for the dog, maybe once for each of them. The girl waited, watching. Her granny rocked the dog like a baby, like a dead child, rocked slower and slower and was still.

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“I’m sorry,” the girl said then, avoiding the dog’s inert, empty eye. “It was him or you,” her granny said, finally, looking up. Looking her over.

“Did they mess with you? With your britches? Did they?” “No!” Then, quieter, “No, ma’am.” When the woman tried to stand up she staggered, lightheaded, clumsy with

the freight of the dog. “No, ma’am,” she echoed, fending off the girl’s “Let me.” And she said again, “It was him or you. I know that. I’m not going to rub your face in it.” They saw each other as well as they could in that failing light, in any light.

The woman started toward home, saying, “Around here, we bear our own burdens.” She led the way along the weedy shortcuts. The twilight bleached the dead limbs of the pines to bone. Insects sang in the thickets, silencing at their oncoming.

“We’ll see about the car in the morning,” the woman said. She bore her armful toward her own moth-ridden dusk-to-dawn security light with that country grace she had always had when the earth was reliably progressing underfoot. The girl walked close behind her, exactly where she walked, matching her pace, matching her stride, close enough to put her hand forth (if the need arose) and touch her granny’s back where the faded voile was clinging damp, the merest gauze between their wounds.

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. “How Far She Went” opens with the granddaughter yelling, “I hate it here!” Where is she, and why does she hate being there? Why is the granddaughter referred to as a “girl”?

2. What is the family history that defines the grandmother, her daughter Sylvie, and the granddaughter? What repeated pattern defines these three women? We learn of this family history when the grandmother is tending a grave. Why is this important?

3. Write a short essay that analyzes the character of the grandmother. What evi- dence can you find to support the argument that she is a strong and tough woman? What statements does the grandmother make that reveals her strength? What actions reveal the grandmother’s strength?

4. Think about the title of the story. If we apply this title to the granddaughter, we could say that she clearly goes “too far” in encouraging the two motorcycle- riding men. When does the granddaughter realize that she has gone too far? How can we apply this title to the grandmother?

5. What does the grandmother do to her dog? Why? How does the grandmother explain her actions? Read and reread this section of the story, adding more de- tailed annotations to develop your interpretation.

6. The lake provides an important setting for the climactic action of the story. How does the lake provide an escape or “getaway” for the two women? How does the lake function on a symbolic level; for example, does the lake allow for a symbolic rebirth? Compare “How Far She Went” to “Greasy Lake.” How and why do both stories feature lakes? In the two stories, how does the lake provide a backdrop for violence and sexuality? Do the lakes provide an escape from vio- lence and sexuality, or do they heighten violent and sexual actions? Are the lakes a space of death or life, of love or hate?

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116

C H A P T E R 5

The Pleasures of Reading, Writing,

and Thinking about Literature

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Connect the enjoyment of literature to the critical analysis of literature

• Consider how we interact with texts as readers and writers

• Use fiction to explore how literature creates connections

• Use graphic fiction to explore how literature makes and breaks rules

• Use poetry to explore how literature emphasizes language

• Use drama to explore how literature is a performance

• Use essays to explore how literature encourages discovery

• Write a personal response paper that captures your enjoyment of the literary work

The Pleasures of Literature As you work to develop your writing skills by engaging in a careful analysis, we hope that you won’t forget a starting point for this work: enjoyment! As you read a literary work for the first time, open yourself up to it as a pleasurable experience. Don’t hesitate to ask yourself what characters you liked the most, what language you found most striking, what image seemed the most beautiful, or what plot twist was the most shocking. New insights often come from “gut reactions” to a literary work. As you start to think more critically about the work, your first responses will provide a foundation for more considered and careful analysis. You will start to ask why you reacted to a character, a word, an image, or a scene, and your enjoyment of the literary work will deepen as you think it through more fully. Ultimately, you’ll enjoy the process of critical analysis itself, seeing it as an extension of your enjoyment of the literary work.

Let’s read a microfiction that, although short, has many enjoyable elements.

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WOODMAN • Wallet    117

Allen WoodmAn Allen Woodman is a professor of creative writing at Northern Arizona University. He has published numerous short stories, including very short stories like this one, often called “flash fiction” or “microfiction.” He has published six books, including a children’s picture book and a collection of humorous short stories for adults, Saved by Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Wallet

Tired of losing his wallet to pickpockets, my father, at seventy, makes a phony one. He stuffs the phony wallet with expired food coupons and losing Florida Lottery tickets and a fortune cookie fortune that reads, “Life is the same old story told over and over.”

In a full-length mirror, he tries the wallet in the back pocket of his pants. It hangs out fat with desire. “All oyster,” he says to me, “no pearl.”

We drive to the mall where he says he lost the last one. I am the wheelman, left behind in the car, while my father cases a department store.

He is an old man, trying to act feeble and childlike, and he overdoes it like stage makeup on a community-theater actor. He has even brought a walking stick for special effect. Packages of stretch socks clumsily slip from his fingers. He bends over farther than he has bent in years to retrieve them, allowing the false billfold to rise like a dark wish and be grappled by the passing shadow of a hand,

Then the unexpected happens. The thief is chased by an attentive salesclerk. Others join in. The thief subdued, the clerk holds up the reclaimed item. “Your wallet, sir. Your wallet.” As she begins opening it, searching for identification, my father runs toward an exit. The worthless articles float to the floor.

Now my father is in the car, shouting for me to drive away. There will be time enough for silence and rest. We are both stupid with smiles and he is shouting, “Drive fast, drive fast.”

[1996]

When we read this story, we found ourselves smiling with the characters, and we hope you did, too. Let’s ask some general questions about the story, consider- ing aspects of it that you might have found pleasurable.

• Did you find the story funny? At what points in the story did you laugh or smile? • Did you like the setup of the plot—the idea that the father is creating a

“sting” that will catch a thief? • Are there elements of the story that struck you as true, capturing the way a real

person might think or act? • Did you like the father/son relationship? Does it seem to be a caring or a

loving relationship? • Are there details in the story that you found funny, such as the father pre-

tending to drop packages of stretch socks? • Did you find the ending of the story to be enjoyable? Would you label it a

happy ending?

As we try to determine where our pleasure in the story comes from, we must dig deeper into the literary work. The more we look at the story, the more we see. Let’s continue our questioning but make the questions more specific, trying to determine what details of the story we found most enjoyable and what ideas are triggered by those details.

5

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• As we think about the planning of the “sting” operation, what elements of it are interesting: The idea of the father wanting the pickpocket to steal some- thing? The father’s creation of a false wallet that will be the pickpocket’s “reward”? The father’s desire to act like a victim?

• Let’s take these questions about the sting operation one step further: Is the father’s plan interesting because the father is taking justice into his own hands? Is the plan interesting because the father is creating his own form of punishment for the pickpocket? Rather than just catching the thief, does the father seem to want to play with the thief?

• What details of the fake wallet are funny—and interesting? Why are the food coupons “expired” and the lottery tickets “losing” tickets? Why does the wal- let have to be “fat,” and what does the phrase “fat with desire” mean? Why does the father say, “All oyster, no pearl”? What does that mean?

• Let’s look at the wallet even more closely. Why does the fortune cookie for- tune read, “Life is the same old story told over and over”? Because this for- tune is placed within quotation marks at the beginning of the story, it seems important. Does the father seem to be accepting or rejecting this fortune?

• What do you make of the father’s overacting when he sets himself up as a victim? How does the description of his overacting make the story even funnier?

• At the end of the story, “the unexpected happens.” Although this story is very short, it plays with our expectations, setting up a plot twist that we— and the characters—don’t expect. How does the salesclerk who catches the thief “ruin” the father’s plan? Why would the father want the thief to take the wallet and not to be caught?

• The end of this story is even more unexpected: The father runs away! Why is this ending exciting? Like a snowball rolling down a hill, the plot seems to pick up speed. Why does the father not stay and explain himself and the wallet?

• Let’s consider the plot as a whole. Why does the father set up an elaborate plan to have his son act like a “wheelman” and then, at the end of the story, run out to the car and yell “drive fast, drive fast”? Is the father acting like a thief who needs a getaway car? Why? Isn’t the father supposed to be the in- nocent victim?

We hope that, as you reexamine the story and question it further, your enjoy- ment of it will increase. The story becomes more interesting as you look at its details: The father and son are acting like robbers, the father likes overacting and creating elaborate props, and the father seems to be in it for the chase and not for catching the thief. Ultimately, the story disproves the fortune cookie fortune: It is not “the same old story told over and over.” Perhaps that’s why we like it.

The Pleasures of Analyzing the Texts That Surround Us

We engage in the activity of responding to texts on a daily if not hourly basis. Reading for enjoyment is something we do so constantly that we almost don’t even notice it. If you define a text as constructed material that conveys a message that can be read closely, almost anything that we watch or read can be seen as a text

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The Pleasures of Authoring Texts    119

that is worthy of analysis: a film, a TV show, a video game, advertising campaigns, a Facebook page, a blog post, or a Twitter feed. These forms of text share many qualities of literature, borrowing literary elements to be successful forms of entertainment.

We assume that you enjoy these many forms of text. Film and TV shows are obviously contemporary forms of drama, using actors, plotted action, crafted dialogue, and staged sets to tell a story. A video game allows you to enter into a carefully constructed world that uses characters, setting, and symbols to make its fictional landscape feel real. An advertising campaign often connects its visual imagery to poetic language—compressed language that is carefully chosen and sequenced to create emotional reactions. Even the digital communication that sur- rounds consists of texts that have literary elements: A Facebook page often aims to create a perfected person, as if he or she were a character; a blog post is an essay that conveys ideas while emphasizing the writer’s voice and personal style; and a Twitter post forces readers to use short bits of language in creative ways that become poetic. Some of these texts are more artistically constructed than others, to be sure, but they all can trigger our interest and critique.

Your reactions to these many texts are probably similar to your reactions to literature: At first, you might enjoy the text, but then you might slow down and think about its meaning and create a more considered response. You might love a character in a TV show, but when the character does something unexpected in an episode, you might find yourself disturbed by it, thinking, “Why did the show have him do that?” Or, you might initially laugh at a friend’s text message but then find yourself returning to it again and again, asking, “What does she really mean?” Or, you might snap a photo of an advertisement and send it to your friends, finding yourself explaining why you found it beautiful or inspirational.

As you negotiate your text-saturated world, your immediate reaction might be to like or dislike a text, but you might then ask questions about it, analyze it, and form opinions about it. This is the same type of inquiry and analysis process that underlies critical thinking and is also the process that we use to interpret literature and move toward writing about it.

The Pleasures of Authoring Texts When you write an essay, you become an author yourself. Just as you respond to a text message by writing a quick text in return, you should respond to literary writing with writing—this is the best way to develop your critical thinking skills. Engage with thought-provoking writing by taking on the role of writer yourself. Unlike a short-story writer or poet, your essays will consist chiefly of

• analysis and • argument (you want to persuade your reader that your analysis makes sense)

but your essay will surely also include

• exposition (you may have to define terms or summarize someone else’s argument) and

• narration (you may have to summarize a plot)

and you will have to use an appropriate

• style (largely a matter of tone)

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120    Chapter 5 The Pleasures of Reading, Writing, and Thinking about Literature

In short, when you are writing any essay, even when your emphasis is largely analytic and argumentative, you will probably use all the devices that all good writ- ers use to hold the attention of readers and to convince readers that you have something to say that is worth hearing. Also, you will have something to offer when you think seriously about both the work you are discussing and the work you are producing that you will submit to your classmates and instructor. Read each draft in a mildly critical spirit; keep asking yourself if your imagined readers will find it convincing and engaging. Here are some of the questions that you should ask yourself:

• Have I located an interesting and engaging topic that I am excited to explore and that my reader will want to explore with me?

• Have I defined terms that may be crucial to my analysis (for instance, immoral, realistic, pathetic, tragic, sentimental)?

• Have I given just the right amount of evidence (too little evidence will leave readers unconvinced; too much evidence may bore them)?

• Do transitions take the reader easily from sentence to sentence and from paragraph to paragraph?

• Is my title engaging, does my opening paragraph arouse interest, and does my final paragraph provide an effective ending?

• Is my tone appropriate?

The point about tone is worth further comment. As a writer of arguments, you want your readers to trust you. How do writers gain the trust of readers? Usually, by being

• knowledgeable (the writer quotes accurately and does not make errors of fact),

• fair (the writer does not ignore contrary evidence), and • courteous (the writer conveys an impression of goodwill and does not

come across to the reader as a smart aleck).

Enjoy stepping into the role of author and taking on the challenge of writing a well-crafted essay.

The Pleasures of Interacting with Texts We enjoy literature because we interact with it on many levels and in many ways: We can be entertained by it, question it, critique it, reread and reconsider it, mem- orize it, be inspired by it, and, of course, write about it. One of the pleasures of literature is that it forces us to think in unexpected ways—new thinking is often triggered by the interesting ways in which our minds interact with literature. Read- ing literature is an active endeavor, and the more that we see it as a dynamic pursuit that we can shape, the more we can enjoy it.

We interact with many types of texts in a typical day: informational alerts com- ing across social media, journalistic stories in the newspaper, opinionated blogs posted online, film clips on YouTube, and personal text messages received from friends. We know that different types of texts require different responses; we might quickly skim and reply to some texts, whereas we might carefully read and reread others. Literature, too, takes many forms that encourage many types of interaction. The major forms of literature include fiction, poetry, drama, and nonfiction. These

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KINCAID • Girl    121

types of literature can be subdivided further; for example, fiction includes short stories, novellas, novels, and graphic novels. These forms are often referred to as “genres” of literature, but genre is also used to indicate the content and style of the work, including the epic, comedy, tragedy, satire, or romance.

Let’s examine the different genres of literature that we explore more fully in Part 3, Chapters 11–15: fiction, graphic fiction, poetry, drama, and the essay. Let us also look at some of the ways in which we can create active relationships with these forms of literature. Our goal is to create dynamic interactions with the sample literary works that we present here; to that end, we ask you questions in the “Joining the Conversation” section that immediately follows each work.

Interacting with Fiction: Literature as Connection

Literature often depicts human relationships, exploring characters defined by their emotional, psychological, familial, or social connections. When we read a narrative text—a poem, a play, or a piece of fiction that tells a story—we expect to encoun- ter characters who are trying to connect with each other. The characters might achieve some sort of harmony or experience some sort of conflict and division, giving why they were or were not able to connect. What we might not think about are the ways in which the characters create connections with us.

A character provides one of the most powerful ways in which we connect to literature, giving the reader access to the emotions and thoughts that accompany a story, a poem, or a play. Characters make literature human, allowing us to put ourselves in the place of the fictional persons and imagine living in their world. While characters help us move “into” a story, characters also seem to step “outside” of the story, encouraging us to imagine them existing in our real world.

Characters are only one way in which we connect to literature. We might con- nect to the description of a specific place depicted in a story, be drawn to compel- ling images in a poem, or enjoy the patterns of sounds in a line spoken in a play. As readers, we create a multitude of connections with a literary work, and these connections are fertile ground for critical thinking and writing.

Let’s turn to a short story by Jamaica Kincaid that features the relationship between a mother and daughter. In this story, you will hear two voices, one of which is that of a mother who is tutoring her adolescent daughter for her future role as a woman. In addition to this mother-daughter relationship, think about the connection that this story creates between its characters and you, the reader. The story captures a mother speaking to her daughter, but think about how that voice is also speaking to you.

JAmAicA KincAid Jamaica Kincaid was born in 1949 on the island of Antigua, in the West Indies, which at that time was a British colony. At the age of seventeen, she emigrated to the United States, where she still lives, although much of her writing continues to be set in Antigua. She has written several novels, including Annie John and Lucy, and works of nonfiction, including essays on gardening.

Kincaid informs us that benna, mentioned early in the story, refers to “songs of the sort your parents didn’t want you to sing, at first calypso and later rock and roll.”

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Girl

Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don’t walk bare- head in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little clothes right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn’t have gum on it, because that way it won’t hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school?; always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming; don’t sing benna in Sunday school; you mustn’t speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don’t eat fruits on the street— flies will follow you; but I don’t sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father’s khaki shirt so that it doesn’t have a crease; this is how you iron your father’s khaki pants so that they don’t have a crease; this is how you grow okra—far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like too much; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t rec- ognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don’t squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know; don’t pick people’s flowers—you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all; this is how to make a bread pudding; this is how to make doukona; this is how to make pepper pot; this is how to make a good medicine for a cold; this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child; this is how to catch a fish; this is how to throw back a fish you don’t like, and that way something bad won’t fall on you; this is how to bully a man; this is how a man bullies you; this is how to love a man, and if this doesn’t work there are other ways, and if they don’t work don’t feel too bad about giving up; this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is how to move quick so that it doesn’t fall on you; this is how to make ends meet; always squeeze bread to make sure it’s fresh; but what if the baker won’t let me feel the bread?; you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won’t let near the bread?

[1978]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is the relationship being dramatized by the story? How would you describe the connection between the mother and her daughter?

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Personal Response Essay    123

2. What are the essential lessons the mother wants to impart to her daughter? Some of the lessons relate to tasks and chores, such as washing clothes, sewing buttons, and ironing pants. However, other lessons relate to the maturation of a young girl, including how to connect to other people and relationships with men. What categories of knowledge is the mother sharing with her daughter, and why?

3. How does the mother’s voice reach out and grab the listener? What are some of the ways in which the mother’s voice is constructed to sound spoken? How does the voice become a dynamic, energetic force?

4. Try reading a section of “Girl” out loud in a rhythmical pattern, giving the two speakers distinctive voices. Then reread the story, trying to incorporate the rhythms mentally into your reading. How do the rhythms compare with speech rhythms that are familiar to you?

5. What do you make of the girl’s second (and last) line of dialogue in “Girl,” and what do you make of the mother’s response to it?

6. Think of your own connection to the story. How does the story create a strong connection between you and its characters?

Personal Response Essay One way to capture your enjoyment of a literary work is to write a personal response paper. A personal response paper emphasizes the reader’s understanding of, and reaction to, the assigned literary text. In response-focused writing, the writer typically explains what he or she finds most thought provoking—most inter- esting, intriguing, confusing, enjoyable, or frustrating—about the text. A response paper often emphasizes emotional reactions and can overtly explain what the writer liked and didn’t like about a text. It is thus often fun to write a response paper, as it allows more subjective self-expression than an analytical paper.

A response paper is more informal than an analytical paper, but it can serve as a good starting point for interpretation. As we’ve emphasized, personal response is often the first step toward critical thinking. If you were completing a response paper, your writing would explore the literary work by emphasizing the ideas, opinions, and emotions that it triggered. These insights could then be used to develop an interpretation and a more argumentative paper. By asking you to focus on a close reading of the text and the reactions that reading generates, a response draft helps you to avoid focusing on plot summary or ideas that are too general. Instead, the response draft allows you to chart and assess your specific reactions to specific literary elements or specific aspects of the text. Your responses demon- strate your comprehension of the text’s information, your investigation into why certain parts of the text elicit certain reactions, and your ability to generate both emotional and intellectual insights about the text.

Student Personal Response Essay: “The Narrator in Jamaica Kincaid’s ‘Girl’: Questioning the Power of Voice”

Let’s look at a sample personal response essay to see how one student takes her immediate reactions to the story and turns them into writing. The essay captures the student’s emotional response but also contains many excellent interpretations of the story. These ideas could become the basis of a more formal analytical paper.

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Bracken 1

Jackie Bracken

Professor Holmes

English 101

29 January 2016

The Narrator in Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”: Questioning the Power of Voice

Presented as a monologue, Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” records a mother’s

voice as she lectures her young daughter. The short story takes a unique

form: it is the mother’s listing of all of the activities that the girl must be

able to do, from washing to eating to walking to cooking to attracting men.

The mother tells the girl exactly how to do each activity, giving her precise

directions. The short story is all one sentence, so that it takes the form of a

never-ending lecture that overwhelms the listening girl. This voice is a very

commanding one that overwhelmed me—it seemed to be commanding me as

I was reading the story. At first, I did not like this overwhelming nature of

the story. I think I was feeling like I was the daughter! But, on rereading the

story, I began to admire the mother and her knowledge. I think the story

captures the mother/daughter relationship very well, showing the power of

the mother over the daughter. As I reread the short story, I admired the

mother, but I also felt that the girl must be overwhelmed by the mother’s

power. As a result, I think the story forces the reader to question the

mother/daughter relationship, asking if this is a healthy form of control.

The story shows the mother lecturing the girl, telling her all the tasks

she must do. On a first reading, I was overwhelmed by the number of tasks the

girl would be asked to do. The girl is being trained to be a woman and to take

on many domestic duties in the household. The tasks include specific

instruction on how to do numerous domestic chores such as cooking,

washing, and ironing shirts. For example, the girl is told, “This is how to sew a

button; this is how to make a button hole for the button you have just sewed

on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down” (122).

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Personal Response Essay    125

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The girl is under pressure to perform many different jobs. As a reader, I felt

the pressure that the girl was under. The reader is made to feel the weight of

those responsibilities.

The mother makes this control even more meaningful by connecting

that control to the girl’s sexuality. Interspersed within the mother’s lecture

are many comments about the girl becoming a “slut” and not being able to

control her relationships with men. For example, the mother’s lecture about

the button holes continues to say, “this is how to hem a dress when you see

the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I

know you are so bent on becoming” (122). The use of the shocking word

“slut” reveals that the girl’s sexuality worries the mother. The girl’s sexuality

becomes a repeated issue. I am sure the daughter has no privacy. I think the

mother wants to control her daughter’s psychological, emotional and sexual

maturation—and gives her instructions on all aspects of her life. We do not

get to hear enough from the girl to know how she feels about it, but I think

she might resent these instructions.

In addition to a long list of tasks, for each task, the mother makes

sure to include all possibilities on how to perform that task. For example,

the mother tells the girl how to cook fish—and then later includes

instructions on how to catch the fish. As a result, the girl has a huge list of

responsibilities. The pattern of the mother’s lecture is to start with a small

activity and to then keep broadening that task out to become bigger and

bigger. The mother’s lecture seems to start with just a few instructions about

washing, but the instructions quickly grow to include almost any job the girl

might have. For example, when the girl is told how to sweep, it starts with a

focused act of sweeping, but then expands to include almost every type of

sweeping: the mother says “this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you

sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard” (122). I expected her to

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126    Chapter 5 The Pleasures of Reading, Writing, and Thinking about Literature

Bracken 3

next say, “this is how you sweep the world”! The mother’s control is not only

controlling the girls’ physical tasks and sexual life, but also so large that it

encompasses all aspects of her life—her entire world.

I was overwhelmed by the mother’s non-stop voice. I think Kincaid is

making the voice extreme to make the mother’s control of her daughter

clear. I can see that Kincaid wants the voice to come across as extreme even

if it disturbs the reader. The mother’s rapid-fire listing of the tasks makes it

difficult for the girl to get a word in edge-wise. She answers back to the

mother when she says, “but I don’t sing benna on Sundays at all and never

in Sunday school,” but the mother seems to be ignoring and talking right

over her (122). The girl’s statement is ignored and lost in the stream of the

mother’s words. Toward the end of the story, the girl wonders what would

happen if a baker won’t let the he squeeze the bread. The mother finally

answers back and gives a contradictory response: “you mean to say that after

all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won’t let near

the bread?” (122). She tells the girl that she must grow into a woman who

will be allowed to squeeze the bread. Thus, the mother wants to control her

daughter’s sexuality, but also allow her to grow into an attractive woman

Once I understood that the mother’s voice was supposed to be

overwhelming, I wound up liking it and respecting that it was strong. But,

the mother’s voice is so strong, it left me wondering if the girl would ever be

able to grow into that powerful, attractive woman. I can’t imagine the girl

ever getting free from that voice. I questioned if the mother would allow her

daughter to take over her own life. I wondered if the non-stop directions

meant that the girl would not be able to experiment with her own actions,

test her own knowledge, and figure out her own direction in life. The

mother’s lecture proves that she loves her daughter by trying to teach her.

However, the lecture is so all-controlling, it makes me wonder if the girl will

be able to take control of her own life.

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Interacting with Graphic Fiction: Literature as (Making and Breaking) Rules    127

Interacting with Graphic Fiction: Literature as (Making and Breaking) Rules

Why do we play board games like chess and card games like solitaire? Perhaps we find it enjoyable to have both structure and freedom: We follow strict rules while also inventing new ways to use those rules. Or, perhaps, we find it satisfying to have predictability and unpredictability: We know the steps of a game, but we don’t know when and how they’ll be reached. Literature fulfills some of these same desires. It sets up rules and steps that the writer invents “within,” allowing the writer to balance structure and freedom, predictability and unpredictability. As a reader, you are invited to enter into the game. You can be “in the know,” predicting how the literary text’s rules might work and being intrigued, even entertained, by the writer’s inventiveness in following or breaking those rules.

Different literary forms or genres follow different rules. In fiction, we expect to connect with characters, follow a series of events or plot, imagine a setting, and interpret symbols. In fiction, it would be strange (but not totally impossible) for a character to suddenly start speaking in rhyme; in poetry, however, we might expect a persona to express him or herself in rhyme, and we wouldn’t protest that a “real” person wouldn’t speak that way. When we watch a play, we similarly don’t protest when a character has to speak his or her internal thoughts aloud so that the audi- ence can hear them. In drama, we expect ideas to be expressed through dialogue and movement on the stage, rather than in lengthy descriptions that we might find in novels.

In each of these genres, we know the “rules of the game” and expect a literary work to follow those rules, or conventions. At the same time, we enjoy when a literary work breaks those rules in a purposeful or artful way. For example, some plays will feature a moment when an actor turns to and directly addresses the audi- ence, called “breaking the fourth wall.” We might enjoy this moment when the actor disrupts the illusion that the play is real and reminds us that we are watching a piece of fiction.

Much contemporary literature likes to remind us that it is fictional—and remind us of the rules it is following or not following. We say that something is meta when it refers to or comments on itself. “Meta” is a term that signals that a work is self- referential; metafiction is thus “fiction about fiction.” For example, a metafictional story might contain a character who shares the author’s name and who interrupts the story to say, “Wait, let me rewrite this scene.” Let’s look at a short graphic text that calls attention to the storytelling it is engaged in.

Bracken 4

Work Cited

Kincaid, Jamaica. “Girl.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William

Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017.

122. Print.

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128    Chapter 5 The Pleasures of Reading, Writing, and Thinking about Literature

lyndA BArry Lynda Barry (born in 1956) is an award-winning cartoonist who started her career with a weekly comic strip, “Ernie Pook’s Comeek.” One of these comic strips is reprinted here. She has written illustrated and graphic novels, and most recently she has experimented with innovative how-to books that use collage, journal writing, poetic language, and comics to show people how to develop their creativity.

Before You Write

[c. 1990]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. This short graphic narrative is one of Barry’s weekly comic strips published as “Ernie Pook’s Comeek.” It is a comic strip that is comic, or funny. What strikes you as funny about this graphic narrative? In literary terms, a “comic” story typically has a happy ending. Does this story have a happy ending?

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Interacting with Poetry: Literature as Language    129

2. What elements of the graphic narrative are unexpected and thus cause the plea- sure of surprise? How does the story being told contain unexpected elements? How does the graphic imagery contain unexpected elements?

3. How is this graphic narrative an example of metafiction or metanarrative? How does the writing refer to itself as writing and call attention to the writing process? Consider the instructions at the top of each frame. How is the (supposed) young writer of this comic strip following and breaking these rules of writing?

4. Much of the humor of the comic strip comes from the disconnect between the writing instructions (presumably instructions typed on a worksheet by an adult teacher) and the story that comes under the instructions. How does the teacher who made the writing instructions think about the writing process? How does the kid writing the story think about the writing process?

5. Think of the relationship between the verbal text and the visual text. How do the illustrations add more meaning to the story? Look, for example, at what the mother is saying in the images.

Interacting with Poetry: Literature as Language

It seems obvious to state that literature is made out of language—but it seems important to emphasize that literature puts more pressure on the use of words than everyday communication. The artistic, creative, and imaginative use of language is an essential component of literary expression.

In literature, ideas are compressed into words that must be “unpacked,” or analyzed, in a close and detailed manner that draws out all possible meanings. Literary language can be compared to a suitcase filled with layers of a traveler’s belongings; words can be opened up and unpacked, with each layer examined for possible meanings. If we unpack a suitcase and remove hiking boots, we can guess that the traveler is going hiking. However, if, by digging deeper into the suitcase, we then unpack a Spanish phrase book, a guide to Aztec ruins, and a sketch book, we will have a much clearer, richer idea of the traveler’s plans. Liter- ary language encourages the reader to open up and tease out hidden meanings. If we explore a word long enough, we can locate its multiple meanings and come to richer conclusions about the larger meaning of the work. “Unpacking” opens up language and reveals ideas that we might have missed if we had only skimmed the surface.

Poetry makes literature’s interest in creative language clear. While fiction and drama use words to build up their plots and characters, poetry strips thoughts, emotions, and actions down to their essential representation in words. A poem calls attention to language as its core element, emphasizing word selection, order, and sound. Specific words are carefully placed within the larger structures of the line, stanza, and whole of the poem. It is through these deceptively simple acts that literary meaning is created. When we are exploring the importance of literary language, it makes sense to examine poetry.

Let’s turn to two poems that seem to be having great fun with language, specifically the new forms of language being created today through texting and

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tweeting. Texts and tweets feature short, compressed language that can take imagi- native forms—an everyday parallel to poetry and thus great subjects for poetry itself.

JuliA Bird Born and educated in England, Julia Bird entered a poetry contest sponsored by a British publication, the Guardian. The ground rules: Write a poem limited to the 160 characters of the mobile phone screen. Bird’s poem won a Special Prize of £250 (about $400) for what the Guardian “called the most creative use of SMS ‘shorthand’ in a poem.”

14: a txt msg poM

his is r bunsn brnr b1%, his hair lyk fe filings W/ac/dc going thru. I sit by him in kemistry, It splits my @oms wen he :-)s @ me.

Translation 14: a text message poem. his eyes are bunsen burner blue, his hair like iron filings with ac/dc going through. I sit by him in chemistry, it splits my atoms when he smiles at me.

[2001]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. How does this poem use language in unexpected ways? The use of “r” for “are” in line 1 is certainly not original, but do you find things in this piece that strike you as highly imaginative and especially entertaining?

2. How is the translation itself an interesting use of language? Which form of language do you prefer: the text message or the translation? Why?

3. Imagine that you are the person about whom Bird wrote her poem. Are you pleased, or not? Write a text poem in response.

With the rise of social media, contemporary poets have taken up the challenge of trying to make their creative writing fit within the constraints of internet-based communication. Just like the constraints provided by poetic forms such as the son- net (which must be fourteen lines long that follow a set rhyme scheme) or the haiku (which is typically three lines following a pattern of 5-7-5 syllables), social media offers formal “rules” for writing that challenge the poet. For example, Twitter has a text limit of 140 characters. Let’s look at how a famous contemporary poet, Billy Collins, accepts that challenge.

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Interacting with Drama: Literature as Performance    131

Billy collins For a biographical note on Billy Collins, see page 245.

Twitter Poem

The poem creates a space. It hides in a tent in a forest. Making its own bed it falls asleep in the dark, wakes up under a lamp or the sun.

[2011]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. If this poem was not labelled a “Twitter Poem,” would you know that it follows the rules of a tweet?

2. Collins explains that a poem creates its own “space.” Compare the space de- scribed in the poem to the space of the internet. Is this poem creating a space for poetry within the “forest” of social media? Can you continue to interpret the poem as a commentary on today’s communication?

3. How does Collins characterize poetry? Is the poem strong and forceful? Or, is it meek and passive? Why would a poet imagine a poem hiding and sleeping? Does the poem have any positive qualities, such as self-reliance? How does the last line change the image of the poem? Does it offer a hopeful image of a poem coming to life? Why do you think the poem offers the images of both “a lamp” and “the sun”?

Interacting with Drama: Literature as Performance

Literature often encourages performance. All of us at times “perform” literary works when we tell stories in public. We read a fairy tale to children, or we tell a joke to a friend. When we were children, we recited nursery rhymes, perhaps even performing them by bouncing a ball or skipping rope to the accompaniment of the lines. Moreover, we sing lullabies, hymns, birthday greetings, and national anthems, and on New Year’s Eve, we may sing Robert Burns’s great poem, “Auld Lang Syne.”

When Robert Frost said that a poem is “a performance in words,” he was not speaking of poetry recitations, though Frost himself was an expert reciter and apparently a born showman. (If Frost had a weakness as a performer, it was that he insisted on being a soloist and never gave readings with other poets: “I only go / When I’m the show.”) When Frost said that a poem was a performance in words, he was saying that the writer does things with words, more or less as a juggler performs with Indian clubs or balls, as a singer performs with vocal cords and air, and as a dancer or an athlete performs with the body. The writer’s artistic materials are words, which the writer manipulates into something attractive and meaningful. All forms of literature can be seen as performances—artistic creations that come to life for an audience.

Drama is the literary genre that is most obviously connected to performance. A play is meant to be spoken aloud, presented in real time and space on a stage, and

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acted in front of a live audience. As with fiction and poetry, the dramatic work encourages us to create an active relationship with it. When we read a play, we can’t help but envision actors following the stage directions, imagine lines being spoken aloud, and see sets and props used as part of the dramatic action. Our engagement with the play makes us, the readers, into its performers. Reading a short except from a famous play, The Importance of Being Earnest, demonstrates just how enjoyable “performing” a play—imagining it come to life as you read it—can be.

oscAr Wilde Famous for his razor-sharp wit, Oscar Wilde (1854–1900) was an Irish writer who composed plays, novels, poetry, and essays, He was one of the most popular play- wrights in London in the late nineteenth century. His brilliance did not spare him the prejudice of his times: He was involved in a libel trial that accused him of homo- sexuality; he was found guilty and imprisoned for two years, causing ill health that precipitated his death.

Excerpt from The Importance of Being Earnest

This excerpt from Wilde’s play, The Importance of Being Earnest (1895), features a young woman, Cecily, who has been creating a fictional romance for herself. In this scene, she meets the object of her predetermined affection, Algernon (whom she insists on calling Ernest), and explains how she has manufactured their love affair. The scene opens with the butler, Merriman, announcing that Algernon’s one-horse carriage, called a dogcart, is ready.

[Enter merriman.]

merriman: The dog-cart is at the door, sir.

[algernon looks appealingly at cecily.]

cecily: It can wait, Merriman for . . . five minutes. merriman: Yes, Miss. [Exit merriman.] algernon: I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly

that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.

cecily: I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to table and begins writ- ing in diary.]

algernon: Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I? cecily: Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very young girl’s re-

cord of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delight in taking down from dictation. I have reached ‘absolute perfection.’ You can go on. I am quite ready for more.

algernon: [Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem! cecily: Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently

and not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough. [Writes as algernon speaks.]

algernon: [Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your won- derful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passion- ately, devotedly, hopelessly.

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WILDE • excerpt from The Importance of Being Earnest    133

cecily: I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionate- ly, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?

algernon: Cecily!

[Enter merriman.]

merriman: The dog-cart is waiting, sir. algernon: Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour. merriman: [Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.

[Merriman retires.]

cecily: Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till next week, at the same hour.

algernon: Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in the whole world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’t you?

cecily: You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.

algernon: For the last three months? cecily: Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday. algernon: But how did we become engaged? cecily: Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he had a younger

brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself and Miss Prism. And of course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. One feels there must be something in him, after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love with you, Ernest.

algernon: Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled? cecily: On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire ignorance of my

existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.

algernon: Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it? cecily: Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuse I’ve always given

for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]

algernon: My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any let- ters.

cecily: You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too well that I was forced to write your letters for you. I wrote always three times a week, and sometimes oftener.

algernon: Oh, do let me read them, Cecily? cecily: Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too conceited. [Replaces

box.] The three you wrote me after I had broken off the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.

algernon: But was our engagement ever broken off? cecily: Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you

like. [Shows diary.] ‘To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues charming.’

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algernon: But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so charming.

cecily: It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.

algernon: [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you are, Cecily. cecily: You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers through his

hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it? algernon: Yes, darling, with a little help from others. cecily: I am so glad. algernon: You’ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily? cecily: I don’t think I could break it off now that I have actually met you. [. . .]

[1895]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. According to Cecily, what are the elements of a romantic relationship? How has Cecily fulfilled all the criteria of a romantic relationship on her own?

2. Does Cecily reveal that a romantic relationship is a performance? Through this comedy, is Wilde encouraging us to conclude that all romance contains an element of performance?

3. Part of what make this scene funny is the completeness of Cecily’s delusion: She maintains her deluded sense of romance even as she explains it to Algernon. How does Algernon react? Does he talk her out of her delusion? Wilde has obvi- ously created absurdly unrealistic characters. How does this rejection of realism make this a more enjoyable play?

4. How does the writing figure into this scene? How and why is Wilde mocking certain uses of writing? For example, what does Cecily plan to do with her diary? How does Cecily organize her letters?

5. Consider Frost’s explanation that a poem is a “performance in words.” How is Wilde using language as a performance? How does he juggle certain words for maximum effect? How do the words and ideas of loving “hopelessly,” “charming” weather, and hair curling “with a little help from others” become comic?

Interacting with Essays: Literature as Discovery

Literature is born out of our never-ending search for meaning—our search for the “big ideas” that help us to think big thoughts. Importantly, this search is not one of locating a single right answer put in place by an author. Rather, this search is an act of interpretation, in which we help to create the meaning we seek. The big idea of a literary work is not simply given to us; we must work to locate, define, and question it. That activity is one of discovery: It allows us to determine what we think the literary work is about. When we read a literary work, we hope to gain a new idea or interesting insight: We want a reward for the intellectual effort of read- ing. That reward is not just for our new ideas, but also for our development of our interpretive abilities.

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RAYA • It’s Hard Enough Being Me    135

The literary essay is a nonfiction essay that takes a personal, reflective, or nar- rative form. As we will explore in Chapter 11, essays can also take argumentative or expository forms, and the essays that you write analyzing literature fall into these categories. In all of these essay forms, the writer often wrestles with a “big idea” that is important enough to write about. In more literary forms of the essay, that exploration of ideas often features a process of personal discovery. The author is not arguing an idea that he or she has already decided but, rather, is often invit- ing us, the readers, to take a voyage and discover ideas along with the author.

Although the literary essay explores a factual issue, it often borrows the tech- niques and structures of fictional literature. For example, it might feel like a story; the essay might feature moments that are given a plot-like structure to emphasize their importance, interesting character-like persons that represent specific ideas, or concerns that become theme-like as they develop through realization and insight. The essay presents carefully shaped ideas, and that shaping aligns it with literature. Although it details factual ideas, the literary essay can embellish those ideas with imaginative elements because it is exploring ideas through the unique perspective of the author; that perspective can include creative interpretations, observations, reflections, dreams, hopes, fears, and delusions—all of the stuff that makes human thought an interesting and unique journey.

In the following essay, Anna Lisa Raya charts a process of discovery, specifi- cally self-discovery, which focuses on language and race. Let’s explore how her essay allows us, in turn, to discover new ideas about race and identity in America.

AnnA lisA rAyA Anna Lisa Raya, daughter of a second-generation Mexican American father and a Puerto Rican mother, grew up in Los Angeles, California, but went to Columbia University in New York. While an undergraduate at Columbia, she wrote and published this essay on identity.

It’s Hard Enough Being Me

When I entered college, I discovered I was Latina. Until then, I had never ques- tioned who I was or where I was from: My father is a second-generation Mexican- American, born and raised in Los Angeles, and my mother was born in Puerto Rico and raised in Compton, Calif. My home is El Sereno, a predominantly Mexican neighborhood in L.A. Every close friend I have back home is Mexican. So I was always just Mexican. Though sometimes I was just Puerto Rican–like when we would visit Mamo (my grandma) or hang out with my Aunt Titi.

Upon arriving in New York as a first-year student, 3000 miles from home, I not only experienced extreme culture shock, but for the first time I had to define myself according to the broad term “Latina.” Although culture shock and identity crisis are common for the newly minted collegian who goes away to school, my experience as a newly minted Latina was, and still is, even more complicating. In El Sereno, I felt like I was part of a majority, whereas at the College I am a minority.

I’ve discovered that many Latinos like myself have undergone similar experi- ences. We face discrimination for being a minority in this country while also facing criticism for being “whitewashed” or “sellouts” in the countries of our heritage. But as an ethnic group in college, we are forced to define ourselves according to some vague, generalized Latino experience. This requires us to know our history, our language, our music, and our religion. I can’t even be a content “Puerto Mexican”

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because I have to be a politically-and-socially-aware-Latina-with-a-chip-on-my- shoulder-because-of-how-repressed-I-am-in-this-country.

I am none of the above. I am the quintessential imperfect Latina. I can’t dance salsa to save my life, I learned about Montezuma and the Aztecs in sixth grade, and I haven’t prayed to the Virgen de Guadalupe in years.

Apparently I don’t even look Latina. I can’t count how many times people have just assumed that I’m white or asked me if I’m Asian. True, my friends back home call me güera (“whitey”) because I have green eyes and pale skin, but that was as bad as it got. I never thought I would wish my skin were a darker shade or my hair a curlier texture, but since I’ve been in college, I have—many times.

Another thing: My Spanish is terrible. Every time I call home, I berate my mama for not teaching me Spanish when I was a child. In fact, not knowing how to speak the language of my home countries is the biggest problem that I have encountered, as have many Latinos. In Mexico there is a term, pocha, which is used by native Mexicans to ridicule Mexican-Americans. It expresses a deep-rooted antagonism and dislike for those of us who were raised on the other side of the border. Our failed attempts to speak pure, Mexican Spanish are largely responsible for the dislike. Other Latin American natives have this same attitude. No matter how well a Latino speaks Spanish, it can never be good enough.

Yet Latinos can’t even speak Spanish in the U.S. without running the risk of being called “spic” or “wetback.” That is precisely why my mother refused to teach me Spanish when I was a child. The fact that she spoke Spanish was constantly used against her: It prevented her from getting good jobs, and it would have placed me in bilingual education—a construct of the Los Angeles public school system that has proved to be more of a hindrance to intellectual development than a help.

To be fully Latina in college, however, I must know Spanish. I must satisfy the equation: Latina [equals] Spanish-speaking.

So I’m stuck in this black hole of an identity crisis, and college isn’t making my life any easier, as I thought it would. In high school, I was being prepared for an adulthood in which I would be an individual, in which I wouldn’t have to wear a Catholic school uniform anymore. But though I led an anonymous adolescence, I knew who I was. I knew I was different from white, black, or Asian people. I knew there was a language other than English that I could call my own if I only knew how to speak it better. I knew there were historical reasons why I was in this coun- try, distinct reasons that make my existence here easier or more difficult than other people’s existence. Ultimately, I was content.

Now I feel pushed into a corner, always defining, defending, and proving myself to classmates, professors, or employers. Trying to understand who and why I am, while understanding Plato or Homer, is a lot to ask of myself.

A month ago, I heard three Nuyorican (Puerto Ricans born and raised in New York) writers discuss how New York City has influenced their writing. One prob- lem I have faced as a young writer is finding a voice that is true to my community. I was surprised and reassured to discover that as Latinos, these writers had faced similar pressures and conflicts as myself; some weren’t even taught Spanish in childhood. I will never forget the advice that one of them gave me that evening: She said that I need to be true to myself. “Because people will always complain about what you are doing—you’re a ‘gringa’ or a ‘spic’ no matter what,” she explained. “So you might as well do things for yourself and not for them.”

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RAYA • It’s Hard Enough Being Me    137

I don’t know why it has taken 20 years to hear this advice, but I’m going to give it a try. Soy yo and no one else. Punto.1

[1994]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Raya opens her essay by explaining how she discovers the different racial cat- egories she might belong to. In her first paragraph, Raya says that, although her parents are American citizens, until she went to New York she “was always just Mexican” or “just Puerto Rican.” Why do you suppose she thought this way? Then, when she goes to college in New York, she is a “Latina.” What does this change in terminology represent?

2. In her second paragraph, Raya says that in New York she “had to” define her- self as “Latina,” and in her third paragraph, she says that many members of “minority” communities “are forced” to define themselves. In paragraph 10, she says, “Now I feel pushed into a corner, always defining, defending, and proving myself to classmates, professors, or employers. Trying to understand who and why I am, while understanding Plato or Homer, is a lot to ask. . . .” Is Raya say- ing that both the majority culture and the minority culture force her to define herself? Drawing on your own experience, give your views on whether it is a good thing or a bad thing (or some of each) to be forced to define oneself in terms of ethnicity.

3. Today, the words Latino and Latina are common, but until perhaps fifteen years ago, Spanish-speaking people from Mexico, Central America, and South America were called Hispanics or Latin Americans. Do you think these terms are useful, or do you think that the differences between, say, a poor black woman from Cuba and a rich white man from Argentina are so great that it makes very little sense to put them into the same category, whether the cat- egory is called Latino, Hispanic, or Latin American? Why, incidentally, do you think that Latino/Latina is now preferred to Hispanic?

4. In paragraph 7, Raya speaks of the Los Angeles bilingual educational program as “a construct of the Los Angeles public school system that has proved to be more of a hindrance to intellectual development than a help.” If you have been in a bilingual educational program, evaluate the program. Did it chiefly help you or chiefly hinder you? Explain.

5. In her last two paragraphs, Raya explains that after an acquaintance told her to be true to herself, she concluded, “Soy yo” (“I’m me,” or “I’m myself”). You may recall that in Hamlet Polonius says to his son Laertes, “This above all: to thine own self be true” (1.3.78). But what does it mean to be true to oneself? Presum- ably, one doesn’t behave immorally, but beyond that, what does one do? For instance, if a friend suggested to Raya that she might enjoy (and intellectually profit from) taking a course in Latin American literature, in making a decision, what self would she be true to?

6. In your own life, you make many decisions each day. Are many of them based on being true to yourself? Again, putting aside questions concerning immorality, do you think you have a “self” that you are true to? If so, is this self, at least in part, based on ethnicity?

1 Soy yo . . . Punto I’m me . . . Period. (Editors’ note.)

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Your Turn: Additional Poems, Stories, and Essays for Pleasurable Analysis

Poems

Jimmy sAntiAgo BAcA Jimmy Santiago Baca, of Chicano and Apache descent, was born in 1952. When he was two years old, his parents divorced, and a grandparent brought him up until he was five years old, at which time he was placed in an orphanage in New Mexico. He ran away when he was eleven years old, lived on the streets, took drugs, and at the age of twenty was convicted of drug possession. In prison, he taught himself to read and write, and he began to compose poetry. A fellow inmate urged him to send some poems to Mother Jones magazine, and the work was accepted. In 1979, Loui- siana State University Press published a book of his poems, Immigrants in Our Own Land. Since then, he has published several other books.

Green Chile

I prefer red chile over my eggs and potatoes for breakfast. Red chile ristros° decorate my door, dry on my roof, and hang from eaves. They lend open-air vegetable stands historical grandeur, and gently swing with an air of festive welcome. I can hear them talking in the wind, haggard, yellowing, crisp, rasping tongues of old men, licking the breeze.

But grandmother loves green chile. When I visit her, she holds the green chile pepper in her wrinkled hands. Ah, voluptuous, masculine an air of authority and youth simmers from its swan-neck stem, tapering to a flowery collar, fermenting resinous spice. A well-dressed gentleman at the door my grandmother takes sensuously in her hand, rubbing its firm glossed sides, caressing the oily rubbery serpent, with mouth-watering fulfillment, fondling its curves with gentle fingers. Its bearing magnificent and taut as flanks of a tiger in mid-leap, she thrusts her blade into and cuts it open, with lust

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BACA • Green Chile    139

on her hot mouth, sweating over the stove, bandanna round her forehead, mysterious passion on her face as she serves me green chile con carne between soft warm leaves of corn tortillas, with beans and rice—her sacrifice to her little prince. I slurp from my plate with last bit of tortilla, my mouth burns and I hiss and drink a tall glass of cold water.

All over New Mexico, sunburned men and women drive rickety trucks stuffed with gunny sacks of green chile, from Belen, Veguita, Willard, Estancia, San Antonio y Socorro, from fields to roadside stands, you see them roasting green chile in screen-sided homemade barrels, and for a dollar a bag, we relive this old, beautiful ritual again and again.

[1989]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Sensory imagery appeals to any of the five senses: touch, sight, smell, taste, and hearing. Reread “Green Chile,” and annotate its sensory imagery, noting what senses are addressed. What words are used to trigger each sense? How and why does Baca appeal to the senses to capture the powerful appeal of the green chile?

2. In the second stanza, the poem uses sexual imagery to describe the grand- mother’s love of the chile. What does the grandmother do to the chile, which is compared to a “well-dressed gentleman”? Does Rios convey the sensuous nature of cooking and eating? What words do you find to be the most success- ful in conveying the sensual nature of food? Does Rios succeed in capturing the enjoyment of the chile?

3. The last stanza provides a sudden shift in setting, tone, and imagery. What ideas are addressed in this stanza? Why does Rios add this stanza? Do you like that it leaves the grandmother’s kitchen behind? How does this stanza place eating green chile in a larger context? In your opinion, would the poem be more or less successful if it did not contain this last stanza?

4. Alberto Rio’s Nani” and Jimmy Santiago Baca’s “Green Chile” both describe eat- ing food prepared by a grandmother. How would you compare the two poems? What is the relationship between the speaker and the grandmother that each poet is trying to capture? What is the relationship between food and family that each poet is trying to capture?

AlBerto rios The poems of Alberto Rios (1952–) capture his Mexican American heritage, often using magical realism to convey the experience of bridging two cultures. Rios teach- es at Arizona State University and in 2013 was named the Inaugural Poet Laureate

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of Arizona. He has published several collections of poetry, three short-story collec- tions, and a memoir. He has won numerous awards for his poetry, including six Pushcart Prizes and the Arizona Governor’s Arts.

Nani*

Sitting at her table, she serves the sopa de arroz° to me instinctively, and I watch her, the absolute mamá, and eat words I might have had to say more out of embarrassment. To speak, now-foreign words I used to speak, too, dribble down her mouth as she serves me albondigas.° No more than a third are easy to me. By the stove she does something with words and looks at me only with her back. I am full. I tell her I taste the mint, and watch her speak smiles at the stove. All my words make her smile. Nani never serves herself, she only watches me with her skin, her hair. I ask for more.

I watch the mamá warming more tortillas for me. I watch her fingers in the flame for me. Near her mouth, I see a wrinkle speak of a man whose body serves the ants like she serves me, then more words from more wrinkles about children, words about this and that, flowing more easily from these other mouths. Each serves as a tremendous string around her, holding her together. They speak nani was this and that to me and I wonder just how much of me will die with her, what were the words I could have been, was. Her insides speak through a hundred wrinkles, now, more than she can bear, steel around her, shouting, then, What is this thing she serves?

She ask me if I want more. I own no words to stop her. Even before I speak, she serves.

[1982]

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* Nani “grandmother.” 2 sopa de arroz rice soup. 9 albondigas meatballs.

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WILLIAMS • This Is Just to Say    141

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. The poem’s speaker describes eating rice soup and meatballs served by his nani, or grandmother. This meal, however, seems to be more about language than food. He explains that he “eats words” (line 4). What does this mean? What does it mean that his nani’s words are “now-foreign” (line 7)?

2. The poem’s speaker offers the image that his nani’s words are “a tremendous string around her, holding her together” (lines 28–29). How is his grandmother’s identity connected to words? How does she use words? What does she do with words?

3. The poem’s speaker connects the grandmother’s words to his own identity, explaining that he wonders “what were the words I could have been, was” (lines 33–34). Does this realization give the poem an emotional resonance? For example, does this line convey a sense of sadness?

4. Examine the last stanza of the poem. Why does the speaker not stop his grand- mother from serving more food? Write a response paper that explains the relationship between the speaker and his nani, using the poem’s ending as a starting point.

WilliAm cArlos WilliAms William Carlos Williams (1883–1963) was the son of an English traveling salesman and a Basque-Jewish woman. The couple met in Puerto Rico and settled in Ruther- ford, New Jersey, where Williams was born. He spent his life there, practicing as a pediatrician and writing poems in the moments between appointments.

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox

and which you were probably saving for breakfast

Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

[1934]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Williams’s poem is famous for its simplicity. In your opinion, is this poem suc- cessful? How does this poem play with our expectations of poetry? Can a direct and straightforward statement be a poem? Or, do you expect a poem to be complex and difficult to understand? Try rewriting a stanza of the poem, using

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your own words to convey the same images and ideas. Does your rewriting become longer and more complex than the original poem? Can stripping down a poem to its essential words be a difficult—and artistic—activity?

2. Why is the poem broken down into three stanzas? How does each stanza con- tain a different action or thought? Does each stanza add a new layer of meaning to the poem?

3. The last lines of the poem offer an excuse as to why the speaker has eaten the plums. Do these words help you to feel the attraction of the plums? Com- pare Williams’s poem with Helen Chasin’s “The Word Plum.” How do both poets try to capture the appeal of the fruit? Which language appeals to you more: Williams’s direct statement or Chasin’s sensuous imagery? How would you explain each poet’s strategy for, or approach to, describing a plum?

Helen cHAsin Born in 1938, Helen Chasin grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and attended Radcliffe College. In addition to teaching at Emerson College, she has served as a Bread Loaf Scholar in Poetry at Middlebury College and a Bunting Institute Fellow at Harvard University. Her poems are often praised for their use of warmth and playfulness to address serious aspects of social and personal change.

The Word Plum

The word plum is delicious

pout and push, luxury of self-love, and savoring murmur full in the mouth and falling like fruit

taut skin pierced, bitten, provoked into juice, and tart flesh

question and reply, lip and tongue of pleasure.

[1968]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Chasin’s title and first line of the poem makes it clear that she is focusing on the word plum rather than on the plum itself. However, she also makes it clear that the word conveys the qualities of the fruit. What aspects of the fruit are cap- tured in the word plum?

2. How is speaking the word plum like eating plum? How does Chasin make us think about the relationship between speaking and eating? For example, how does Chasin emphasize the mouth? What is “full in the mouth” (line 4)?

3. What are your favorite words in this poem? How does Chasin call attention to the power of words? As she investigates how the word plum conveys meaning, how does Chasin herself use evocative words? Look carefully at the words that

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SOTO • Oranges    143

Chasin uses and how she organizes them. For example, note all of the verbs that she uses to capture the action of speaking the word plum. Also, note the sounds that are emphasized and repeated.

gAry soto Born in 1952, Gary Soto grew up in one of the barrios, or urban Mexican American neighborhoods, of Fresno, California. His poetry often depicts the daily life of growing up in this community. His parents and grandparents worked as farm laborers, and Soto worked in the area’s fields and factories. Inspired by the literature that he dis- covered in a library, including works by Hemingway and Steinbeck, Soto took cre- ative writing classes at California State University, Fresno, and studied with the famous poet Philip Levine. He earned a graduate degree in creative writing at the University of California–Irvine. A prolific author, he has written eleven collections of poetry for adults, three novels, a memoir, and numerous works for children and young adults.

Oranges

The first time I walked With a girl, I was twelve, Cold, and weighted down With two oranges in my jacket. December. Frost cracking Beneath my steps, my breath Before me, then gone, As I walked toward Her house, the one whose Porch light burned yellow Night and day, in any weather. A dog barked at me, until She came out pulling At her gloves, face bright With rouge. I smiled, Touched her shoulder, and led Her down the street, across A used car lot and a line Of newly planted trees, Until we were breathing Before a drugstore. We Entered, the tiny bell Bringing a saleslady Down a narrow aisle of goods. I turned to the candies Tiered like bleachers, And asked what she wanted— Light in her eyes, a smile Starting at the corners Of her mouth. I fingered A nickle in my pocket, And when she lifted a chocolate

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That cost a dime, I didn’t say anything. I took the nickle from My pocket, then an orange, And set them quietly on The counter. When I looked up, The lady’s eyes met mine, And held them, knowing Very well what it was all About.

Outside, A few cars hissing past, Fog hanging like old Coats between the trees. I took my girl’s hand In mine for two blocks. Then released it to let Her unwrap the chocolate. I peeled my orange That was so bright against The gray of December That, from some distance, Someone might have thought I was making a fire in my hands.

[1983]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is the exchange that takes place with the shopkeeper? Is the exchange one of money or something more? Why is this exchange important?

2. How does Soto’s word choice, or diction, capture the realities of the narrator’s neighborhood? How would you characterize the style and level of the language: simple, ornate, complex, academic, or straightforward? Why is the style of Soto’s language a good match for his subject matter?

3. Soto’s last line describes the orange as “making a fire in my hands.” Write a short interpretation of this image. How can an orange be a fire? Why does the narrator have a fire in his hands? Is this image positive or negative? Why does the poem end with this image?

4. Consider the young girl featured in the poem. How do we know that she enjoys this first neighborhood date? Why is her choice of the chocolate important? What does the chocolate represent?

sArAH n. clegHorn Sarah N. Cleghorn (1876–1959) was born in Manchester, Vermont. A Quaker, she was active in pacifist, antivivisectionist, and women’s suffrage movements. Among her many books are The True Ballad of Glorious Harriet Tubman (1933) and an autobiography, Threescore (1936).

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SMITH • Not Waving but Drowning    145

The Golf Links

The golf links lie so near the mill That almost every day

The laboring children can look out And see the men at play.

[1917]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Check the meanings of ironic, satiric, and sarcastic in a dictionary, and decide which, if any, of these words applies well to Cleghorn’s poem.

2. The poem was published in 1917, when child labor was common. (Children as young as ten years old worked as much as fifteen hours a day in mills. In 1916—a year before the poem was published—Congress had passed the Child Labor Act, but in 1918 the Supreme Court struck down the act, arguing that Congress did not have the right to control labor within a state.) Today, however, child labor in the United States is virtually nonexistent. Is there any point, then, in reading this poem? Set forth your response in a brief argument, perhaps of two paragraphs.

stevie smitH The British poet Florence Margaret “Stevie” Smith (1902–71) is known for using deceptively simple language to explore complex themes. Although her poems address topics such as death and religion, they are often light, witty, and playful, as seen in “Not Waving but Drowning.” She wrote three novels and nine volumes of poetry, and she often published her poetry with accompanying doodles and drawings.

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he’s dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

[1957]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is the meaning of the title, “Not Waving but Drowning”? How does the title explain the poem’s focus on “the dead man”? Did you find the poem’s pres- entation of a dead man unexpected?

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2. Who are the different speakers in the poem? Map the different speakers, stanza by stanza. How are these different speakers explaining the event of the drowning?

3. In line 9, the dead man explains, “I was much too far out all my life.” What does this mean? How does this line connect a description of swimming to a more abstract description of how the man lived his life? Does this line help to explain his life and his death?

stories

AmBrose Bierce Ambrose Bierce (1842–1914?) was born in Horse Creek, Ohio, but soon his family moved to Indiana, where at the age of nineteen he enlisted in the Union Army. In the next four years, he fought in several of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War, was wounded twice, and rose to the rank of lieutenant. After the war, he worked as a journalist in San Francisco, England, and again in San Francisco. In 1912, he went to Mexico to cover the Mexican Revolution, but he disappeared there, and it is assumed that he died in 1914. Bierce’s literary reputation rests chiefly on one story, reprinted here, but he wrote other stories of interest—some about the supernatural—as well as a witty, cynical book called The Devil’s Dictionary. Here is a sample definition: “Marriage. The state or condition of a community consisting of a master, a mistress, and two slaves, making in all, two.”

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

1

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers1 supporting the metals of the railway sup- plied a footing for him and his executioners—two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as “support,” that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest—a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open

1 sleepers railroad crossties.

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BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge    147

ground—a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loop- holed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway of the slope between bridge and fort were the spectators—a single company of infantry in line, at “parade rest,” the butts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good—a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evi- dently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the crossties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his “unsteadfast footing,” then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he would neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a black- smith’s hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by—it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience and—he knew not why—apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

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He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. “If I could free my hands,” he thought, “I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader’s farthest advance.”

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man’s brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.

2

Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth,2 and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, long- ing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, no adventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.

One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front.

“The Yanks are repairing the railroads,” said the man, “and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught interfering with the rail- road, its bridges, tunnels or trains will be summarily hanged. I saw the order.”

“How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?” Farquhar asked. “About thirty miles.” “Is there no force on this side the creek?” “Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this

end of the bridge.” “Suppose a man—a civilian and student of hanging—should elude the picket

post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel,” said Farquhar, smiling, “what could he accomplish?”

The soldier reflected. “I was there a month ago,” he replied, “I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like tow.”

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.

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2 Corinth Corinth, Mississippi, where Confederate forces were defeated, 3–4 October, 1862.

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BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge    149

3

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost conscious- ness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened—ages later, it seemed to him—by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceiv- ably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fulness—of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without mate- rial substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no additional strangula- tion; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bottom of a river!—the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface—knew it with reluctance, for he was now very -comfortable. “To be hanged and drowned,” he thought, “that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair.”

He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort!—what magnificent, what superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward; the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched them with new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water-snake. “Put it back, put it back!” He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undo- ing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet experi- enced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedi- ent hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek!

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the

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individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf—saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies’ wings, the strokes of water- spider’s legs, like oars which had lifted their boat—all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shout- ed and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning’s work. How coldly and pitilessly—with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforc- ing tranquility in the men—with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words:

“Attention, company! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!” Farquhar dived—dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears like

the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncom- fortably warm and he snatched it out.

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream—nearer to safe- ty. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigor- ously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.

“The officer,” he reasoned, “will not make that martinet’s error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!”

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BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge    151

An appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, diminuendo,3 which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! The can- non had taken a hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.

“They will not do that again,” he thought; “the next time they will use a charge of grape.4 I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise me—the re- port arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun.”

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round—spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men—all were com- mingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular hori- zontal streaks of color—that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream—the southern bank—and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of aeolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape—was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random fare- well. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest.

All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodman’s road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the bark- ing of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises, among which— once, twice, and again—he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt con-

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3 diminuendo decreasing in loudness. 4 grapeshot a cluster of small iron balls fired from a cannon.

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Happy Endings

John and Mary meet. What happens next? If you want a happy ending, try A.

A

John and Mary fall in love and get married. They both have worthwhile and remu- nerative jobs which they find stimulating and challenging. They buy a charming house. Real estate values go up. Eventually, when they can afford live-in help, they have two children, to whom they are devoted. The children turn out well. John and Mary have a stimulating and challenging sex life and worthwhile friends. They go on fun vacations together. They retire. They both have hobbies which they find stimulating and challenging. Eventually they die. This is the end of the story.

B

Mary falls in love with John but John doesn’t fall in love with Mary. He merely uses her body for selfish pleasure and ego gratification of a tepid kind. He comes to her apartment twice a week and she cooks him dinner, you’ll notice that he doesn’t even consider her worth the price of a dinner out, and after he’s eaten the dinner he fucks her and after that he falls asleep, while she does the dishes so he won’t think she’s untidy, having all those dirty dishes lying around, and puts on fresh lipstick so she’ll look good when he wakes up, but when he wakes up he doesn’t even notice, he puts on his socks and his shorts and his pants and his shirt and his tie and his shoes, the reverse order from the one in which he took them off. He doesn’t take off Mary’s clothes, she takes them off herself, she acts as if she’s dying for it every time, not because she likes sex exactly, she doesn’t, but she wants John to think she does because if they do it often enough surely he’ll get used to her, he’ll come to depend on her and they will get married, but John goes out the door with hardly so much as a good-night and three days later he turns up at six o’clock and they do the whole thing over again.

Mary gets run-down. Crying is bad for your face, everyone knows that and so does Mary but she can’t stop. People at work notice. Her friends tell her John is a rat, a pig, a dog, he isn’t good enough for her, but she can’t believe it. Inside John, she thinks, is another John, who is much nicer. This other John will emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, a Jack from a box, a pit from a prune, if the first John is only squeezed enough.

One evening John complains about the food. He has never complained about the food before. Mary is hurt.

Her friends tell her they’ve seen him in a restaurant with another woman, whose name is Madge. It’s not even Madge that finally gets to Mary: it’s the restau- rant. John has never taken Mary to a restaurant. Mary collects all the sleeping pills and aspirins she can find, and takes them and a half a bottle of sherry. You can see what kind of a woman she is by the fact that it’s not even whiskey. She leaves a note for John. She hopes he’ll discover her and get her to the hospital in time and repent and then they can get married, but this fails to happen and she dies.

John marries Madge and everything continues as in A.

C

John, who is an older man, falls in love with Mary, and Mary, who is only twenty- two, feels sorry for him because he’s worried about his hair falling out. She sleeps

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gested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue—he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees another scene—perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female gar- ments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon—then all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

[1891]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Characterize Peyton Farquhar. If you think Bierce makes him sympathetic, con- sider the ways in which Bierce does so.

2. Early in the story, the narrator says, “The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of people, and gentlemen are not excluded.” How would you characterize the tone of this sentence? What, if anything, does the sentence contribute to the story?

3. Do you think that Bierce takes sides, suggesting that the North—or the South— is morally superior? What evidence can you offer to support your view?

4. Is the ending a complete surprise? Do some passages in the story suggest—at least on rereading—that perhaps Farquhar has not escaped? If so, point out a few.

5. What do you think of the title of the story? How does it compare with, for ex- ample, “Peyton Farquhar,” or “Peyton Farquhar’s Escape,” or “The Hanging at Owl Creek Bridge”?

mArgAret AtWood One of the most original and important voices in contemporary fiction, Margaret Atwood is a Canadian author who is best known for her novels, including The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), The Robber Bride (1993), and Oryx and Crake (2003). In 2000, her novel The Blind Assassin won the prestigious Booker Prize, England’s annual prize for the best fiction in the English language. She also writes poetry, essays, and short fiction. Atwood explores difficult contemporary topics by weaving fantastical elements into stories that depict dystopian worlds, environmental crises, and suppressed peoples. Atwood was born in Ottawa, Canada, in 1939 and grew up in Ontario and Quebec. She received a BA from the University of Toronto and an MA from Radcliffe College.

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Happy Endings

John and Mary meet. What happens next? If you want a happy ending, try A.

A

John and Mary fall in love and get married. They both have worthwhile and remu- nerative jobs which they find stimulating and challenging. They buy a charming house. Real estate values go up. Eventually, when they can afford live-in help, they have two children, to whom they are devoted. The children turn out well. John and Mary have a stimulating and challenging sex life and worthwhile friends. They go on fun vacations together. They retire. They both have hobbies which they find stimulating and challenging. Eventually they die. This is the end of the story.

B

Mary falls in love with John but John doesn’t fall in love with Mary. He merely uses her body for selfish pleasure and ego gratification of a tepid kind. He comes to her apartment twice a week and she cooks him dinner, you’ll notice that he doesn’t even consider her worth the price of a dinner out, and after he’s eaten the dinner he fucks her and after that he falls asleep, while she does the dishes so he won’t think she’s untidy, having all those dirty dishes lying around, and puts on fresh lipstick so she’ll look good when he wakes up, but when he wakes up he doesn’t even notice, he puts on his socks and his shorts and his pants and his shirt and his tie and his shoes, the reverse order from the one in which he took them off. He doesn’t take off Mary’s clothes, she takes them off herself, she acts as if she’s dying for it every time, not because she likes sex exactly, she doesn’t, but she wants John to think she does because if they do it often enough surely he’ll get used to her, he’ll come to depend on her and they will get married, but John goes out the door with hardly so much as a good-night and three days later he turns up at six o’clock and they do the whole thing over again.

Mary gets run-down. Crying is bad for your face, everyone knows that and so does Mary but she can’t stop. People at work notice. Her friends tell her John is a rat, a pig, a dog, he isn’t good enough for her, but she can’t believe it. Inside John, she thinks, is another John, who is much nicer. This other John will emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, a Jack from a box, a pit from a prune, if the first John is only squeezed enough.

One evening John complains about the food. He has never complained about the food before. Mary is hurt.

Her friends tell her they’ve seen him in a restaurant with another woman, whose name is Madge. It’s not even Madge that finally gets to Mary: it’s the restau- rant. John has never taken Mary to a restaurant. Mary collects all the sleeping pills and aspirins she can find, and takes them and a half a bottle of sherry. You can see what kind of a woman she is by the fact that it’s not even whiskey. She leaves a note for John. She hopes he’ll discover her and get her to the hospital in time and repent and then they can get married, but this fails to happen and she dies.

John marries Madge and everything continues as in A.

C

John, who is an older man, falls in love with Mary, and Mary, who is only twenty- two, feels sorry for him because he’s worried about his hair falling out. She sleeps

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malicious intent to deceive, or just motivated by excessive optimism if not by downright sentimentality.

The only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.

* * * So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, how- ever, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it’s the hardest to do any- thing with.

That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.

Now try How and Why. [1983]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. “Happy Endings” is an example of metafiction: fiction that self-consciously comments on fiction, calling attention to its artificial and constructed status. How does “Happy Endings” call attention to storytelling conventions? For exam- ple, as the title emphasizes, readers want a story to have a happy ending. How does Atwood satirize that desire? What other expectations do we have for a plot? How does Atwood call attention to those expectations?

2. “Happy Endings” provides serious commentary on human relationships, but it is also very funny. Highlight the lines that you found humorous. Why are these lines funny? How do Atwood’s language, character, and plot twists bring humor the story?

3. Variations “B” and “C” are quite dark. Is Atwood trying to convey a message about gender relationships and sexuality? Why does Atwood present plots that include unhappiness, mistreatment, getting “run-down,” and being too “settled down”? Why do these stories end with violence? Continue this list of inquiry questions about these two sections, and use those questions to organize your note taking.

4. “Happy Endings” concludes what the statement, “That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what. Now try How and Why.” What does Atwood mean by “a what and a what and a what” and “How and Why”? How do these final lines address the purpose of storytelling?

5. Write a new variation, “G,” for “Happy Endings.” What would your variation emphasize? Can your variation satirize a certain genre or type of storytelling? Can your variation present a serious theme in a comic fashion?

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with him even though she’s not in love with him. She met him at work. She’s in love with someone called James, who is twenty-two also and not yet ready to settle down.

John on the contrary settled down long ago: this is what is bothering him. John has a steady, respectable job and is getting ahead in his field, but Mary isn’t impressed by him, she’s impressed by James, who has a motorcycle and a fabulous record collection. But James is often away on his motorcycle, being free. Freedom isn’t the same for girls, so in the meantime Mary spends Thursday evenings with John. Thursdays are the only days John can get away.

John is married to a woman called Madge and they have two children, a charming house which they bought just before the real estate values went up, and hobbies which they find stimulating and challenging, when they have the time. John tells Mary how important she is to him, but of course he can’t leave his wife because a commitment is a commitment. He goes on about this more than is nec- essary and Mary finds it boring, but older men can keep it up longer so on the whole she has a fairly good time.

One day James breezes in on his motorcycle with some top-grade California hybrid and James and Mary get higher than you’d believe possible and they climb into bed. Everything becomes very underwater, but along comes John, who has a key to Mary’s apartment. He finds them stoned and entwined. He’s hardly in any position to be jealous, considering Madge, but nevertheless he’s overcome with despair. Finally he’s middle-aged, in two years he’ll be bald as an egg and he can’t stand it. He purchases a handgun, saying he needs it for target practice—this is the thin part of the plot, but it can be dealt with later—and shoots the two of them and himself.

Madge, after a suitable period of mourning, marries an understanding man called Fred and everything continues as in A, but under different names.

D

Fred and Madge have no problems. They get along exceptionally well and are good at working out any little difficulties that may arise. But their charming house is by the seashore and one day a giant tidal wave approaches. Real estate values go down. The rest of the story is about what caused the tidal wave and how they escape from it. They do, though thousands drown, but Fred and Madge are virtu- ous and lucky. Finally on high ground they clasp each other, wet and dripping and grateful, and continue as in A.

E

Yes, but Fred has a bad heart. The rest of the story is about how kind and under- standing they both are until Fred dies. Then Madge devotes herself to charity work until the end of A. If you like, it can be “Madge,” “cancer,” “guilty and confused,” and “bird watching.”

F

If you think this is all too bourgeois, make John a revolutionary and Mary a counterespionage agent and see how far that gets you. Remember, this is Canada. You’ll still end up with A, though in between you may get a lustful brawling saga of passionate involvement, a chronicle of our times, sort of.

* * * You’ll have to face it, the endings are the same however you slice it. Don’t be deluded by any other endings, they’re all fake, either deliberately fake, with

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malicious intent to deceive, or just motivated by excessive optimism if not by downright sentimentality.

The only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.

* * * So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, how- ever, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it’s the hardest to do any- thing with.

That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.

Now try How and Why. [1983]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. “Happy Endings” is an example of metafiction: fiction that self-consciously comments on fiction, calling attention to its artificial and constructed status. How does “Happy Endings” call attention to storytelling conventions? For exam- ple, as the title emphasizes, readers want a story to have a happy ending. How does Atwood satirize that desire? What other expectations do we have for a plot? How does Atwood call attention to those expectations?

2. “Happy Endings” provides serious commentary on human relationships, but it is also very funny. Highlight the lines that you found humorous. Why are these lines funny? How do Atwood’s language, character, and plot twists bring humor the story?

3. Variations “B” and “C” are quite dark. Is Atwood trying to convey a message about gender relationships and sexuality? Why does Atwood present plots that include unhappiness, mistreatment, getting “run-down,” and being too “settled down”? Why do these stories end with violence? Continue this list of inquiry questions about these two sections, and use those questions to organize your note taking.

4. “Happy Endings” concludes what the statement, “That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what. Now try How and Why.” What does Atwood mean by “a what and a what and a what” and “How and Why”? How do these final lines address the purpose of storytelling?

5. Write a new variation, “G,” for “Happy Endings.” What would your variation emphasize? Can your variation satirize a certain genre or type of storytelling? Can your variation present a serious theme in a comic fashion?

20

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essAy

george sAunders Born in 1958 in Amarillo, Texas, George Saunders worked as a geophysicist in the oil fields of Sumatra, Indonesia, and as a doorman, a roofer, and a “knuckle- puller” in a slaughterhouse before becoming a writer. He earned an MFA degree in creative writing from Syracuse University, New York, and started publishing his short stories while working as a writer for pharmaceutical and engineering companies. He now teaches in the Syracuse MFA program. His writing is widely praised for its use of unexpected perspectives to critique American culture’s empha- sis on work, wealth, consumption, and the media. His short stories have earned him numerous accolades, including being named as one of the best writers under the age of forty by The New Yorker magazine and one of the top one hundred most creative people in entertainment by Entertainment Weekly magazine. He was awarded a MacArthur “genius grant” Fellowship in 2006. He gave this convocation speech at Syracuse University in 2013.

Commencement Speech on Kindness

Down through the ages, a traditional form has evolved for this type of speech, which is: Some old fart, his best years behind him, who, over the course of his life, has made a series of dreadful mistakes (that would be me), gives heartfelt advice to a group of shining, energetic young people, with all of their best years ahead of them (that would be you).

And I intend to respect that tradition. Now, one useful thing you can do with an old person, in addition to borrow-

ing money from them, or asking them to do one of their old-time “dances,” so you can watch, while laughing, is ask: “Looking back, what do you regret?” And they’ll tell you. Sometimes, as you know, they’ll tell you even if you haven’t asked. Some- times, even when you’ve specifically requested they not tell you, they’ll tell you.

So: What do I regret? Being poor from time to time? Not really. Working terrible jobs, like “knuckle-puller in a slaughterhouse?” (And don’t even ASK what that en- tails.) No. I don’t regret that. Skinny-dipping in a river in Sumatra, a little buzzed, and looking up and seeing like 300 monkeys sitting on a pipeline, pooping down into the river, the river in which I was swimming, with my mouth open, naked? And getting deathly ill afterwards, and staying sick for the next seven months? Not so much. Do I regret the occasional humiliation? Like once, playing hockey in front of a big crowd, including this girl I really liked, I somehow managed, while falling and emitting this weird whooping noise, to score on my own goalie, while also sending my stick flying into the crowd, nearly hitting that girl? No. I don’t even regret that.

But here’s something I do regret: In seventh grade, this new kid joined our class. In the interest of confidential-

ity, her Convocation Speech name will be “ELLEN.” ELLEN was small, shy. She wore these blue cat’s-eye glasses that, at the time, only old ladies wore. When nervous, which was pretty much always, she had a habit of taking a strand of hair into her mouth and chewing on it.

So she came to our school and our neighborhood, and was mostly ignored, occasionally teased (“Your hair taste good?”—that sort of thing). I could see this hurt her. I still remember the way she’d look after such an insult: eyes cast down, a little gut-kicked, as if, having just been reminded of her place in things, she was

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trying, as much as possible, to disappear. After awhile she’d drift away, hair-strand still in her mouth. At home, I imagined, after school, her mother would say, you know: “How was your day, sweetie?” and she’d say, “Oh, fine.” And her mother would say, “Making any friends?” and she’d go, “Sure, lots.”

Sometimes I’d see her hanging around alone in her front yard, as if afraid to leave it.

And then—they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing. One day she was there, next day she wasn’t. End of story. Now, why do I regret that? Why, forty-two years later, am I still thinking about

it? Relative to most of the other kids, I was actually pretty nice to her. I never said an unkind word to her. In fact, I sometimes even (mildly) defended her.

But still. It bothers me. So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t

quite know what to do with it: What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffer-

ing, and I responded . . . sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly. Or, to look at it from the other end of the telescope: Who, in your life, do you

remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth? Those who were kindest to you, I bet. It’s a little facile, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I’d say, as a goal

in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder. Now, the million-dollar question: What’s our problem? Why aren’t we kinder? Here’s what I think: Each of us is born with a series of built-in confusions that are probably some-

how Darwinian. These are: (1) We’re central to the universe (that is, our personal story is the main and most interesting story, the only story, really); (2) we’re separate from the universe (there’s US and then, out there, all that other junk—dogs and swing-sets, and the State of Nebraska and low-hanging clouds and, you know, other people), and (3) we’re permanent (death is real, o.k., sure—for you, but not for me).

Now, we don’t really believe these things—intellectually we know better-but we believe them viscerally, and live by them, and they cause us to prioritize our own needs over the needs of others, even though what we really want, in our hearts, is to be less selfish, more aware of what’s actually happening in the present moment, more open, and more loving.

So, the second million-dollar question: How might we DO this? How might we become more loving, more open, less selfish, more present, less delusional, etc., etc?

Well, yes, good question. Unfortunately, I only have three minutes left. So let me just say this. There are ways. You already know that because, in your

life, there have been High Kindness periods and Low Kindness periods, and you know what inclined you toward the former and away from the latter. Education is good; immersing ourselves in a work of art: good; prayer is good; meditation’s good; a frank talk with a dear friend; establishing ourselves in some kind of spiri- tual tradition—recognizing that there have been countless really smart people before us who have asked these same questions and left behind answers for us.

Because kindness, it turns out, is hard—it starts out all rainbows and puppy dogs, and expands to include . . . well, everything.

One thing in our favor: Some of this “becoming kinder” happens naturally, with age. It might be a simple matter of attrition: As we get older, we come to see

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how useless it is to be selfish—how illogical, really. We come to love other people and are thereby counter-instructed in our own centrality. We get our butts kicked by real life, and people come to our defense, and help us, and we learn that we’re not separate, and don’t want to be. We see people near and dear to us dropping away, and are gradually convinced that maybe we too will drop away (someday, a long time from now). Most people, as they age, become less selfish and more lov- ing. I think this is true. The great Syracuse poet, Hayden Carruth, said, in a poem written near the end of his life, that he was “mostly Love, now.”

And so, a prediction, and my heartfelt wish for you: As you get older, your self will diminish and you will grow in love. YOU will gradually be replaced by LOVE. If you have kids, that will be a huge moment in your process of self-diminishment. You really won’t care what happens to YOU, as long as they benefit. That’s one reason your parents are so proud and happy today. One of their fondest dreams has come true: You have accomplished something difficult and tangible that has enlarged you as a person and will make your life better, from here on in, forever.

Congratulations, by the way. When young, we’re anxious—understandably—to find out if we’ve got what it

takes. Can we succeed? Can we build a viable life for ourselves? But you—in par- ticular you, of this generation-may have noticed a certain cyclical quality to ambi- tion. You do well in high-school, in hopes of getting into a good college, so you can do well in the good college, in the hopes of getting a good job, so you can do well in the good job so you can. . . .

And this is actually O.K. If we’re going to become kinder, that process has to include taking ourselves seriously—as doers, as accomplishers, as dreamers. We have to do that, to be our best selves.

Still, accomplishment is unreliable. “Succeeding,” whatever that might mean to you, is hard, and the need to do so constantly renews itself (success is like a moun- tain that keeps growing ahead of you as you hike it), and there’s the very real danger that “succeeding” will take up your whole life, while the big questions go untended.

So, quick, end-of-speech advice: Since, according to me, your life is going to be a gradual process of becoming kinder and more loving: Hurry up. Speed it along. Start right now. There’s a confusion in each of us, a sickness, really: selfish- ness. But there’s also a cure. So be a good and proactive and even somewhat des- perate patient on your own behalf-seek out the most efficacious anti-selfishness medicines, energetically, for the rest of your life.

Do all the other things, the ambitious things—travel, get rich, get famous, innovate, lead, fall in love, make and lose fortunes, swim naked in wild jungle riv- ers (after first having it tested for monkey poop)—but as you do, to the extent that you can, err in the direction of kindness. Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid the things that would reduce you and make you trivial. That luminous part of you that exists beyond personality—your soul, if you will—is as bright and shining as any that has ever been. Bright as Shakespeare’s, bright as Gandhi’s, bright as Mother Teresa’s. Clear away everything that keeps you separate from this secret luminous place. Believe it exists, come to know it better, nurture it, share its fruits tirelessly.

And someday, in 80 years, when you’re 100, and I’m 134, and we’re both so kind and loving we’re nearly unbearable, drop me a line, let me know how your life has been. I hope you will say: It has been so wonderful.

Congratulations, Class of 2013. I wish you great happiness, all the luck in the world, and a beautiful summer.

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Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Saunders’s speech examines the theme of regret. What are the events in his life that he should regret but doesn’t? What is his biggest regret? Explain why his memories of Ellen have become a regret that he is still thinking about “forty-two years later.”

2. Saunders’s speech emphasizes kindness. Using Saunders’s speech, define kind- ness. Continuing to work with this speech, provide examples of the type of kindness that Saunders wants us to practice. If you had to go out and engage in a specific act of kindness right now, what would it be?

3. As part of explaining why humans are not kinder, Saunders explains three “built in confusions” that shape us. Examine each of these confusions in turn. Do you agree that they define our approach to the world? Can you see these confusions operating in yourself or in those around you?

4. Reread the end of Saunders’s speech, in which he offers his advice on how to replace the self with love and kindness. Now, put the speech aside and attempt to summarize its central ideas in your own words. What are the most important ideas that you would like to take away from this speech?

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C h a p t e r 6

Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary,

and Explication

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Define literature, its characteristics and its forms

• Perform a close reading

• Write a paraphrase, summary, and explication

• Understand how explication includes commentary and argument

What Is Literature? Perhaps the first thing to say is that it is impossible to define literature in a way that will satisfy everyone. And perhaps the second thing to say is that, in the last twenty years or so, some serious thinkers have argued that it is impossible to set off certain verbal works from all others and, on some basis or other, to designate them as literature. For one thing, it is argued, a work is just marks on paper or sounds in the air. The audience (reader or listener) turns these marks or sounds into some- thing with meaning, and different audiences will construct different meanings out of what they read or hear. There are texts (birthday cards, sermons, political speeches, magazines, novels that sell by the millions and novels that don’t sell at all, poems, popular songs, editorials, and so forth), but there is nothing that should be given the special title of “literature.”

Although there is something to be said for the idea that literature is just an honorific word and not a collection of work embodying eternal truths and eternal beauty, let’s make the opposite assumption, at least for a start. Let’s assume that certain verbal works are of a distinct sort—whether because the author shapes them or because a reader perceives them a certain way—and that we can call these works literature. But what are these works like?

Literature and Form

We all know why we value a newspaper or a textbook or an atlas, but why do we value a verbal work that doesn’t give us the latest news or important information about business cycles or the names of the capitals of nations? About one thousand years ago, a Japanese woman, Shikibu Murasaki, or Lady Murasaki (978?–1026),

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166    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

offered an answer in The Tale of Genji, a book often called the world’s first novel. During a discussion about reading fiction, one of the characters gives an opinion as to why a writer tells a story:

Again and again writers find something in their experience, or see something in the life around them, that seems so important they cannot bear to let it pass into oblivion. There must never come a time, the writer feels, when people do not know about this.

Literature is about human experiences, but the experiences in literature are not simply the shapeless experiences—the chaotic passing scene—captured by a mindless, unselective video camera. Poets, dramatists, and storytellers find or impose a shape on scenes (for instance, the history of two lovers), giving readers things to value—written or spoken accounts that are memorable not only for their content but also for their form—the shape of the speeches, of the scenes, of the plots. (Later, we will see that form and content are inseparable, but for now, for our purposes, we can talk about them separately.)

Because this discussion of literature is brief, we will illustrate the point by looking at one of the briefest literary forms, the proverb. Consider this statement:

A rolling stone gathers no moss.

Now let’s compare it with a paraphrase (a restatement, a translation into other words):

If a stone is always moving around, vegetation won’t have a chance to grow on it.

What makes the original version more powerful, more memorable? Surely, much of the answer is that the original is more concrete and its form is more shape- ly. At the risk of being heavy-handed, we can analyze the shapeliness thus: Stone and moss (the two nouns in the sentence) each contain one syllable; rolling and gathers (the two words of motion) each contain two syllables, with the accent on the first syllable. Notice, too, the nice contrast between stone (hard) and moss (soft).

The reader probably feels this shapeliness unconsciously rather than perceives it consciously. That is, these connections become apparent when one starts to ana- lyze a literary work, but the literary work can have its effect on a reader even before the reader analyzes the work. As T. S. Eliot said in his essay on Dante (1929), “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” Indeed, our first reading of a work, when, so to speak, we are all eyes and ears (and the mind is highly receptive rather than sifting for evidence), is sometimes the most impor- tant reading. Experience proves that we can feel the effects of a work without yet understanding how the effects are achieved.

Most readers will probably agree that

• the words in the proverb are paired interestingly and meaningfully; • the sentence is not simply information but is also (to quote one of Robert

Frost’s definitions of literature) “a performance in words”; • what the sentence is, we might say, is no less significant than what the sen-

tence says; • the sentence as a whole forms a memorable picture, a small but complete

world, hard and soft, inorganic and organic, inert and moving; • the idea set forth is simple—partly because it is highly focused and therefore

leaves out a lot—but it is also complex;

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Frost • The Span of Life    167

• by virtue of the contrasts, and, again, even by the pairing of monosyllabic nouns and of disyllabic words of motion, it is unified into a pleasing whole.

For all of its specificity and its compactness—the proverb contains only six words— it expands our minds.

A Brief Exercise: Take a minute to think about some other proverb, for instance, “Look before you leap,” “Finders keepers,” “Haste makes waste,” or “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Paraphrase it, and then ask yourself why the original is more interesting and more memorable than your paraphrase.

Form and Meaning

Let’s turn now to a work that is not much longer than a proverb—a very short poem by Robert Frost (1874–1963).

RobeRt FRost For a biographical note, see page 246.

The Span of Life

The old dog barks backward without getting up. I can remember when he was a pup.

[1936]

What makes this short statement a poem rather than a set of sentences? When we examine the lines for their literary elements, we notice several things:

• The poem is set off on the page by its title (somewhat as a picture is set off by a frame or a sculpture is set off by a pedestal) and the white space around it; it appears, so to speak, in a spotlight.

• The rhyme (“up/pup”) is a device that distinguishes verse from ordinary prose.

• There is a contrast between the first words (“The old dog”) and the last word (“pup”).

• The two lines strike a balance: The first line describes the dog as it is now, old, and (after a reflective pause that the author forces on the reader by providing a period) the second line describes the speaker’s memory of the young dog, leaving us with an implication about our own lives. Thus, the first line offers an observation, and the second line offers a meditation.

• The use of language is skillful, and not only in finding a rhyme. For instance, in “old dog,” the speaker must pause a moment between the two words so that each d is sounded separately, and the k sounds in bark and backward make the first line (about an old dog) somewhat awkward and creaky, com- pared to the more speakable—let’s say more jingling—second line (about a puppy). Moreover, in the first line, after the opening The, the next four syllables are all stressed fairly heavily (“old dog barks back”), and there are stresses on the second syllable of without, on the first syllable of getting, and on up, for a total of seven stresses in ten syllables—very effortful!—whereas, in the second line, there are at most four stresses: I, mem (in remember), he, and pup (I probably does not get much emphasis, so there are really only three significant stresses in the second line). Readers may differ about exactly

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168    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

how much stress to put on a given syllable, but surely all readers will agree that the first line is heavier and requires more effort to say than the second, which is sprightlier. Most readers will agree that, in the first line, they may stress fairly heavily seven or eight syllables, whereas, in the second line, they may stress only three or four syllables:

The óld dóg bárks báckward withoút gétting úp. Í can remémber when hé was a púp.

We can say, therefore, that the form (a relatively effortful, hard-to-speak line, followed by a bouncy line) shapes and is part of the content (a description of a dog that no longer has the energy or the strength to leap up, followed by a mem- ory of the dog as a puppy).

Thinking further about Frost’s poem, we notice something else about the form. The first line is about a dog, but the second line is about a dog and a human being (“I can remember”). The speaker must be getting on, too. And, although nothing is said about the dog as a symbol of human life, surely the reader, prompted by the title of the poem, makes a connection between the life span of a dog and that of a human being. Part of what makes the poem effective is that this point is not stated explicitly, not belabored. Readers have the pleasure of making the connection for themselves—under Frost’s careful guidance.

Everyone knows that puppies are frisky and that old dogs are not—although perhaps not until we encountered this poem did we think twice about the fact that “the old dog barks backward without getting up.” Or let’s put it this way:

• Many people may have noticed this behavior, but • perhaps only Frost thought (to use Lady Murasaki’s words), “There must

never come a time . . . when people do not know about this.” And, • fortunately for all of us, Frost had the ability to put his perception into

memorable words.

Part of what makes this poem especially memorable is the relationship between the two lines. Neither line in itself is very special, but, because of the counterpoint, the whole is more than the sum of the parts. Skill in handling lan- guage, obviously, is indispensable if the writer is to produce literature. A person may know a great deal about dogs and may be a great lover of dogs, but knowl- edge and love are not enough equipment to write even a two-line poem about a dog (or the span of life, or both). Poems, like other kinds of literature, are pro- duced by people who know how to delight us with verbal performances.

We can easily see that Robert Frost’s “The Span of Life” is a work of literature— a work that uses language in a special way—if we contrast it with another short work in rhyme:

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; All the rest have thirty-one Excepting February alone, Which has twenty-eight in fine, Till leap year gives it twenty-nine.

This information is important, but it is only information. The lines rhyme, giv- ing the work some form, but there is nothing very interesting about it. (Perhaps you will want to take issue with this opinion.) The poem is true and therefore use- ful, but it is not of compelling interest, probably because it only tells us facts rather

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Close Reading: Reading in Slow Motion    169

than shows or presents human experience. We all remember the lines, but they offer neither the pleasure of an insight nor the pleasure of an interesting tune. “Thirty days” has nothing of what the poet Thomas Gray said characterizes litera- ture: “Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.”

Close Reading: Reading in Slow Motion Throughout this book, we focus on the skills required by a careful study of literary language. Close reading is perhaps the most familiar name for this technique of heightened responsiveness to the words on the page. But another, employed by the literary critics Reuben A. Brower and Richard Poirier, may be even better. They refer to “reading in slow motion.” Brower, for example, speaks of “slowing down the process of reading to observe what is happening, in order to attend very closely to the words, their uses, and their meanings.” This sort of reading, he explains, involves looking and listening with special alertness, slowly, without rushing or feeling impatient if a work puzzles us at first encounter.1

As Brower and Poirier point out, sometimes we are so intrigued or moved by a writer’s technique and way with words that we are led to slow down our reading, lingering over verbal details and vivid images—“a watersmooth-silver/stallion” in Cummings’s poem about Buffalo Bill (page 324), or “Babette danced out to where the fig-trees were,” in Chopin’s “Ripe Figs” (page 25). Or, we find that we want to return to a poem, or to a key section of a story or a scene in a play, to articulate— “slow motion” style—why it has affected us as powerfully as it has.

Close, or slow-motion, reading can help you to understand and enjoy a work that at first seems strange or obscure. When we examine a piece of literature with care and intensity, we are not taking it apart in a destructive way but, instead, are seeking to satisfy our curiosity about how the writer organized it. And, almost always, our increased understanding of the work results in increased enjoyment. Our understanding of a poem is almost always made better by close reading. That is, our ideas become deeper, more interesting, and more rewarding.

This point is clarified when we recall what it’s like to watch a scene from a movie in slow motion, or a TV replay in slow motion of a touchdown run in a football game. In slow-motion film, we perceive details that we might otherwise have missed—the subtle changes in expression on an actress’s face, for example, or the interplay of gestures among performers at a climactic moment in the action. Similarly, seeing a touchdown multiple times in slow motion, and perhaps from a half-dozen camera angles, reveals to us how the play developed, who made the crucial blocks, where the defense failed. The touchdown was exciting when it took place, and it remains exciting—and frequently it becomes more so—when we slow it down in order to study and talk about it.

This chapter and the next explore how we move from close reading to analy- sis. As we slow down our reading of a literary work, we are able to understand it more fully. We can demonstrate this understanding by being able to paraphrase or summarize its meaning. A paraphrase is a direct restatement of a specific idea in a literary text, whereas a summary is a more general overview of a literary text’s

1the quotation is taken from Brower’s introduction to In Defense of Reading: A Reader’s Approach to Literary Criticism, ed. reuben A. Brower and richard Poirier (1962). see also Brower, The Fields of Light: An Experiment in Critical Reading (1951); and Poirier, Poetry and Pragmatism (1992).

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170    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

main ideas. Both a paraphrase and a summary emphasize the correct understand- ing of the literary work developed though close reading.

Explication and analysis take that understanding of the text and use it as the foundation for arguments about the text’s meaning. Explication and analysis emphasize the ideas, opinions, and interpretations generated by close reading. Both approaches are based on the principle that responding well to literature means

• acquiring the ability to read it closely; • practicing this skill to become better and better at it; • explaining and demonstrating in critical essays what we have learned.

However, the two terms, while related to one another, differ in their emphasis. An explication moves from beginning to end of an entire work (if it is fairly short) or of a section of a work; it is sustained, meticulous, thorough, and systematic. An analysis builds upon the habits of attention that we have gained from explicating texts and passages of texts, creating a focused argument about selected aspects of the text. Because an explication works through a text line by line, it is a good way to start working on the transformation of close reading into interpretation and argument.

Let’s turn to explication first and learn what we can discover about literature through it. As you’ll see, one of the things we quickly realize is that close reading of literary works makes us not only better readers but also better writers, attuned more sharply and sensitively to the organization of the language in our own prose.

Exploring a Poem and Its Meaning Selecting a short poem for close reading will allow us to generate a paraphrase, summary, and explication of it. The following short poem is by Langston Hughes (1902–67), an African American writer who is well known for the central role that he played in the Harlem Renaissance.

Langston HugHes For a biographical note, see page 429.

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode? [1951]

Different readers will respond at least somewhat differently to any work. On the other hand, because writers want to communicate, they try to control their

5

10

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Paraphrase    171

readers’ responses, and they count on their readers to understand the denotations of words as they understand them. Hughes assumed that his readers knew that Harlem was the site of a large African American community in New York City. A reader who confuses the title of the poem with Haarlem in the Netherlands will wonder what this poem is saying about the tulip-growing center in northern Holland. Let’s assume that the reader understands that Hughes is talking about Har- lem, New York. Let’s also assume that the reader understands that Hughes is explor- ing the dreams of African Americans who live in a society dominated by whites.

Explication is based on the assumption that the poem contains a meaning and that, by studying the work thoughtfully, we can unfold the meaning or meanings. Let’s explore how the close reading of a poem can generate a paraphrase and a summary that convey the ideas of the poem accurately. Then, we can see how that close reading can lead to an effective explication.

Paraphrase A paraphrase is a direct restatement of another text’s ideas in your own words. Paraphrasing typically restates a focused portion of the text, rewriting it to clarify its meaning and express its ideas in your own style. A paraphrase does not analyze the text but, rather, conveys its key information.

You will want to use paraphrase to demonstrate your understanding of the text without copying the work’s original wording and style. Paraphrase must not repeat the original text’s words. If you do this, you must put the words inside quo- tation marks and cite the source. When you are writing a paraphrase, you must present the text’s ideas in your own style and cite the source of the text, as it has provided the ideas that you are using. All paraphrases must be cited. A paraphrase is typically around the same length as the material that it is citing.

It might be helpful to think of a paraphrase as a type of translation in the same language—a translation of material that may in its original form be somewhat obscure to a reader. A native speaker of English will not need a paraphrase of “Thirty days hath September,” although a nonnative speaker might be puzzled by two things: the meaning of hath and the inverted word order. For such a reader, “September has thirty days” would be a helpful paraphrase.

Although a paraphrase seeks to make clear the basic meaning of the original, if the original is even a little more complex than “Thirty days hath September,” the paraphrase will, in the process of clarifying something, lose something because the substitution of one word for another will change the meaning. “Shut up” and “Be quiet” do not say exactly the same thing; the former (in addition to asking for quiet) says that the speaker is rude or perhaps that the speaker feels little respect for the auditor, but the paraphrase loses all of this.

Still, a paraphrase can be a first step in helping a reader to understand a line that includes an obsolete word or phrase, or a word or phrase that is current only in one region. In a poem by Emily Dickinson (1830–86), the following line appears:

The sun engrossed the East. . . .

“Engrossed” here has (perhaps among other meanings) a special commercial meaning, “to acquire most or all of a commodity; to monopolize the market,” so a paraphrase of the line might say

The sun took over all of the East.

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172    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

It is worth mentioning that you should always have at your elbow a good desk dictionary, such as the current American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language. Writers—especially poets—expect you to pay close attention to every word. When a word puzzles you, look it up.

Idioms, as well as words, can puzzle a reader. The Anglo-Irish poet William Butler Yeats (1865–1939) begins one poem with

The friends that have it I do wrong. . . .

Because the idiom “to have it” (meaning “to believe that,” “to think that”) will be unfamiliar to many American readers today, a discussion of the poem might include a paraphrase—a rewording in more familiar language, such as

The friends who think that I am doing the wrong thing. . . .

Perhaps the rest of the poem is immediately clear, but in any case, here is the entire poem, followed by a paraphrase:

The friends that have it I do wrong When ever I remake a song, Should know what issue is at stake: It is myself that I remake.

Now for the paraphrase:

The friends who think that I am doing the wrong thing when I revise one of my poems should be informed what the important issue is: I’m not just revis- ing a poem—rather, I am revising myself (my thoughts, feelings).

Here, as with any paraphrase, the meaning is not translated exactly; there is some distortion. If “song” in the original is clarified by “poem” in the paraphrase, it is also altered; the paraphrase loses the sense of lyricism that is implicit in “song.” Further, “Should know what issue is at stake” (in the original) is ambiguous. Does “should” mean “ought,” as in “You should know better than to speak so rudely,” or does it mean “deserve to be informed,” as in “You ought to know that I am thinking about quitting”?

Granted that a paraphrase may miss a great deal, a paraphrase often helps you, or your reader, to understand at least the surface meaning, and the act of paraphras- ing will usually help you to understand at least some of the implied meaning. Fur- thermore, a paraphrase makes you see that the original writer’s words (if the work is a good one) are exactly right, better than any words we might substitute. It be- comes clear that what is said in the original—not only the rough idea expressed, but also the precise tone with which it is expressed—is a sharply defined experience.

Student Work: Paraphrase

Bill Horner, a student taking a composition class, was asked to paraphrase the first line of Hughes’s poem, “Harlem.” He was asked to create a short paraphrase that he could then use in his paper assignment if needed.

He examined the first line of the poem:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Although the line is short, the concept of a “dream deferred” is complex. Bill came up with the following paraphrase:

What results occur when hopes are unfulfilled?

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Summary    173

Bill then inserted this paraphrase into a sentence and added a citation:

In the first line of his poem, Hughes asks us to consider what results occur when hopes are unfulfilled (1).

Bill has translated the phrase “dream deferred” into”unfulfilled hopes.” As a paraphrase, this is excellent, but let’s recollect that this translating of an author’s words into equivalent words removes some of the power and meaning of the words. Hughes does not say “hopes”; he says “dream.” And he does not say “unfulfilled”; he says “deferred.” You might ask yourself exactly what differences there are between these words. Next, after you have read the poem several times, you might think about which expression is more meaningful, “unfulfilled hopes” or “dream deferred,” and why.

Summary A summary is a synopsis of the main points of a work. Compared to a paraphrase, a summary is a more comprehensive overview of the text’s overarching ideas or arguments. A summary is usually much shorter than the original text. It must there- fore select and condense the text’s most important information into a coherent overview. You can position a summary as a short supporting section within an analytical essay. A summary typically provides an overview of a source’s central ideas in order for you to then analyze, develop, or apply those ideas within your larger argument. As with a paraphrase, all summaries must be cited.

A summary of a work of literature usually gives the gist of the plot. It lets the reader know that X happened, then Y happened, and then Z happened, but it does not concern itself, for instance, with evaluating whether the happenings are plausible. Normally, in your analytic/argumentative essays, you will not summarize because you can assume that your readers are familiar with the works that you are discussing, but if, for instance, you are comparing an assigned text with another text that your readers probably don’t know, you may want to offer a summary in order to help them follow the argument that you will be developing.

Consider this summary of Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” (page 65):

A newspaper office reports that Brently Mallard has been killed in a railroad accident. When the news is gently broken to Mrs. Mallard by her sister Josephine, Mrs. Mallard weeps wildly and then shuts herself up in her room, where she sinks into an armchair. Staring dully through the window, she sees the signs of spring, and then an unnameable sensation possesses her. She tries to reject it but finally abandons herself to it. Renewed, she exults in her freedom, in the thought that at last the days will be her own. She finally comes out of the room, embraces her sister, and descends the stairs. A moment later her husband—who in fact had not been in the accident—enters. Mrs. Mallard dies—of the joy that kills, according to the doctors’ diagnosis.

Here are a few principles that govern summaries:

1. A summary is much briefer than the original. It is not a paraphrase—a word-by-word translation of someone’s words into your own. A paraphrase is usually at least as long as the original, but a summary is rarely longer than one-fourth of the original and is usually much shorter. A novel may be summarized in a few paragraphs, or even in one paragraph.

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174    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

2. A summary usually achieves its brevity by omitting almost all of the concrete details of the original and by omitting minor characters and episodes. Notice that the summary of “The Story of an Hour” omits the friend of the family, omits specifying the signs of spring, and omits the busi- ness of the sister imploring Mrs. Mallard to open the door.

3. A summary is as accurate as possible, given the limits of space. It has no value if it misrepresents the point of the original.

4. A summary is normally written in the present tense. Thus, “A newspa- per office reports . . . , Mrs. Mallard weeps. . . .”

5. If the summary is brief (say, fewer than 250 words), it may be given as a single paragraph. If you are summarizing a long work, you may feel that a longer summary is needed. In this case, your reader will be grateful to you if you divide the summary into paragraphs. As you draft your sum- mary, you may find natural divisions. For instance, the scene of the story may change midway, giving you the opportunity to use two paragraphs. Or you may want to summarize a five-act play in five paragraphs.

6. The writer of a summary need not make the points in the same order as that of the original. If the writer of an essay has delayed revealing the main point until the end of the essay, the summary may rearrange the order, stating the main point first. Occasionally, if the original author has presented the elements of an argument in a disorderly or confusing sequence, a summary may be written to disengage the author’s argument from its confusing structure.

7. Because a summary is clearly a report of someone else’s views, it must be cited. Use quotation marks and citations for all direct quotations from the original. It is not necessary to specify “he says” or “she goes on to prove.” From the opening sentence of a summary, it should be clear that what follows is what the original author says.

Summaries have their place in essays, but remember that a summary is not an analysis; it is only an overview of the information in the work, not an interpretation of that work.

Student Work: Summary

With these tips in mind, let’s see how Bill tackles writing a summary of Hughes’s poem. In contrast to a paraphrase, which focused on restating one line, a sum- mary will attempt to encompass an overview of the entire work, especially when the work is short.

Bill reminds himself that he needs to convey the information in the poem and not express his opinions about the poem. He comes up with the following sum- mary paragraph:

Langston Hughes’s poem explores the results that occur when hopes are left unfulfilled. The poem opens with a question that asks what happens to deferred dreams. The poem answers that question by offering a series of images, with each image filling a line or two of the poem. The dream is compared to a raisin drying in the sun, to a running sore, and to stinking, rotten meat. The dream is also compared to a sweet that gets a sug- ary crust on it and to a heavy load that sags. In the final line of the poem, Hughes asks if the deferred dream will explode.

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Explication    175

This strikes us as a strong summary because it encapsulates the entire poem in a concise paragraph. It displays the following key characteristics of a summary:

• it demonstrate the writer’s understanding of the original text; • it demonstrates the writer’s ability to convey the original text’s information

accurately; and • it demonstrates the writer’s ability to select and organize the most important

information in the original text.

Because the poem is short, the summary is able to review all of the poem’s main images. The summary moves through the images in order, repeating many of Hughes’s words, without simply quoting each line verbatim. The summary empha- sizes the opening and closing lines of the poem by putting information about those lines into their own sentences. By not offering an interpretation of the poem, the summary remains informative without becoming argumentative. The summary captures the central ideas and images of the poem, but, of course, much of the power of the poem has been removed.

Both summary and paraphrase are helpful in that, once performed, they ensure that you have read the literary work carefully and understand its central information. After having practiced writing a summary or a paraphrase, you are ready to write an explication, which allows you express your sense of the meaning of the work.

Explication A line-by-line or episode-by-episode commentary on what is going on in a text is an explication (literally, an unfolding or spreading out). An explication does not deal with the writer’s life and times, and it is not a paraphrase or a rewording, al- though it may include paraphrasing. Rather, it is a commentary that reveals your sense of the meaning of the work and its structure.

When we explicate a text, we attempt to create a detailed account of its mean- ing based on a careful line-by-line close reading. Because it focuses intently on the text at hand, explication often works with poetry, which rewards the line-level reading and rereading. We ask questions about the meanings of words, the impli- cations of metaphors and images, and the speaker’s tone of voice as we initially hear it and it develops and perhaps changes. How is the literary work put together? How did the writer organize it to prompt from me the response that I had (and am having) to it? How does it begin, what happens next, and what happens after that? And so on, through to the end.

It takes some skill to work your way along in an explication without saying, “In line one. . . . In the second line. . . . In the third line. . . .” This sounds me- chanical and formulaic. Make good use of transitional words and phrases so that your commentary will feel to your reader more natural, with a better pace and rhythm. For example: “The speaker begins by suggesting. . . . The poem then shifts in direction. . . . In the next paragraph, however, the narrator implies. . . .”

An explication captures your understanding of the literary work, revealing your ideas about and interpretations of it. However, we would not label this type of writ- ing as a fully “analytical” paper, as it is not selecting ideas for emphasis, not making a focused argument out of those ideas, and not organizing the paper around those ideas. Rather, an explication attempts to explain the original work as a whole and lets the work dictate the flow of ideas. Although an explication paper will have a

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176    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

thesis and advance an interpretation, and thus contain analysis, explication is best understood as a line-by-line commentary rather than an analytical paper.

Working toward an Explication

In preparing to write an explication, first type on a computer, or handwrite, the complete text of the work that you will explicate—usually a poem but sometimes a short passage of prose. Don’t photocopy it; the act of typing or writing it will help you to get into the piece, word by word, comma by comma. Type or write it double- spaced so that you will have room for your annotations as you study the piece. It’s advisable to make a few photocopies (or to print a few copies, if you are using a computer) before you start annotating so that, if one page gets too cluttered with annotations, you can continue working on a clean copy. Or, you may want to use one copy for a certain kind of annotation—let’s say, those concerning imagery—and other copies for other kinds of annotation—let’s say, those concerning meter or wordplay. If you are writing on a computer, you can highlight words, boldface them, put them in capital letters (for instance, to indicate accented syllables), and so forth.

Student Work: Annotations

Let’s turn to the brainstorming writing that leads to an explication of the poem, a detailed examination of the whole. Here are Bill’s preliminary jottings on the poem:

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Odd—does not begin by describing Harlem

set off, sticks out

African American hopes?

ugh 4 comparisons

not so bad?

Line doesn't ask a question. Strange.

rhyme Note italics; emphasis; also, a line by itself. Very emphatic

But does the question mark make the ending not so emphatic?

Ends with a question. (Begins with a question, too.)

These annotations chiefly get at the structure of the poem, the relationship of its parts. Bill notices that the poem begins with a line set off by itself and ends with a line set off by itself, and he also notices that each of these lines is a question. Further, he indicates that each of these two lines is emphasized in other ways: The first begins farther to the left than any of the other lines—as though the other lines are subheadings or in some way subordinate to the first line—and the last is italicized.

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Explication    177

Student Work: Journal Entries

Bill later wrote these entries in his journal:

Feb. 18. Since the title is “Harlem,” it’s obvious that the “dream” is by African American people. Also, obvious that Hughes thinks that if the “dream” doesn’t become real there may be riots (“explode”). I like “raisin in the sun” (maybe because I like the play), and I like the business about “a syrupy sweet”—much more pleasant than the festering sore and the rotten meat. But if the dream becomes “sweet,” what’s wrong with that? Why should something “sweet” explode?

Feb. 21. Prof. McCabe said to think of structure or form of a poem as a sort of architecture, a building with a foundation, floors, etc., topped by a roof—but since we read a poem from top to bottom, it’s like a building upside down. Title is foundation (even though it’s at top); last line is roof, capping the whole. As you read, you add layers. Foundation of “Harlem” is a question (first line). Then, set back a bit from foundation, or built on it by white space, a tall room (7 lines high, with 4 questions); then, on top of this room, another room (lines, statement, not a question). Funny; I thought that in poems all stanzas are the same number of lines. Then—more white space, so another unit—the roof. Man, this roof is going to fall in—“explodes.” Not just the roof, maybe the whole house.

Feb. 21, p.m. I get it; one line at start, one line at end; both are questions, but the last sort of says (because it is in italics) that it is the most likely answer to the question of the first line. The last line is also a question, but it’s still an answer. The big stanza (7 lines) has 4 questions: 2 lines, 2 lines, 1 line, 2 lines. Maybe the switch to 1 line is to give some variety, so as not to be dull? It’s exactly in the middle of the poem. I get the progress from raisin in the sun (dried, but not so terrible), to festering sore and to stinking meat, but I still don’t see what’s so bad about “a syrupy sweet.” Is Hughes saying that after things are very bad they will get better? But why, then, the explosion at the end?

Feb. 23. “Heavy load” and “sags” in next-to-last stanza seem to me to suggest slaves with bales of cotton, or maybe poor cotton pickers dragging big sacks of cotton. Or maybe people doing heavy labor in Harlem. Anyway, very tired. Different from running sore and stinking meat earlier; not disgusting, but pressing down, deadening. Maybe worse than a sore or rotten meat—a hard, hopeless life. And then the last line. Just one line, no fancy (and disgusting) simile. In fact, no simile at all. This is a metaphor, not a simile. Boom! Not just pressed down and tired, like maybe some racist whites think (hope?) blacks will be. Bang! Will there be survivors?

Student Work: Listing

Drawing on these notes in his journal, Bill wrote down a list of several key ideas to guide him through a draft of his explication essay. The organization of the draft posed no problem; in an explication, the writer simply follows the organization of

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178    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

the original text. Bill thus focuses his notes on his understanding of the meaning of the poem rather than on the organization of his ideas. Although Bill’s notes were written down on paper, you may find that composing such notes on your com- puter works just as well.

11 lines; short, but powerful; explosive Question (first line) answers (set off by space and also indented) “raisin in the sun”: shrinking “sore” “rotten meat” “syrupy sweet”: relief from disgusting comparisons final question (last line): explosion? explosive (powerful) because: short, condensed, packed in italics stands by self—like first line no fancy comparison; very direct

disgusting

Student Explication Essay: “Langston Hughes’s ‘Harlem’”

Here is Bill’s final explication essay. See if you can trace his “unfolding” of the Hughes poem as he explains his understanding of it.

Horner 1

Bill Horner

Professor McCabe

English 122

6 January 2016

Langston Hughes’s “Harlem”

“Harlem” is a poem that is only eleven lines long, but it is charged

with power. It explodes. Hughes sets the stage, so to speak, by telling us in

the title that he is talking about Harlem. In the first line of his poem,

Hughes asks, “What happens to a dream deferred?”, encouraging us to

consider what results occur when hopes are unfulfilled. The rest of the poem

is set off by being indented, as though it is the answer to his question. This

answer is in three parts (three stanzas, of different lengths).

In a way, it is wrong to speak of the answer, since the rest of the poem

consists of questions, but I think Hughes means that each question (for

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Horner 2

instance, does a “deferred” hope “dry up / like a raisin in the sun?”) really is

an answer, something that really has happened and that will happen again.

The first question, “Does it dry up / like a raisin in the sun?,” is a famous

line (2–3). To compare hope to a raisin dried in the sun is to suggest a

terrible shrinking. The next two comparisons are to a “sore” (4) and to

“rotten meat” (6). These comparisons are less clever, but they are very

effective because they are disgusting. Then, maybe because of the

disgusting comparisons, he gives a comparison that is not at all disgusting.

In this comparison, he says that maybe the “dream deferred” will “crust

over— / like a syrupy sweet” (7–8).

The seven lines with four comparisons are followed by a stanza of two

lines with just one comparison:

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load (9–10).

So if we thought that this postponed dream might finally turn into

something “sweet,” we were kidding ourselves. Hughes comes down to

earth, in a short stanza, with an image of a heavy load, which probably also

calls to mind images of people bent under heavy loads, maybe of cotton, or

maybe just any sort of heavy load carried by African Americans in Harlem

and elsewhere.

The opening question (“What happens to a dream deferred?”) was

followed by four questions in seven lines, but now, with “Maybe it just sags /

like a heavy load” (9–10), we get a statement, as though the poet at last has

found an answer. But at the end we get one more question, set off by itself

and in italics: “Or does it explode?” (11). This line itself is explosive for three

reasons: It is short, it is italicized, and it is a stanza in itself. It’s also

interesting that this line, unlike the earlier lines, does not use a simile. It

uses a metaphor. It’s almost as though Hughes is saying, “O.K., we’ve had

enough fancy ways of talking about this terrible situation; here it is, ‘boom.’ ”

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180    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Bill Horner’s explication suggests that the comparison with “a syrupy sweet” deliberately misleads the reader into thinking that the ending will be happy, and it thus serves to make the real ending even more powerful. In class, another student suggested that Hughes may be referring to African Americans who adopt a smiling manner in order to cope with an oppressive society. Which explanation do you prefer, and why? What do you think of combining the two?

Does some method or principle help us decide which interpretation is correct? Can we, in fact, talk about a “correct” interpretation, or only about a plausible or implausible interpretation and an interesting or uninteresting interpretation?

2. In The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes (1994), the editors title this poem “Harlem.” But, in the Selected Poems of Langston Hughes (1959), published when the poet was still alive, the poem is titled “Dream Deferred.” Which title do you think is more effective? Do you interpret the poem differently, depend- ing on how it is titled? How might a reader—who knew nothing about Hughes— respond to the poem if he or she came upon it with the title “Dream Deferred”?

Explication as Argument We have said that an explication unfolds or opens up or interprets a work by call- ing attention to such things as the speaker’s tone of voice and the implications in images. It might seem, then, to be an objective report, the sort of explanatory writ- ing that is called expository rather than argumentative.

But because literature makes considerable use of connotations and symbolic meanings—“A rolling stone gathers no moss” is not essentially a statement about stones and moss but about something else—readers may differ in what they under- stand words to mean. The writer of an explication not only examines the meanings of specific words and images but also, having come to a conclusion about what the details add up to, argues an interpretation and supports a thesis.

What distinguishes argument from exposition is this: In argument, some state- ments are offered as reasons for others. Because writers of arguments assume that

Horner 3

Work Cited

Hughes, Langston. “Harlem.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William

Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017.

170. Print.

[New page]

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Explication as Argument    181

their readers may not at the outset share their views, in their writing they offer evidence to support their assertions.

If you reread Bill Horner’s explication of “Harlem,” you will notice that in speaking of the line “Or does it explode?” Bill says, “This line is explosive for three reasons.” He then specifies the three reasons. That is, he argues his case, presenting three pieces of supporting evidence: Hughes’s line is short, it is italicized, and it is a stanza in itself.

True, much of Horner’s explication is expository writing when he says that the poem consists of “three parts (three stanzas, of different lengths).” There can be little disagreement between writer and reader here, although perhaps a reader might respond, “No, the title is also part of the poem, so the poem consists of four parts.” A reader who is looking for an argument—in the sense of a quarrel, not in the sense of a reasoned discussion—can find it with almost any piece of writing. But, again, our point is that because expository writing does not assume a differ- ence of opinion, it chiefly sets forth information rather than seek to make a case. Argumentative writing, on the other hand, assumes that it must set forth informa- tion in a way that persuades the reader of its truth, which means that it must give evidence.

Pure exposition—let’s say, information about how to register for classes or information about what is likely to be on the final examination—is not concerned with persuading readers to accept a thesis. But an explication, even though it might seem only to clarify the meanings of the words in a poem, argues a thesis about the work as a whole.

Notice Bill Horner’s opening sentence:

“Harlem” is a poem that is only eleven lines long, but it is charged with power.

What is Horner’s thesis? Certainly not that the poem is “only eleven lines long”—a writer hardly needs to argue for this assertion. Rather, Horner’s thesis is that the poem “is charged with power.” In the rest of the explication, he offers evidence that supports this assertion. To persuade us, he points out that certain lines are in- dented, that certain figures of speech have certain implications, and that the last stanza is italicized and consists of only one line.

You may disagree: You may not think the poem “is charged with power,” and you may think that Horner has misread certain lines. We mentioned, in our first topic for “Critical Thinking and Writing,” that when Horner offered this interpreta- tion in class, another student saw a different meaning in “syrupy sweet” (line 8). But, if you disagree, whether with the reading as a whole or with the interpretation of a single image, it’s not enough to assert that you disagree. You will have to offer an argument, which is to say, you will have to set forth reasons in your effort to persuade your readers.

Your goal in an explication is to present your insights about aspects of the poem’s language. Even more, you want these insights to add up to a whole. When related to one another, they should enable your reader to understand the poem, overall, more clearly and to enjoy it more fully. Ask yourself, as you study the poem and develop your draft of the paper,

What is my thesis (my central point, my argument, my claim)?

This question will help you to make your essay coherent and unified. It is a reminder that an explication is more than a set of observations. The best explica- tions make use of details to teach the reader something new about the poem as a whole.

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182    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

✔ C h e C k l i s t : Drafting an Explication

Overall Considerations

Does the explication work its way through the poem, line by line? Does the explication provide a commentary on the poem as a whole?

Does the commentary support a unified interpretation of the poem? Is this interpretation positioned as the paper’s thesis?

Does the explication convey information about the poem accurately and then offer ideas and interpretations about that information?

Does the poem imply a story of some sort, for instance, the speaker’s account of a love affair or of a response to nature? If so, what is its beginning, middle, and end?

If you detect a story in the speaker’s mind, a change of mood—for instance, a shift from bitterness that a love affair has ended to hope for its renewal—is this change communicated in part by the connotations of certain words? By syntax? By metrical shifts?

Do the details of the explication all cohere into a meaningful whole? If so, your explication will largely be an argument on behalf of this thesis.

Detailed Considerations

If the poem has a title other than the first line, what are the implications of the title?

Are there clusters or patterns of imagery, for instance, religious images, economic images, or images drawn from nature? If so, how do they contrib- ute to the meaning of the poem?

Is irony (understatement or overstatement) used? To what effect? How do the connotations of certain words (for instance, dad rather than

father) help to establish the meaning? What are the implications of the syntax—for instance, of notably simple

or notably complex sentences? What do such sentences tell us about the speaker?

Do metrical variations occur? If so, what is their significance? Do rhyming words have some meaningful connection, as in the clichés moon

and June, dove, and love? What are the implications of the poem’s appearance on the page—for

example, of an indented line or of the stanzaic pattern? (If the poem consists of two stanzas of four lines each, does the second stanza offer a reversal of the first?)

Student Argumentative Explication Essay: “Giving Stamps Personality in ‘Stamp Collecting’ ”

Let’s examine a student paper that provides another example of an explication essay, written in response to the following poem.

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song • Stamp Collecting    183

CatHy song Born in 1955 and raised in Hawaii, Cathy Song is of Korean and Chinese descent. Her poetry often draws on this rich ancestry, exploring themes of family, gender, and identity. Her poems have been praised by reviewers for their compelling narra- tives and evocative imagery.

Stamp Collecting

The poorest countries have the prettiest stamps as if impracticality were a major export shipped with the bananas, t-shirts and coconuts. Take Tonga, where the tourists, expecting a dramatic waterfall replete with birdcalls, are taken to see the island’s peculiar mystery: hanging bats with collapsible wings like black umbrellas swing upside down from fruit trees. The Tongan stamp is a fruit. The banana stamp is scalloped like a butter-varnished seashell. The pineapple resembles a volcano, a spout of green on top, and the papaya, a tarnished goat skull.

They look impressive, these stamps of countries without a thing to sell except for what is scraped, uprooted and hulled from their mule-scratched hills. They believe in postcards, in portraits of progress: the new dam; a team of young native doctors wearing stethoscopes like exotic ornaments; the recently constructed “Facultad de Medicina,” a building as lack-lustre as an American motel.

The stamps of others are predictable. Lucky is the country that possesses indigenous beauty. Say a tiger or queen. The Japanese can display to the world their blossoms: a spray of pink on green. Like pollen, they drift, airborne. But pity the country that is bleak and stark. Beauty and whimsey are discouraged as indiscreet. Unbreakable as their climate, a monument of ice.

[1988]

Let’s examine how LaTina Johnson, a student in a composition course, uses an explication paper to make sense of “Stamp Collecting.” Like the work by Bill Horner that we explored earlier in this chapter, LaTina’s paper unfolds the meaning of a poem by tracing its ideas stanza by stanza and line by line. Unlike Bill’s paper, this assignment tackles a longer and more complex poem, so every line of the poem cannot be addressed. This paper needs to be more selective and, as result, starts to shape its explication into a more analytical paper. In addition, this paper develops

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184    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

a strong thesis that emphasizes the poem’s interest in a country’s self-image and the poem’s use of imagery. These focusing ideas are repeated throughout the pa- per and in the conclusion. This paper still uses the structure of the poem to struc- ture its own ideas and organization, but it demonstrates just how argumentative an explication can become. As it becomes more argumentative and focused, an expli- cation paper starts to evolve into an analytical paper. This paper serves as a good transition into our next chapter and its emphasis on analysis.

Paul 1

LaTina Johnson

Professor Wynne

English 122

1 February 2016

Giving Stamps Personality in “Stamp Collecting”

Cathy Song’s poem “Stamp Collecting” uses the images on stamps to

capture the cultures of different countries. She presents a series of three

types of countries: poor countries, beautiful countries, and bleak countries.

Each type of country is described through the stamp it might issue. As the

poem shows, each country’s hopes and failures are translated into the vivid

imagery of a stamp. The stamp gives a personality to each country,

describing the type of human emotions that country might have. Stanza by

stanza, the poem moves through a series of stamps and describes the

stamps’ unique imagery, using that imagery to create a different cultural

personality for each type of country.

Song shows how stamps use imagery that creates sensory impressions

and creates cultural associations. In the first stanza, the poor countries are

described as having the most exotic stamps. Song opens the poem by

explaining, “The poorest countries/have the prettiest stamps/as if

impracticality were a major export” (1–3). The stamps are impractical

because they have excess beauty and detail, even though the poor countries

have no resources. The stamps make the country seem human by expressing

this human quality of “impracticality.” In the first stanza, the stamps of

Tonga are held up as an example. She shows how Tonga itself is exotic and

strange by describing the strange bats that live there and are a “peculiar

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Paul 2

mystery” (7). Each stamp has a fruit that is presented in a uniquely

memorable way: the “banana stamp is scalloped like a butter-varnished

seashell,” the “pineapple resembles a volcano,” and the papaya looks like a

“tarnished goat skull” (11–13). Song uses this list of similes to show how

Tonga’s exotic fruits are made even more exotic on their stamps. The stamps

seem extreme and “over the top” in their imagery. The beauty, strangeness,

and mystery of Tonga are captured in the imagery on their stamps.

These poor countries’ stamps also show a second human quality: the

belief in human progress. Song explains that these stamps will be placed on

postcards: the countries “believe in postcards,/in portraits of progress” (19).

The postcards show pictures of new dams, doctors, and hospitals. Although

these countries’ stamps and postcards express the hope for human progress,

Song’s poem makes it clear that the stamps do not match the reality of the

country. The stamps are created by “countries without a thing to sell/except

for what is scraped, uprooted, and hulled/from their mule-scratched hill”

(15–17). Song’s use of the strong verbs “scraped, uprooted, and hulled”

shows how these countries are tough places to live, and the people are still

dependent on land and human labor (16). Although the stamps put out a

glamorous image, these countries have a culture of struggle. Song’s poem

shows that these countries’ stamps are trying to make up for a lack of

resources. The stamps and postcards seem to try to hide the poor country’s

reality, but wind up revealing that reality.

Song devotes these two stanzas to the poor countries’ stamps, while

the stamps of beautiful countries and bleak countries each receive only one

short stanza each. Just like the stamps she describes, Song’s first two

stanzas are filled with visual beauty: they are long and detailed, and contain

vivid, memorable images. These first two stanzas have a feeling of being

“over the top,” just like the stamps they describe.

Explication    185

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186    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

Paul 3

The third stanza is shorter and describes the stamps of countries that

are “predictable” (24). Song implies that these countries are more successful

and wealthy. These countries can use images that show an “indigenous

beauty./Say a tiger or a queen” (26). The image of a tiger conveys beauty and

strength, while the image of a queen conveys beauty and stability. The poem

states that countries that use these images are “lucky” (25). Such a country

is lucky to have a culture that is more successful and predictable. Although

that culture might not be as exotic or interesting as the culture of the poor

counties, it can represent itself in beautiful stamps. Song uses a Japanese

stamp to illustrate the idea of a predictable stamp created by an established

culture. She describes the stamp’s image of blossoms: “A spray of pink on

green/Like pollen, they drift, airborne” (28–29). This image has a feeling of

lightness and easiness. Unlike the exotic stamp from Tonga, this Japanese

stamp does not have to try hard to impress or surprise its viewer. The

Japanese culture seems secure and at ease.

The final short stanza describes the stamps of a country that is “bleak

and stark” (30). Song prejudices us against this country by telling us to

“pity” it (30). The stamps of this type of country are “serious” and filled with

imagery of “factories, tramways and areoplanes” (34). The “beauty” and

“whimsy” of the imagery of the other stamps is rejected (31). Instead, these

stamps “issue serious statements” (33). The countries are described as

“unbreakable as their climate, a monument of ice” (32). Compared to the

exotic stamps of Tonga and the light stamps of Japan, these stamps are cold

and unapproachable. Song captures the hard, cold nature of these countries

in the image of a stamp that shows “athletes marbled into statues” (35).

These stamps are empty of life. These stamps capture the personality of

countries that “turn their noses upon the world.” Instead of believing in

progress or having a sense of beauty, these bleak countries try to present

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Explication    187

Paul 3

their bleakness as a type of strength. The poem ends by describing how

these stamps and these countries offer “an unrelenting procession/of a

grim, historic profile” (37–38). These stamps reveal the cold unhappiness

that defines these countries.

Although a stamp might seem small and trivial, it can be a mirror of a

country. The stamp provides a way of personifying the country, showing how

a country can be exotic and hoping for progress, light and secure in its

identity, or cold and needing to convey its strength. Each stamp captures a

country’s personality. “Stamp Collecting” uses vivid imagery to show how a

stamp gives a country a visual identity. The poem emphasizes that these

stamps reveal more than the country might want revealed—the stamps show

not only the strengths but also the weaknesses of a country. As Song’s poem

convincingly shows, a stamp is a country’s self-image.

Paul 4

Work Cited

Song, Kathy. “Stamp Collecting.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet,

William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston:

Pearson, 2017. 183. Print.

[New page]

Your Turn: Additional Poems for Explication The basic assignment here is to explicate the poems, but your instructor may also ask you to respond to some or all of the questions that follow each poem.

WiLLiam sHakespeaRe William Shakespeare (1564–1616), born in Stratford-upon-Avon in England, is chiefly known as a dramatic poet, but he also wrote nondramatic poetry. In 1609,

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188    Chapter 6 Close Reading: Paraphrase, Summary, and Explication

a volume of 154 of his sonnets was published, apparently without his permission. Probably he chose to keep his sonnets unpublished, not because he thought that they were of little value, but because it was more prestigious to be an amateur (unpublished) poet than a professional (published) poet. Although the sonnets were published in 1609, they were probably written in the mid-1590s, when there was a vogue for sonneteering. A contemporary writer in 1598 said that Shakespeare’s “sugared Sonnets [circulate] among his private friends.”

Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs° where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away, Death’s second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

[c. 1592, pub. 1609]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In the first quatrain (the first four lines), to what “time of year” does Shake- speare compare himself? In the second quatrain (lines 5–8), to what does he compare himself? In the third? If the sequence of the three quatrains were reversed, what would be gained or lost?

2. In line 8, what is “Death’s second self”? What implications do you perceive in “seals up all in rest,” as opposed, for instance, to “brings most welcome rest”?

3. In line 13, exactly what is “This”? 4. In line 14, suppose in place of “To love that well which thou must leave ere

long,” Shakespeare had written “To love me well whom thou must leave ere long.” What, if anything, would have been gained or lost?

5. What insights into your own feelings and experiences does this poem give you? Please explain, being as specific as you can.

JoHn Donne John Donne (1572–1631) was born into a Roman Catholic family in England, but, in the 1590s, he abandoned that faith. In 1615, he became an Anglican priest and soon was known as a great preacher. One hundred sixty of his sermons survive, including one with the famous line, “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea,

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Brontë • Spellbound    189

Europe is the less . . . ; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” From 1621 until his death, he was dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. His love poems (often bawdy and cynical) are his early work, and his “Holy Sonnets” (among the greatest religious poems written in English) are his later work.

Holy Sonnet XIV

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town, to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy: Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

[1633]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Explain the paradoxes (apparent contradictions) in lines 2, 3, 13, and 14. Explain the double meanings of “enthrall” (line 13) and “ravish” (line 14).

2. In lines 1–4, what is God implicitly compared to (considering especially lines 2 and 4)? How does this comparison lead into the comparison that dominates lines 5–8? What words in lines 9–12 are especially related to the earlier lines?

3. What is gained by piling up verbs in lines 2–4? 4. Are sexual references necessarily irreverent in a religious poem? Present a brief

argument in which you say yes, and then another argument in which you say no. Make each argument as convincing as you can.

emiLy bRontë Emily Brontë (1818–48) spent most of her short life (she died of tuberculosis) in an English village on the Yorkshire moors. The sister of Charlotte Brontë (author of Jane Eyre) and of Anne Brontë, Emily is best known for her novel Wuthering Heights (1847), but she was a considerable poet, and her first significant publication (1846) was in a volume of poems by the three sisters.

Spellbound

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending

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Their bare boughs weighed with snow. And the storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go.

[1837]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What exactly is a spell, and what does it mean to be spellbound? 2. What difference, if any, would it make if the first line said “has darkened”

instead of “is darkening”? 3. What difference would it make, if any, if lines 4 and 12 were switched? 4. What does “drear” (line 11) mean? Is this word too unusual? Should the poet

have used a more familiar word? 5. Describe the speaker’s state of mind. Have you ever experienced anything like

this yourself? What was the situation, and how did you move beyond it?

Li-young Lee Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesia, of Chinese parents. In 1964, his family brought him to the United States. He was educated at the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Arizona, and the State University of New York, Brockport. He now lives in Chicago, where he works as an artist.

I Ask My Mother to Sing

She begins, and my grandmother joins her. Mother and daughter sing like young girls. If my father were alive, he would play his accordion and sway like a boat.

I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace, nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers running away in the grass.

But I love to hear it sung; how the waterlilies fill with rain until they overturn, spilling water into water, then rock back, and fill with more.

Both women have begun to cry. But neither stops her song.

[1986]

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Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Why might the speaker ask the women to sing? 2. Why do the women cry? Why do they continue to sing? 3. Is this poem simple, or complex, or both? Please point to specific details to

support your argument.

RanDaLL JaRReLL Randall Jarrell (1914–65)—the accent in Jarrell is on the second syllable—was educated at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, where he majored in psychology. After serving with the air force in World War II as a control tower op- erator, he taught in several colleges and universities, meanwhile establishing a rep- utation as a poet and a literary critic.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

[1955]

Jarrell has furnished an explanatory note: “A ball turret was a plexiglass sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine-guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine-guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the fetus in the womb. The fight- ers which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose.”

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is implied in the first line? In line 4: “I woke to . . . nightmare”? Taking account of the title, do you think that “wet fur” is literal or metaphoric, or both? Do you find the simplicity of the last line anticlimactic? How does it continue the metaphor of birth?

2. Why do you think Jarrell ended each line with punctuation?

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192

C h a p t e r 7

Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and

Argument

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Define analysis and describe the process for analyzing literary texts

• Use inquiry to ask productive questions about a literary text

• Develop an interpretation of a literary text

• Choose a topic and develop an analytical thesis

• Create a strong argument that expresses your interpretation of the text

Analysis In the previous chapter, we explored explication, a form of writing that works its way line by line though a literary work to uncover its meaning. Explication is a method used chiefly in the study of fairly short poems or brief extracts from essays, stories, novels, and plays. In writing about works that are longer than a page or two, a more common approach than explicating is analyzing (literally, separating the work into parts in order to better understand the whole). Through literary analysis, we aim to come to a deeper understanding of the work, exploring the ideas and issues that it addresses. Through this exploration, we generate an inter- pretation that takes the form of an argument supported by evidence.

In an analytical essay, we cannot address all of the details in a complex literary text, so we select an element or facet of the text for in-depth exploration, explain- ing how understanding that part helps us to understand the larger meaning of the text. An analysis of, say, The Color Purple may consider the functions of the setting or the uses that certain minor characters serve; an analysis of Hamlet may consider the comic passages or the reasons for Hamlet’s delay; an analysis of Death of a Salesman may consider the depiction of women or the causes of Willy Loman’s failure. An analytical essay usually advances a central argument or thesis and offers supporting arguments—reasons, explanations, evidence—that develop the thesis.

Most of the writing that you will do in college—not only in your English courses but also in courses in history, sociology, economics, fine arts, and philosophy—will involve analysis, a method we commonly use in thinking about complex matters and in attempting to account for our responses to them. When we are watching Venus Williams play tennis, we may admire her serve, her backhand,

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Understanding Analysis as a Process of Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument    193

or the execution of several brilliant plays, and then think more generally about the concentration and flexibility that allow her to capitalize on her opponent’s momen- tary weakness. And, of course, when we want to improve our own game, we try to analyze our performance. When writing is our game, we analyze our responses to a work, trying to name them and account for them. We analyze our notes, look- ing for ideas that connect, searching for significant patterns, and later we analyze our drafts, looking for strengths and weaknesses. Similarly, in peer review, we analyze the draft of a fellow student, seeing how the parts (individual words, sen- tences, whole paragraphs, the tentative title, and so on) relate to one another and fit together as a whole.

Understanding Analysis as a Process of Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

It can be helpful to think of analysis as a natural process or method of thinking. Literature is inherently thought provoking: It encourages us to start analyzing it right away. Any time that we have asked, “Why did that character do that?” we have started the process of analysis. We want to harness this type of thinking and use it in our writing. Let’s break down this process of analysis into concrete steps that you can take as you work with a literary work.

• Before you begin analysis, remind yourself that all work with literature begins with close reading. Close reading is a careful and attentive reading of literature. In close reading, you “notice what you notice” and start to select aspects of the text for further thought.

• Analysis starts with inquiry, or the process of asking interesting and revealing questions about the text. Analysis also encourages arguing with yourself—asking yourself questions about your inferences, assumptions, definitions, and evidence.

• Analysis then encourages interpretation, in which you determine what you think the text means as you form answers to your questions. Interpreta- tion requires that you break down the whole into parts, explore the relation- ship between the parts, and put the parts back together again to determine key ideas. Interpretation often focuses on connecting the “big ideas” or concepts raised by the text to the specific details or evidence presented by the text.

• Analysis is typically best expressed in an argument, in which you present your opinions about the text as a well-organized, logical, and insightful sequence of ideas.

To develop an analysis of a work, we must engage in inquiry and interpretation; we must formulate questions and answer them. We can approach a literary work with a variety of questions that will help us start thinking analytically:

• What is the function of the setting in this story or play? • Why has this character been introduced? • What is the author trying to tell us? • How has this idea been developed and made more complex? • How exactly can we describe the work’s tone? • What is the difference in assumptions between this essay and another one?

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After starting with helpful general questions such as these, your analysis will start to generate more specific questions, focusing on the ideas that you see as central to the text.

Analyzing a Story from the Hebrew Bible: The Judgment of Solomon

A brief analysis of a very short story about King Solomon, from the Hebrew Bible (often called the Old Testament), may be useful here. Because the story is short, the analysis can consider all or almost all of the story’s parts, and therefore the analysis can seem relatively complete. (“Seem relatively complete” because the analysis will, in fact, be far from complete, since the number of reasonable things that can be said about a work is almost as great as the number of its readers. Also, a given reader might, at a later date, offer a different reading from what that reader offers today.)

The following story about King Solomon, customarily called the Judgment of Solomon, appears in the Hebrew Bible, in the latter part of the third chapter of the book called 1 Kings or First Kings, probably written in the mid-sixth century BCE. The translation is from the King James Version of the Bible (1611).

Two expressions in the story need clarification: (1) The woman who “overlaid” her child in her sleep rolled over on the child and suffocated it; and (2) it is said of a woman that her “bowels yearned upon her son,” that is, her heart longed for her son. (In Hebrew psychology, the bowels were thought to be the seat of emotion.)

The Judgment of Solomon

Then came there two women, that were harlots, unto the king, and stood before him. And the one woman said, “O my lord, I and this woman dwell in one house, and I was delivered of a child with her in the house. And it came to pass the third day after that I was delivered, that this woman was delivered also: and we were together; there was no stranger in the house, save we two in the house. And this woman’s child died in the night; because she overlaid it. And she arose at midnight, and took my son from beside me, while thine handmaid slept, and laid it in her bosom, and laid her dead child in my bosom. And when I rose in the morning to give my child suck, behold, it was dead: but when I considered it in the morning, behold, it was not my son, which I did bear.”

And the other woman said, “Nay; but the living is my son, and the dead is thy son.” And this said, “No; but the dead is thy son, and the living is my son.” Thus they spake before the king.

Then said the king, “The one saith, ‘This is my son that liveth, and thy son is dead’: and the other saith, ‘Nay; but thy son is the dead, and my son is the living.’” And the king said, “Bring me a sword.” And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, “Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other.”

Then spake the woman whose the living child was unto the king, for her bow- els yearned upon her son, and she said, “O my lord, give her the living child, and in no wise slay it.” But the other said, “Let it be neither mine nor thine, but divide it.”

Then the king answered and said, “Give her the living child, and in no wise slay it: she is the mother thereof.”

And all Israel heard of the judgment which the king had judged; and they feared the king, for they saw that the wisdom of God was in him to do judgment.

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Developing an Analysis of the Story

How can we analyze this story? Let’s begin by analyzing the form or the shape of the story. One form or shape that we notice is this:

The story moves from a problem to a solution.

We can also say, still speaking of the overall form, that:

The story moves from quarreling and talk of death to unity and talk of life.

In short, the story has a happy ending, a form that (because it provides an optimis- tic view of life and also a sense of completeness) gives most people pleasure.

In thinking about a work of literature, it is always useful to take notice of the basic form of the whole, the overall structural pattern. Doubtless you are already familiar with many basic patterns, for example,

tragedy (joy yielding to sorrow) and romantic comedy (angry conflict yielding to joyful union).

If you think even briefly about verbal works, you’ll notice the structures or pat- terns that govern songs, episodes in soap operas, political speeches (beginning with the candidate’s expression of pleasure at being in Duluth and ending with “God bless you all”), detective stories, westerns, and so on. And, just as viewers of western films experience one western in the context of others, so readers ex- perience one story in the context of similar stories, and one poem in the context of other poems.

Looking at its form, we can start to explore the ideas that are expressed through that form. We can say that The Judgment of Solomon is a sort of detective story: There is a death, followed by a conflict in the testimony of the witnesses, and then a solution by a shrewd outsider. Consider Solomon’s predicament. Ordinarily in literature, characters are sharply defined and individualized, yet the essence of a detective story is that the culprit should not be easily recognized as wicked, and here nothing seems to distinguish the two petitioners. Solomon is confronted by “two women, that were harlots.” Until late in the story—that is, up to the time Solomon suggests dividing the child—they are described only as “the one woman,” “the other woman,” “the one,” “the other.”

Does the story suffer from weak characterization? If we think analytically about this issue, we realize that the point surely is not to make each woman dis- tinct. Rather, the point is (until late in the story) to make the women as alike as possible so that we cannot tell which of the two is speaking the truth. Like Solo- mon, we have nothing to go on; neither witness is known to be more honest than the other, and there are no other witnesses to support or refute either woman.

Analysis is concerned with

• seeing the relationships between the parts of a work, but it is also concerned with

• taking notice of what is not in the work.

A witness would destroy the story, or turn it into an utterly different story. Another thing missing from this story is an explicit editorial comment or interpretation, except for the brief remark at the end that the people “feared the king.” If we had read the story in the Geneva Bible (1557–60), which is the translation of the Bible that Shakespeare was familiar with, we would have found a marginal comment: “Her motherly affection herein appeareth that she had rather endure the rigour of

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the lawe, than see her child cruelly slaine.” Would you agree that it is better, at least in this story, for the reader to draw conclusions than for the storyteller explicitly to point them out?

Solomon wisely contrives a situation in which these two claimants, who seem so similar, will reveal their true natures: The mother will reveal her love, and the liar will reveal her hard heart. The early symmetry (the competing identities of the two women) pleases the reader, and so does the device by which we can at last distinguish between the two women.

But even near the end there is a further symmetry. To save the child’s life, the true mother gives up her claim, crying out, “Give her the living child, and in no wise slay it.” The author (or, rather, the translator who produced this part of the King James Version) takes these very words, with no change whatsoever, and puts them into Solomon’s mouth as the king’s final judgment. Solomon too says, “Give her the living child, and in no wise slay it,” but now the sentence takes on a new meaning. In the first sentence, “her” refers to the liar (the true mother says to give the child to “her”); in Solomon’s sentence, “her” refers to the true mother: “Give her the living child. . . . ” Surely we take pleasure in the fact that the very words by which the mother renounces her child are the words (1) that reveal to Solomon the truth and that (2) Solomon uses to restore the child to his mother.

In our analysis, we have talked chiefly about the relations of parts, and we have tried to explain why the two women in this story are not distinct until Solomon finds a way to reveal their distinctive natures: If the story is to demonstrate Solo- mon’s wisdom, the women must seem identical until Solomon can show that they differ. We can start to imagine a paper that makes the argument that the two women must be seen as interchangeable in order for Solomon’s discovery of the mother— and his use of a key question to differentiate of them—to have real power.

But our analysis could have gone into some other topic. Let’s consider several possibilities. A student might begin by asking this question: Although it is impor- tant for the women to be highly similar, why are they harlots? (It is too simple to answer that the women in the story are harlots, because the author is faithfully reporting a historical episode in Solomon’s career. The story is widely recognized as a folktale that is also found in other ancient cultures.) One possible reason for making the women harlots is that the story demands that there be no witnesses; by using harlots, the author disposed of husbands, parents, and siblings who might otherwise be expected to live with the women. A second possible reason is that the author wanted to show that Solomon’s justice extended to all, not only to respectable folk. Third, perhaps the author wished to reject or to complicate the stereotype of the harlot as a thoroughly disreputable person. The author rejected or complicated the harlot by introducing another (and truer?) stereotype, the mother motivated by overwhelming maternal love.

Opening Up Additional Ways to Analyze the Story

One sign of a good analytical approach to a literary work is that it opens the work up for further thinking. Although in an analytical essay, you must ultimately select one idea for development, the brainstorming required by analysis will often lead to many good ideas that must be considered and put aside. As you formulate an analysis, you might imagine many alternative “ways in” to the work. Let’s consider some of the other ways in which The Judgment of Solomon could be analyzed.

1. Another kind of analytical essay might go beyond the structure of the indi- vidual work, to the relation of the work to some larger whole. For instance, the writer might approach The Judgment of Solomon from the point of view

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Analyzing a Story from the New Testament: The Parable of the Prodigal Son    197

of gender criticism (discussed in Appendix A): In this story, it might be argued, wisdom is an attribute only of a male; women are either deceitful or emotional. From this point, the writer might set out to create a research essay on gender in a larger whole, using certain books of the Hebrew Bible.

2. We might also analyze the story in the context of other examples of what scholars call Wisdom Literature (the Book of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, for instance). Notice that Solomon’s judgment leads the people to fear him— because his wisdom is great, formidable, and God-inspired.

It happens that we do not know who wrote The Judgment of Solomon, but the authors of most works of literature that came later are known, and therefore some critics seek to analyze a given work within the context of the author’s life. Evidence drawn from the author’s biography would be used to support an interpretation. For some other critics, the larger context would be the reading process, which includes the psychology of the reader. (Biograph- ical criticism and reader-response criticism are discussed in Appendix A.)

3. Still another analysis—again, remember that a work can be analyzed from many points of view—might examine two or more translations of the story. You do not need to know Hebrew in order to compare an early seven- teenth-century translation with a twentieth-century version, such as that of the New Jerusalem Bible or the Revised English Bible. You might argue that one version is, on literary grounds, more effective. Such an essay might include an attempt, by means of a comparison, to analyze the effect of the archaic language of the King James Version. Does the somewhat unfamiliar language turn a reader off, or does it add mystery, dignity, or authority to the tale—valuable qualities perhaps not found in the modern version? By the way, in the Revised English Bible, Solomon does not exactly repeat the mother’s plea. The mother says, “Let her have the baby,” and Solomon then says, “Give the living baby to the first woman.” In the New Jerusalem Bible, after the mother says, “Let them give her the live child,” Solomon says, “Give the live child to the first woman.” If you prefer one version to the other two, why not try to analyze the reasons for your preference?

4. Finally, it should be mentioned that an analysis of the structure of a work, in which the relationships of the parts to the whole are considered, allows the work to be regarded as independent of the external world. If we argue, say, that literature should in all respects reflect life, and we want to analyze the work against reality as we see it, we may find ourselves severely judg- ing The Judgment of Solomon. We might ask if it is likely that a great king would bother to hear the case of two prostitutes quarreling over a child or if it is likely that the false claimant would really call for the killing of the child. Similarly, to take an absurd example, an analysis of this story in terms of its ability to evoke laughter would be laughable. The point is this: An analysis will be interesting and useful to a reader only insofar as the aim of the analysis seems reasonable.

Analyzing a Story from the New Testament: The Parable of the Prodigal Son

Let’s now look at another brief story from the Bible, this one from the Gospel accord- ing to Luke, in the New Testament. Luke, the author of the third of the four Gospels, was a second-generation Christian. He was probably a Roman, though some early

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accounts refer to him as a Syrian; in any case, he wrote in Greek, probably compos- ing the Gospel in about 80–85 CE. In Luke 15:11-32, the author reports a story that Jesus told. This story, which occurs only in Luke’s Gospel, is of a type called a parable, an extremely brief narrative from which a moral may be drawn.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son

And he said, “A certain man had two sons: and the younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me a portion of goods that falleth to me.’ And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living.

“And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land, and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country, and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man gave unto him. And when he came to himself, he said, ‘How many hired servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger? I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.”’

“And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’ But the father said to his ser- vants, ‘Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it, and let us eat, and be merry. For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ And they began to be merry.

“Now his elder son was in the field, and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him ‘Thy brother is come, and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.’ And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out, and entreated him. And he answering said to his father ‘Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment, and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with friends: but as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.’ And he said unto him, ‘Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again: and was lost, and is found.’”

Asking Questions that trigger an Analysis of the Story

Now that you’ve read The Parable of the Prodigal Son, how would you start to analyze it? Looking at our analysis of The Judgment of Solomon, can you follow a similar process to explore the form of this story and the ideas that it expresses? What interesting situation does the story dramatize, and what ideas are revealed by this situation? What parts of the story are most interesting to you? How do those parts of the story come together to create the story’s whole or its larger meaning?

In order to understand a literary work, we must question it. In sections follow- ing the literary works that appear in this anthology, we pose questions about them. These questions may stimulate your thinking and thus help you write. Our concern

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Hemingway • Cat in the Rain    199

as teachers of writing is not so much with the answers to these questions as with your use of the questions to start a process of open-ended thinking. We believe, and we ask you to believe, that there are no “right” answers, only more or less persuasive ones, to most questions about literature—as about life. Our aim is to help you to pose questions that will stimulate your best thinking.

Inquiry—question asking—starts the process of analysis. Following are some questions that can help you to form your analysis of The Judgment of Solomon.

1. In talking about The Judgment of Solomon, we commented on certain rep- etitions (two women, for example) and contrasts (for example, troubled beginning, happy ending), which help to give shape to the story. What parallels or contrasts (or both) do you find in the parable of the prodigal son? What function does the older brother serve? If he were omitted, what, if anything, would be lost? (Characterize him, partly by comparing him with the younger brother and with the father.)

2. Is the father foolish and sentimental? Do you approve or disapprove of his behavior at the end? In a short argumentative essay (250–500 words), sup- port your thesis.

3. Jesus told the story, so it must have had a meaning that was consistent with his other teachings. Christians customarily interpret the story as meaning that God (like the father in the parable) rejoices in the return of a sinner. What meaning, if any, can it have for readers who are not Christians? Explain your answer.

4. Does this parable present an argument? Can you offer a counterargument to the parable?

From Inquiry to Interpretation to Argument: Developing an Analytical Paper

If a story is short enough, you may be able to examine everything in it that you think is worth commenting on, but even if it is short, you may nevertheless decide to focus on one element, such as the setting, or the construction of the plot, or the connection between two characters, or the degree of plausibility. A close examina- tion of one or more specific elements will allow you to explain the ideas that you feel are most central to the work. Let’s read a story by Ernest Hemingway, one of America’s most famous twentieth-century fiction writers, and see what elements of the story two different student writers choose to emphasize.

ErnEst HEmingway Ernest Hemingway (1899–1961) was born in Oak Park, Illinois. After graduating from high school in 1917, he worked on the Kansas City Star but left to serve as a vol- unteer ambulance driver in Italy, where he was wounded in action. He returned home, married, and then served as European correspondent for the Toronto Star, but he soon focused on writing fiction. In 1922, he settled in Paris, where he moved in a circle of American expatri- ates that included Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was in Paris that he wrote stories and nov-

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els about what Gertrude Stein called a “lost generation” of rootless Americans in Europe. (For Hemingway’s reminiscences of the Paris years, see his posthumously published A Moveable Feast.) He served as a journalist during the Spanish Civil War and during World War II, but he was also something of a private soldier.

After World War II, his reputation ebbed, though he was still active as a writer (for instance, he wrote The Old Man and the Sea in 1952). In 1954, Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature; in 1961, depressed by a sense of failing power, he took his own life.

Cat in the Rain

There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the café a waiter stood looking out at the empty square.

The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.

“I’m going down and get that kitty,” the American wife said. “I’ll do it,” her husband offered from the bed. “No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty is out trying to keep dry under a table.” The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the

foot of the bed. “Don’t get wet,” he said. The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as

she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.

“Il piove,”1 the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper. “Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.” He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him.

She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.

Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the café. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.

“You must not get wet,” she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel- keeper had sent her.

5

10

1il piove it’s raining (italian).

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With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.

“Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?”2

“There was a cat,” said the American girl. “A cat?” “Si, il gatto.” “A cat?” the maid laughed. “A cat in the rain?” “Yes,” she said, “under the table.” Then. “Oh. I wanted it so much. I wanted a

kitty.” When she talked English the maid’s face tightened. “Come, Signora,” she said. “We must get back inside. You will be wet.” “I suppose so,” said the American girl. They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed

outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed, reading.

“Did you get the cat?” he asked, putting the book down. “It was gone.” “Wonder where it went to,” he said, resting his eyes from reading. She sat down on the bed. “I wanted it so much,” she said. “I don’t know why I wanted it so much. I

wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.” George was reading again. She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing table looking at

herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?” she asked, looking at her profile again.

George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy’s. “I like it the way it is.” “I get so tired of it,” she said. “I get so tired of looking like a boy.” George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since

she started to speak. “You look pretty darn nice,” he said. She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and

looked out. It was getting dark. “I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back

that I can feel,” she said. “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.”

“Yeah?” George said from the bed. “And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I

want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.”

“Oh, shut up and get something to read,” George said. He was reading again. His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still rain-

ing in the palm trees.

15

20

25

30

35

40

2Ha . . . Signora Have you lost something, madam?

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“Anyway, I want a cat,” she said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.”

George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.

Someone knocked at the door. “Avanti,”3 George said. He looked up from his book. In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoise-shell cat pressed tight

against her and swung down against her body. “Excuse me,” she said, “the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora.”

[1925]

Close Reading

Careful close reading is the best way to start the analysis process. When you read a story—or, perhaps more accurately, when you reread a story before discussing it or writing about it—you’ll find it helpful to jot an occasional note (for instance, a brief response or a question) in the margins and to underline or highlight passages that strike you as especially interesting. Here is part of the story, along with the annotations of a student in a college writing course, Tom Yanagi.

Student Work: Annotation

He doesn’t make a move

still doesn’t move

Is he making a joke? Or maybe he just isn’t even thinking about what he is saying?

contrast with the husband

to em- phasize the bad weather??

She re- spects him and she is pleased by the atten- tion he shows

The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.

“I’m going down and get that kitty,” the American wife said.

“I’ll do it,” her husband offered from the bed. “No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty is out trying to keep

dry under a table.” The husband went on reading, lying propped up with

the two pillows at the foot of the bed. “Don’t get wet,” he said.

The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.

“Il piove,” the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper. “Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.” He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim

room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.

Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the café. The cat would be around to the right.

45

3Avanti Come in.

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Inquiry Questions

Everything in a story is presumably important, but if you have read the story once, probably something has especially interested (or puzzled) you, such as the rela- tionship between two people or the way the end of the story is connected to the beginning. On rereading, then, pen in hand, you’ll find yourself noticing things that you missed or didn’t find especially significant on your first reading and first an- notation. Now that you know the end of the story, you will read the beginning in a different way.

If your instructor asks you to think about certain questions, you’ll keep them in mind while you reread, and you’ll find ideas coming to you. In “Cat in the Rain,” suppose you are asked (or you ask yourself) if the story might just as well be about a dog in the rain. Would anything be lost?

Following are a few questions that you can ask of almost any story. (On pages 455–57, we give a fuller list.) After scanning the questions, you will want to reread the story, pen in hand, and then note your responses, either on a sheet of paper or on your computer. As you write, it will be helpful to go back and reread the story or at least parts of it.

1. What happens? In two or three sentences—say, in twenty-five to fifty words—summarize what happens in the story. What are the most important events?

2. What sorts of people are the chief characters? In “Cat in the Rain,” the chief characters are George, George’s wife, and the innkeeper (the padrone). Note the traits that each seems to possess, and next to each trait, briefly give some supporting evidence.

3. What especially pleased or displeased you in the story? Devote at least a sentence or two to the end of the story. Do you find the end satisfying? Why or why not?

4. Have you any thoughts about the title? If so, what are they? If the story did not have a title, what would you call it?

After you have made your own notes, compare them with responses to these same questions by the student, Tom Yanagi. No two readers will respond in ex- actly the same way, but all readers can examine their responses and try to account for them, at least in part. If your responses are substantially different, how do you account for the differences?

Student Work: Inquiry Notes

1. What happens? A Summary: A young wife, stopping with her husband at an Italian hotel, from her room sees a

cat in the rain. She goes to get it, but it is gone, and so she returns empty-handed. A moment later the maid knocks at the door, holding a tortoise-shell cat.

2. What sorts of people are the chief characters? The characters and evidence: The woman. —kind-hearted (pities cat in rain) —appreciates innkeeper’s courtesy (“liked the way he wanted to serve her”) and

admires him (“She liked his dignity”)

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—unhappy (wants a cat, wants to change her hair, wants to eat at a table with her own silver)

The husband, George. —not willing to put himself out (says he’ll go to garden to get cat but doesn’t move) —doesn’t seem very interested in wife (hardly talks to her—he’s reading; tells her to

“shut up”) —but he does say he finds her attractive (“You look pretty darn nice”) The innkeeper. —serious, dignified (“She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints.

She liked his dignity”) courteous, helpful (sends maid with umbrella; at end sends maid with cat)

3. What especially pleased or displeased you in the story? Dislikes and likes:

—“Dislikes” is too strong, but I was disappointed that more didn’t happen at the end. What is the husband’s reaction to the cat? Or his final reaction to his wife? I mean, what did he think about his wife when the maid brings the cat? And, for that matter, what is the wife’s reaction? Is she satisfied? Or does she realize that the cat can’t really make her happy?

—Now for the likes. (1) I guess I did like the way it turned out; it’s sort of a happy ending, I think, since she wants the cat and gets it. (2) I also especially like the innkeeper. Maybe I like him partly because the wife likes him, and if she likes him he must be nice. And he is nice—very helpful.

4. Have you any thoughts about the title? The title:

—I don’t suppose that I would have called it “Cat in the Rain,” but I don’t know what I would have called it. Maybe “An American Couple in Italy.” Or maybe “The Innkeeper.” I really do think that the innkeeper is very important, even though he only has a few lines. He’s very impressive—not only to the girl, but to me (and maybe to all readers), since at the end of the story we see how careful the innkeeper is.

—But the more I think about Hemingway’s title, the more I think that maybe it also refers to the girl. Like the “poor kitty” in the rain, the wife is in a pretty bad situation. “It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.” Of course the woman is indoors, but her husband generates lots of unpleasant weather. She may as well be out in the rain. She says “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.” This shows that she wants to be affectionate and that she also wants to have someone respond to her affection. She is like a cat in the rain.

Tom’s responses probably include statements that you want to take issue with. Or, perhaps you feel that the student did not even mention some things that you think are important. You may want to make notes on the student’s inquiry notes and raise some questions about them in class.

Interpretation Brainstorming

Good inquiry questions trigger brainstorming and the development of ideas that move beyond the initial question. For example, Tom used his inquiry notes to develop the following detailed journal entry. His instructor asked the class to

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revisit their inquiry notes, to locate an interesting idea, and to continue to write about that idea in their journals. This more concentrated writing encourages in- terpretation or the explanation of your understanding of the meaning of the text. The interpretive stance, focused and developed further, can lead to a paper’s topic. Let’s take a look at Tom’s developing analysis of the story in his journal writing.

Student Work: Journal Writing

As I look back on my inquiry notes and think about the story a second time, one of my “dislikes” becomes a “like.” I like the way Hemingway shows the husband. I don’t mean that I like the man himself, but I like the way Hemingway shows he is such a bastard—not getting off the bed to get the cat, telling his wife to shut up and read.

Another thing about him is that the one time he says something nice about her, it’s about her hair, and she isn’t keen on the way her hair is. She says it makes her look “like a boy,” and she is “tired” of looking like a boy. There’s something wrong with this marriage. George hardly pays attention to his wife, but he wants her to look like a boy. Maybe the idea is that this macho guy wants to keep her looking like an inferior (immature) version of himself. He doesn’t seem to want to recognize her individuality or see her as a unique person with any power in the situation.

Perhaps this is represented by the way she is referred to as an “American wife.” This term gets repeated. The word “wife” is repeated, but we never learn her name. That becomes her identity. George certainly doesn’t seem interested in letting her fulfill herself as a woman.

I like the way Hemingway shows us the relation between the husband and wife (even though the relation is pretty bad), and I like the innkeeper. Even if the relation with the couple ends unhappily, the story has a sort of happy ending, so far as it goes, since the innkeeper does what he can to please his guest: he sends the maid, with the cat. There’s really nothing more that he can do.

The more I think about it, the more I feel that the ending is as happy as it can be. George is awful. When his wife says “I want a cat and I want a cat now,” Hemingway tells us “George was not listening.” And then, a moment later, almost like a godmother the maid appears and grants the wife’s wish.

the Argument-Centered Paper

In preparation for writing a draft for a paper, Tom reread the story and reexamined his annotations on the story, inquiry notes, and journal entry. As he looked over his own notes, he jotted down possible thesis ideas and subpoints that he could use to develop the body of his paper. His paper focuses on the idea of the main char- acter being referred to as an “American wife” and how that term reflects her rela- tionship with her husband. As you read this essay, see if you can see find traces of Tom’s earlier inquiry and interpretation notes: What ideas did he start to develop in the brainstorming stages?

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Yanagi 1

Tom Yanagi

Professor Costello

English 10B

21 December 2015

Hemingway’s American Wife

My title alludes not to any of the four women to whom Hemingway was

married, but to “the American wife” who is twice called by this term in his

short story “Cat in the Rain.” We first meet her in the first sentence of the

story (“There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel”), and the next

time she is mentioned (apart from a reference to the wife and her husband as

“they”) it is as “the American wife,” at the beginning of the second

paragraph of the story. The term is used again at the end of the third

paragraph.

She is, then, at least in the early part of this story, just an American

or an American wife—someone identified only by her nationality and her

marital status, but not at all by her personality, her individuality, her inner

self. She first becomes something of an individual when she separates

herself from her husband by leaving the hotel room and going to look for a

cat that she has seen in the garden, in the rain. This act of separation,

however, has not the slightest effect on her husband, who “went on reading”

(200).

When she returns, without the cat, he puts down his book and speaks

to her, but it is obvious that he has no interest in her, beyond as a physical

object (“You look pretty darn nice”). This comment is produced when she

says she is thinking of letting her hair grow out because she is “so tired of

looking like a boy” (201). Why, a reader wonders, does her husband, who has

paid almost no attention to her up to now, assure her that she looks “pretty

darn nice”? I think it is reasonable to conclude that he wants her to look like

Student Argument Essay: “Hemingway’s American Wife”

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Yanagi 2

someone who is not truly a woman, in particular someone who is immature.

That she does not feel she has much identity is evident when she continues

to talk about letting her hair grow, and she says “I want to pull my hair back

tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel” (201).

Long hair is, or at least was, the traditional sign of a woman; she wants long

hair, and at the same time she wants to keep it under her control by tying it

in a “big knot,” a knot that she can feel, a knot whose presence reminds her,

because she can feel it, of her feminine nature.

She goes on to say that she wants to brush her hair “in front of a

mirror.” That is, she wants to see and to feel her femininity, since her

husband apparently—so far as we can see in the story, at least—scarcely

recognizes it or her. Perhaps her desire for the cat (“I want a cat”) is a veiled

way of saying that she wants to express her animal nature, and not be simply

a neglected woman who is made by her husband to look like a boy.

Hemingway tells us, however, that when she looked for the cat in the garden

she could not find it, a sign, I think, of her failure to break from the man. At

the end of the story the maid brings her the cat, but a woman cannot just be

handed a new nature and accept it, just like that. She has to find it herself,

and in herself, so I think the story ends with “the American wife” still

nothing more than an American wife.

[New page]

Yanagi 3

Work Cited

Hemingway, Ernest. “Cat in the Rain.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan

Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed.

Boston: Pearson, 2017. 200-02. Print.

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208    Chapter 7 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

As you consider whether you liked the essay or not, a few comments and ques- tions may be useful. 1. Do you find the essay interesting? Explain your response. 2. Do you find the essay well written? Explain your response. 3. Do you find the argument convincing? Can you suggest ways of strengthening

it, or do you think the argument is mistaken? Carefully reread “Cat in the Rain,” taking note of passages that give further support to this student’s argument or that seem to challenge or qualify it.

4. We often say that a good critical essay sends us back to the literary work with a fresh point of view. Our rereading differs from our earlier reading. Does this essay change your reading of Hemingway’s story?

From Inquiry to an Analytical Paper: A Second Example

Another student, Holly Klein, wrote about “Cat in the Rain,” but she thought about it partly in terms of a familiar saying: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Fol- lowing are her inquiry notes, her journal writing, and the essay that she developed from these idea-generating steps. Holly did not use the general inquiry questions sug- gested above. Instead, while taking brainstorming notes on her computer, she gener- ated her own questions and answered them. Her brainstorming is thus very personal, which guarantees a more original interpretation of the work. Notice how Holly includes lots of quotations in her questions and answers. She is already using evidence to support and develop her ideas, and that evidence will certainly appear in her essay.

Student Work: Inquiry Notes

1. The cat: Can we be certain that the cat at the end of the story is the cat that the woman saw in the rain? When we first hear about the cat in the rain we are not told anything about its color, and at the end of the story we are not told that the tortoise- shell cat is wet. I think there are two cats. I think this is important. She is willing to take any cat, as long as it is something she can love.

2. The cat again! What does the cat represent? The cat seems to represent the child that the wife wants to have. The way she talks about the cat makes it sound like a longed- for child: “Oh. I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.” And: “Anyway, I want a cat,” she said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.” She is wanting something to love. The way that she keeps repeating that she wants the cat reveals how unhappy she is.

3. Relationship to padrone. These lines struck me as really strange:

“As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance.”

What do these line mean? Is there anything sexual here? I guess I do think something sexual is happening here, but I’m not sure exactly why. The wife seems to feel this strange excitement when seeing the padrone. She feels both small and important. I think that Hemingway is trying to explain being attracted to someone else, even though you are married. So, Hemingway has to show the conflict that feeling creates

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in the wife. She feels both small and important. I think it is important that she feels both of these things and that she feels them inside, which makes it sound sexual.

4. Happiness: Is it true that love stories are about people who are happy in love, or are they mostly about people who are unhappy? I think Hemingway is showing us that love can lead to unhappiness. This is a very unhappy couple, but that is what makes them interesting. If Hemingway’s lovers were happy and spent their time cooing at each other, the story probably would have been boring. Unhappiness seems to be the key idea that story is exploring—perhaps this is a good paper topic?

5. Biographical information: How can we connect biographical information to the story? How does knowing about Hemingway’s own life help me to understand the story? As we learned in class, Hemingway wrote the story in Italy, when his wife Hadley was pregnant. In a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald he said,

Cat in the Rain wasn’t about Hadley. . . . When I wrote that we were at Rapallo but Hadley was 4 months pregnant with Bumby. The Inn Keeper was the one at Cortina D’Ampezzo. . . . Hadley never made a speech in her life about wanting a baby because she had been told various things by her doctor and I’d—no use going into all that. (Letters 180)

As we talked about in class, I think Hemingway knew his marriage was on the rocks and that he was going to get a divorce. This helps me to understand the story and makes the story more interesting. I think Hemingway wanted to show an unhappy couple, putting some of his own life into the story.

What types of questions and answers would you generate to help develop an interpretation of the story? No two readers will respond in exactly the same way, but all readers can examine their responses and try to account for them, at least in part. Can you imagine new questions or ideas that neither Tom Yanagi nor Holly Klein address?

Let’s turn now to Holly’s journal writing to see how she continues to develop her questions and answers, moving toward her own interpretation of the story.

Student Work: Journal Writing

Although this story features a married couple in a hotel at the sea, there is not much romantic passion in this story. Even though they seem to be on vacation, this couple seems unhappy. Are these people in love?

Is it true that love stories are about people who are happy in love, or are they mostly about people who are unhappy? Many lovers may suffer and some even die (Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic), but aren’t they happy anyway? They are happy in their unhappiness. (And Rose—Kate Winslet—survives, happy and unhappy in her love.)

Is “Cat” really a love story anyway? Yes, in the sense it is about people who must at least at some time in the past have been lovers—happy lovers— but who now seem stuck with each other. The wife still seems to be in love, or maybe she is trying to bring a dead love back to life. But she is unhappy—and who wouldn’t be, with a husband like hers? She says that she is going out in the rain to get the cat, and he doesn’t even pay attention. He just goes on reading, obviously uninterested in what she is doing. Later, when she is talking about what she wants, he even tells her, “Oh, shut up and get something to read.” This statement really struck me—it was here that I saw how much the husband

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ignored her. He wants the wife to be quiet and not bother him—not bother him with her wants and desires. I think this is what is leading to her unhappiness.

The story seems to be focusing on the unhappiness that exists in any relationship. The wife keeps mentioning unfulfilled desires: she wants a long hair, a table with silver, and candles. These desires become focused on the cat. Her desire for the cat becomes an expression of her unhappiness. She is able to show her unhappiness—I think this is because women are more able to express their unhappiness in words. Her husband keeps ignoring her, so she repeats her interest in the cat again and again. She does not explicitly say that she is unhappy, but she does express a desire for a life different from the one she is now living.

Student Analytical Essay: “Hemingway’s Unhappy Lovers”

Here is the final version of Holly Klein’s essay:

Klein 1

Holly Klein

Professor Chung

English 1102

17 December 2015

Hemingway’s Unhappy Lovers

In class someone suggested that Romeo and Juliet is not so much

about how happy two people are but about how unhappy they are. This

statement, which at first I thought was ridiculous, now strikes me as true,

or for the most part true. The lovers in Romeo and Juliet and in West Side

Story, to name only some of the most famous lovers, would not give up being

in love, but during most of the time they are unhappy. I have heard a saying,

“Love means not ever having to say you are sorry,” but some of these lovers,

and other lovers in daytime television programs, are always saying they are

sorry, and always feeling sorry for themselves. And we feel sorry for them.

Our interest in them is not in their happiness, but in their unhappiness.

Certainly in Ernest Hemingway’s “Cat in the Rain” the woman is

unhappy—and who would not be unhappy, with a husband like hers?

She says she is going out into the rain to get the cat, and he says “Don’t get

wet” (200), and he goes right on reading, obviously uninterested in what his

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Klein 2

wife is doing, or in her needs. The wife never explicitly says she is unhappy,

but it is obvious that she is. Her husband pays very little attention to her,

and then, when he does—he goes so far as to say “You look pretty darn

nice”—it is only after she tells him she wants to change her appearance: “I

get so tired of looking like a boy.” When she adds that she wants to change

her hair, his response is, “Yeah?” And a moment later he says, “Oh, shut up

and get something to read” (201). At this point in the story, when the

husband made this statement, I suddenly realized that these lovers are

unhappy. If Hemingway’s lovers were happy and spent their time cooing at

each other, the story probably would have been boring.

What is interesting here is, paradoxically, the man’s lack of interest in

his wife—he is probably affectionate only when he wants sex—and the

woman’s basic unhappiness. Her unhappiness is revealed partly by her

almost desperate attempt to give affection to the cat, and to receive some

affection from it: “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I

stroke her” (201). The wife keeps mentioning unfulfilled desires. For

example, she explains that she wants long hair, and imagines eating at a

table with silver and candles and imagines brushing her hair in front of a

mirror. The husband does not want to be bothered with these desires, which

leads him to tell her to “shut up.” These unfulfilled wants become focused on

the cat, and she repeatedly states that she wants the cat. The wife’s desire

for the cat, then, becomes an expression of her unhappiness.

Many people probably do not make a distinction between the

attitudes of men and women toward love, and they therefore do not

distinguish between the responses of men and of women to love stories.

I think it is probably true that most love stories are chiefly about

unhappiness, but it is probably also true that women in love are more likely

than men to express in words their unhappiness. (I think there are

psychological or sociological studies that support this view.) In any case, in

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212    Chapter 7 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

We can ask about this essay the same questions that we asked about the previous student essay:

1. Do you find the essay interesting? Explain your response. 2. Do you find the essay well written? Explain your response. 3. Do you find the argument convincing? Can you suggest ways of strengthening

it, or do you think the argument is mistaken? Carefully reread “Cat in the Rain,” taking note of passages that give further support to this student’s argument or that seem to challenge or qualify it.

Klein 3

support of the idea that love stories are chiefly about unhappiness, I can say

that “Cat in the Rain” interested me not because the lovers keep expressing

their romantic passion but because the man does not express his love, and

the woman expresses her frustration. In this story about lovers, the man is

in bed—but he spends most of his time reading in bed, and (as I said) about

the best he can say to the woman is that she looks “pretty darn nice.” The

wife holds our interest because she is unhappy, stuck with this guy, and she

is so grateful for a kind word from the hotel-keeper. She does not explicitly

say that she is desperately unhappy, but she does express very vigorously a

desire for a life different from the one she is now living, and we do feel that

(at least for her) love is not just a “mood,” as it probably is for the man, but

is a matter of “life or death.” She is, so to speak, dying to be loved.

[New page]

Klein 4

Work Cited

Hemingway, Ernest. “Cat in the Rain.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan

Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed.

Boston: Pearson, 2017. 200-02. Print.

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Choosing a Topic and Developing a Thesis    213

4. We often say that a good critical essay sends us back to the literary work with a fresh point of view. Our rereading differs from our earlier reading. Does this essay change your reading of Hemingway’s story?

We can also ask one additional question:

5. Sometimes writers make their essays far too impersonal, removing every trace of the writer as an individual human being, a distinct person. Do you think that this writer goes too far in the other direction, making the essay too personal? If you think that she does, what advice would you give her, to help her strike the right balance?

Breaking Down the Analytical Essay Let’s explore how inquiry and interpretation get written up as an argument. Each writing assignment will require its own kind of thinking, but let us provide a few principles that are relevant to analytical writing about literature:

1. Assume that your reader has already read the work that you are discussing but is not thoroughly familiar with it—and, of course, does not know what you think and how you feel about the work. Early in your essay, name the author, the work, and your thesis.

2. Do not tell the plot (or, at most, summarize it very briefly); instead, tell your reader what the work is about (not what happens, but what the happenings add up to).

3. Whether you are writing about character, plot, meter, or anything else, you will probably be telling your reader something about how the work func- tions, that is, how it develops. The stages by which a work advances may sometimes be marked fairly clearly. For instance, a poem of two stanzas may ask a question in the first stanza and give an answer in the second stanza, or it may express a hope in the first stanza and reveal a doubt in the second stanza. Novels are customarily divided into chapters, and even a short story may be printed with numbered parts. Virtually all works are built from parts, whether or not the parts are labeled.

4. In telling the reader how each part leads to the next or how each part arises from what has come before, you will probably comment on such things as (in a story) changes in a character’s state of mind—marked per- haps by a change in the setting—or (in a poem) changes in the speaker’s tone of voice—for instance, from eager to resigned or from cautious to enthusiastic. Probably you will not only be describing the development of character, tone, or plot, but also (and more important) you will be advanc- ing your own thesis by offering evidence that supports the thesis.

Choosing a Topic and Developing a Thesis As you move from your brainstorming and note-taking phases, you’ll have to single out an appropriate topic for your paper. This topic will center your paper on a main idea, and your thesis will then present an argument about that idea. What is an appropriate topic? First, it must be a topic that you can work up some interest in, or your writing will be mechanical and dull. (We say “work up some interest”

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because interest is commonly the result of some effort.) Second, an appropriate topic is compassable—that is, it is something you can discuss with reasonable at- tention to detail in the few pages (and few days) you have to devote to it. If a work is fairly long, almost surely you will write an analysis of some part of it.

Unless you have lots of time for reflection and revision, you cannot write a meaningful essay of five hundred words or even a thousand words on “Shake- speare’s Hamlet “ or “The Fiction of Alice Walker.” At that length, you cannot even write on “Character in Hamlet ” or “Symbolism in Walker’s The Color Purple.” And probably you won’t really want to write on such topics anyway; probably one character or one symbol has caught your interest. Think of something in your an- notations or “response writing” (described in Chapter 3) that has caught your atten- tion. Trust your feelings; you are likely onto something interesting.

In Chapter 3, we talked about the value of asking yourself questions as part of the critical thinking process. To find an appropriate topic, ask yourself such ques- tions as:

1. What purpose does this serve? For instance, why is this scene in the novel or play? Why is there a comic grave digger in Hamlet? Why are these lines unrhymed? Why did the author call the work by this title? Why are these characters unable to come to an agreement?

2. Why do I have this response? Why do I feel that this work is more profound (or amusing, or puzzling) than another work? How did the author make this character funny or dignified or pathetic? How did the author communicate the idea that this character is a bore without boring me?

3. Can I think both outward and inward—to both larger concepts and smaller details? How does this scene allow me to both think about larger abstract ideas and look closely at the specific evidence that it provides? How does this work’s imagery (or voice, or setting, or character) use specific words to introduce larger conceptual ideas?

The first of these questions, “What purpose does this serve?” requires that you identify yourself with the author, wondering, for example, whether the opening scene is the best possible for the story. The second question, “Why do I have this response?” requires that you trust your feelings. If you are amused, or puzzled, or annoyed, assume that these responses are appropriate and follow them up, at least until a rereading of the work provides other responses. If you make notes report- ing your responses and later think about them, you will probably find that you can select a topic. The third question, “Can I think both outward and inward?” asks you to locate a topic that will allow you to explore larger conceptual ideas (such as love, envy, balance, or justice) while rooting them in the specific details of the text (such as, in “Cat in the Rain,” that a spouse can express a need for love in how she responds to other people and animals).

A fourth valuable way to find a thesis is to test a published comment against your response to a work. Perhaps somewhere you have seen—say, in a textbook— a statement about the nature of fiction, poetry, or drama. Maybe you have heard that a tragic hero has a “flaw.” Don’t simply accept the remark. Test it against your reading of the work. Interpret the word published broadly. Students and instructors publish their opinions—offer them to a public—when they utter them in class. Think about something said in class; students who pay close attention to what their peers say learn a great deal.

Given an appropriate topic, you will find your essay easier to write and the finished version of it clearer and more persuasive if, at some point in your

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Developing an Argument    215

preparation, in note taking or in writing a first draft, you have converted your topic into a thesis (a proposition, a point, an argument) and have constructed a thesis statement (a sentence stating your overall point).

Let’s dwell a moment on the distinction between a topic and a thesis. It may be useful to think of it this way: A topic is a subject (for example, “The role of Providence in Hamlet”); to arrive at a thesis, you have to make an arguable asser- tion (for example, “The role of Providence in Hamlet is not obvious, but it is crucial”).

Some theses are more promising than others. Consider this thesis:

The role of Providence in Hamlet is interesting.

This sentence asserts a thesis, but it is vague and provides little direction and little help in generating ideas and in shaping your essay. Let’s try again. It’s almost al- ways necessary to try again and again, because the process of writing is, in large part, a process of trial and error, of generating better and better ideas by evaluating— selecting or rejecting—ideas and options.

The role of Providence is evident in the Ghost.

This is much better, and it could stimulate ideas for an interesting essay. Let’s assume the writer rereads the play, looking for further evidence, and comes to believe that the Ghost is only one of several manifestations of Providence. The writer may stay with the Ghost or may (especially if the paper is long enough to allow for such a thesis to be developed) alter the thesis thus:

The role of Providence is not confined to the Ghost but is found also in the killing of Polonius, in the surprising appearance of the pirate ship, and in the presence of the poisoned chalice.

Strictly speaking, the thesis here is given in the first part of the sentence (“The role of Providence is not confined to the Ghost”); the rest of the sentence provides an indication of how the argument will be supported.

Every literary work suggests its own topics for analysis to an active reader, and all essayists must set forth their own theses, but if you begin by seeking to examine one of your responses, you will soon be able to stake out a topic and to formulate a thesis.

Developing an Argument

Introductory Paragraphs

As the poet Byron said, at the beginning of a long section of his poem, Don Juan, “Nothing so difficult as a beginning.” Woody Allen thinks so, too. In an interview, he said that the toughest part of writing is “to go from nothing to the first draft.”

We can give two pieces of advice:

1. The opening paragraph is unimportant. It’s great if you can write a para- graph that will engage your readers and let them know where the essay will be taking them, but, if you can’t come up with such a paragraph, just put down anything in order to prime the pump.

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216    Chapter 7 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

2. The opening paragraph is extremely important. It must engage your read- ers, and, probably by means of a thesis sentence, it should let the readers know where the essay will be taking them.

The contradiction here is only apparent, not real. The first point is relevant to the opening paragraph of a draft; the second point is relevant to the opening para- graph of the final version. Almost all writers—professionals as well as amateurs— find that the first paragraphs in their drafts are false starts. Don’t worry about the opening paragraphs of your draft; you’ll revise your opening later. (Surprisingly, your first paragraph may often be deleted altogether; your second paragraph, you may find, is where your essay truly begins.)

When you are writing a first draft, you need something—almost anything—to break the ice. In your finished paper, however, the opening cannot be mere throat clearing. The opening must be interesting.

Among the commonest uninteresting openings are these:

1. A dictionary definition (“Webster says . . .”). 2. A restatement of your title. The title is (let’s assume) “Romeo’s Maturation,”

and the first sentence says, “This essay will study Romeo’s maturation.” True, there is an attempt at a thesis statement here, but there is no informa- tion beyond what has already been given in the title. There is no informa- tion about you, either—that is, no sense of your response to the topic, as there would be in, say, “Romeo and Juliet covers less than one week, but within this short period, Romeo is impressively transformed from a some- what comic, infatuated boy to a thoughtful, tragic hero.”

3. A platitude such as “Ever since the beginning of time, men and women have fallen in love.” Such a sentence may be fine if it helps you to start creating a draft, but because it sounds canned and because it is insuffi- ciently interesting, it should not remain in your final version.

What is left? What is a good way for a final version to begin? Your introduc- tory paragraph will be interesting if it gives information, and it will be pleasing if the information provides a focus—that is, if it goes beyond the title to let the reader know exactly what your topic is and where you are headed.

Let’s assume that you agree: An opening paragraph should be interesting and focused. Doubtless you will find your own ways of fulfilling these goals, but you might consider using one of the following time-tested methods.

1. Establish a connection between life and literature. We have already sug- gested that a platitude (“Ever since the beginning of time, men and women have fallen in love”) makes a poor beginning because it is dull, but you may find another way of relating the work to daily experience. For instance:

Doubtless the popularity of Romeo and Juliet (the play has been with us for more than four hundred years) is partly due to the fact that it deals with a universal experience. Still, no other play about love is so much a part of our culture that the mere mention of the names of the lovers immediately calls up an image. But when we say that so-and-so is “a regular Romeo,” exactly what do we mean? And exactly what sort of lover is Romeo?

2. Give an overview that provides a focusing concept. Here is an example:

Langston Hughes’s “Harlem” is about the destruction of the hopes of African Americans. More precisely, Hughes begins by asking “What happens to a dream de- ferred?” and then offers several possibilities, the last of which is that it may “explode.”

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3. Include a quotation. The previous example illustrates this approach. Here is another example:

One line from Langston Hughes’s poem “Harlem,” “A raisin in the sun,” has become famous, but its fame is, in a sense, accidental; Lorraine Hansberry happened to use it for the title of a play. Doubtless she used it because it is impressive, but, in fact, the entire poem is worthy of its most famous line.

4. Use a definition. We have suggested that a definition introduced by the phrase “Webster says . . . ” is boring, but consider this approach:

When we say that a character is the hero of a story, we usually mean that he is the central figure, and we probably imply that he is manly. But, in Kafka’s “The Metamorpho- sis,” the hero is most unmanly.

5. Introduce a critical stance. If your approach is feminist, or psychoanalytic, or Marxist, or whatever, you may want to say so at the start. Here’s an example:

Feminists have called our attention to the unfunny sexism of mother-in-law jokes, comments about women hooking men into marriage, and so forth. We can now see that the stories of James Thurber, long thought to be wholesome fun, are unpleasantly sexist.

We do not say that these are the only ways to begin, and we certainly do not suggest that you pack all five approaches into an opening paragraph. We are say- ing that, after you have done some brainstorming and have written some drafts, you may want to think about using one of these methods for your opening para- graph.

Middle Paragraphs

The middle, or body, of your essay will develop your thesis by offering supporting evidence. Ideas for the body should emerge from the sketchy outline that you made after you reviewed your brainstorming notes or journal.

1. Be sure that each paragraph makes a specific point. Each paragraph should contain a specific conceptual idea that works to develop your thesis. You can think of each paragraph as developing a subpoint that furthers the overarching idea in your thesis.

2. Be sure that each paragraph contains meaningful evidence. Each point should be sufficiently developed with evidence. A brief quotation is often the best evidence. Make sure to explain how your evidence develops your point. Do not simply “drop” the quotation into the paragraph without ex- plaining how you are interpreting it or connecting it into the larger ideas of the paragraph. Make your understanding of the quotation a key part of the paragraph.

3. Be sure that each paragraph is coherent. Read each sentence, starting with the second sentence, to see how it relates to the preceding sentence. Does it clarify, extend, reinforce, or add an example? If you can’t find the rela- tionship, the sentence probably does not belong where it is. Rewrite it, move it, or delete it.

4. Be sure that the connections between paragraphs are clear. Transitional words and phrases, such as “Furthermore,” “On the other hand,” and “In the

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218    Chapter 7 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

next stanza,” will often give readers all the help they need in seeing how your points are connected.

5. Be sure that the paragraphs are in the best possible order. A good way to test the organization of your paragraphs is to jot down the topic sentence or topic idea of each paragraph and then to see if your jottings form a reason- able sequence.

Concluding Paragraphs

Concluding paragraphs, like opening paragraphs, are especially important, if only because they are so conspicuous. Readers often skim first paragraphs and last paragraphs to see if an essay is worth reading. In conclusions, as in openings, say something interesting that captures your “key ideas.” It is not interesting to say, “Thus, we see that Hamlet . . .” (and you go on to echo your title or your first sentence).

What should you do? When you are revising a draft, you might keep in mind the following widely practiced principles. They are not inflexible rules, but they often work.

1. Hint that the end is near. Expressions such as “Finally,” “One other point must be discussed,” and “In short” alert the reader that the end is near and help to keep the reader from feeling that the essay ends abruptly.

2. Reassert the thesis, but put it in a new light that shows how your thesis has developed. Replace “I have shown that Romeo and Hamlet are similar in some ways” with a more extended explanation, like the following:

These similarities suggest that, in some respects, Romeo is an early study for Hamlet. Both are young men in love, both seek by the force of their passion to shape the world according to their own desires, and both die in the attempt. But, compared with Hamlet, who at the end of the play understands everything that has happened, Romeo dies in happy ignorance; Romeo is spared the pain of knowing that his own actions will destroy Juliet, whereas Hamlet dies with the painful knowledge that his kingdom has been conquered by Norwegian invaders.

3. Offer an evaluation. You may find it appropriate to conclude your analysis with an evaluation:

Romeo is as convincing as he needs to be in a play about young lovers, but, from first to last, he is a relatively uncomplicated figure, the ardent lover. Hamlet is a lover, but he is also a good deal more, a figure whose complexity reveals a more sophisticated or a more mature author. Only five or six years separate Romeo and Juliet from Hamlet, but one feels that, in those few years, Shakespeare made a quantum leap in his grasp of human nature.

4. Include a brief, significant quotation from the work. Here’s an example:

Romeo has won the hearts of audiences for almost four centuries, but, for all his charm, he is in the last analysis concerned only with fulfilling his own passion. Hamlet, on the other hand, at last fulfills not only his own wish but also that of the Ghost, his father. “Remember me,” the Ghost says, when he first appears to Hamlet and asks for revenge. Throughout the play, Hamlet does remember the Ghost, and, finally, at the cost of his own life, Hamlet succeeds in avenging his dead father.

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Coherence in Paragraphs: Using transitions

In addition to having a unified point and a reasonable organization, a good para- graph is coherent; that is, the connections between ideas in the paragraph are clear. Coherence can often be achieved by inserting the right transitional words or by taking care to repeat key words.

Richard Wagner, commenting on his work as a composer of operas, once said, “The art of composition is the art of transition,” for his art moved from note to note, measure to measure, scene to scene. Transitions establish connections between ideas; they alert readers to the way in which you are conducting your argument. Here are some of the most common transitional words and phrases.

1. Amplification or likeness: similarly, likewise, and, also, again, second, third, in addition, furthermore, moreover, finally

2. Emphasis: chiefly, equally, indeed, even more important 3. Contrast or concession: but, on the contrary, on the other hand, by con-

trast, of course, however, still, doubtless, no doubt, nevertheless, granted that, conversely, although, admittedly

4. Example: for example, for instance, as an example, specifically, consider as an illustration, that is, such as, like

5. Consequence or cause and effect: thus, so, then, it follows, as a result, therefore, hence

6. Restatement: in short, that is, in effect, in other words 7. Place: in the foreground, further back, in the distance 8. Time: afterward, next, then, as soon as, later, until, when, finally, last, at

last 9. Conclusion: finally, therefore, thus, to sum up

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Revising Paragraphs

Does the paragraph say anything? Does it have substance, or is it mere padding?

Does the paragraph have a topic sentence? If so, is it in the best place? If the paragraph doesn’t have a topic sentence, might adding one improve the paragraph? Or, does it have a clear topic idea?

If the paragraph is an opening paragraph, is it interesting enough to attract and hold a reader’s attention? If it is a later paragraph, does it clearly evolve from the previous paragraph and lead into the next paragraph?

Does the paragraph contain some principle of development—for instance, from the general to the particular?

Does each sentence clearly follow from the preceding sentence? Have you provided transitional words or cues to guide your reader? Would it be useful to repeat certain key words for clarity?

What is the purpose of the paragraph? Do you want to summarize, tell a story, give an illustration, concede a point, or something else? Is your purpose clear to you, and does the paragraph fulfill your purpose?

Is the closing paragraph effective and not a restatement of the obvious?

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From Inquiry to Interpretation to Argument: Organizing Ideas in an Analytical Paper

JamEs JoycE James Joyce (1882–1941) was born into a middle-class family in Dublin, Ireland. His father drank and became increasingly irresponsible and unemployable, and the family sank in the social order. Still, Joyce received a strong classical education at excellent Jesuit schools and at University College, Dublin, where he studied mod- ern languages. In 1902, at the age of twenty, he left Ireland so that he might spend the rest of his life writing about life in Ireland. (“The shortest way to Tara,” he said, “is via Holyhead,” that is, the shortest way to the heart of Ireland is to take a ship away from Ireland.) In Trieste, Zurich, and Paris, he supported his family in a va- riety of ways, sometimes teaching English in a Berlitz language school. His fifteen stories, collected under the title of Dubliners, were written between 1904 and 1907, but he could not get them published until 1914. (The story we present here, “Eve- line,” comes from Dubliners.) Next came a highly autobiographical novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916 ). Ulysses (1922), a complex novel covering eighteen hours in Dublin, was for some years banned by the United States Post Of- fice, although few, if any, readers today find it offensive. Joyce spent most of the rest of his life working on Finnegans Wake (1939).

Nine years before he succeeded in getting Dubliners published, Joyce described the manuscript in these terms:

My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis…. I have written it for the most part in a style of scrupulous meanness and with the conviction that he is a very bold man who dares to alter in the presentment, still more to deform, whatever he has seen and heard.

Araby

North Richmond Street, being blind,1 was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two sto- ries stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbors in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having long been enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few papercovered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq.2 I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house con- tained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found

2The Abbot one of Scott’s popular historical romances (1820); The Devout Communicant a Catholic religious manual published in the eighteenth century; The Memoirs of Vidocq the memoirs of the chief of the French detective force (1829).

1blind a dead-end street. (all notes are by the editors.)

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JoyCe • Araby    221

the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of everchanging violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bod- ies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coach- man smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother al- ways teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bar- gaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa,3 or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not under- stand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant

5

3come-all-you a topical song that began “Come all you gallant irishmen”; O’Donovan Rossa Jeremiah o’Donovan (1831–1915), a popular irish leader who was jailed by the British for advocating violent rebellion.

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needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby.

I forget whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said; she would love to go.

—And why can’t you? I asked. While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She

could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

—It’s well for you, she said. —If I go, I said, I will bring you something. What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after

that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason4 affair. I an- swered few questions in class, I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly mo- notonous child’s play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and an- swered me curtly:

—Yes, boy, I know. As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the win-

dow. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street.

Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

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4Freemason irish Catholics viewed the masons as their Protestant enemies.

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When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer, but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

—I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord. At nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him talking

to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

—The people are in bed and after their first sleep now, he said. I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: —Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him late enough

as it is. My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the

old saying: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. He asked me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed.5 When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary- looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the center of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

—O, I never said such a thing! —O, but you did! —O, but I didn’t!

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5The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed “The arab to His Favorite Steed” was a popular senti- mental poem by Caroline norton (1808–77).

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—Didn’t she say that? —Yes! I heard her. —O, there’s a . . . fib! Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy any-

thing. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

—No, thank you. The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the

two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the six- pence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

[1905]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Joyce wrote a novel called A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916). Write an essay of about five hundred words on “Araby” as a portrait of the artist as a boy.

2. In an essay of about five hundred words, consider the role of images of dark- ness and blindness and what they reveal to you about “Araby” as a story about the fall from innocence into painful awareness.

3. How old, approximately, is the narrator of “Araby” at the time of the experience he describes? How old is he at the time he tells his story? On what evidence do you base your estimates?

4. The boy, apparently an only child, lives with an uncle and aunt rather than with parents. Why do you suppose Joyce put him in this family setting rather than some other?

5. The story is rich in images of religion. This in itself is not surprising, for the story is set in Roman Catholic Ireland, but the religious images are not simply references to religious persons or objects. In an essay of 500–750 words, discuss how these images reveal the narrator’s state of mind.

Finding and Organizing an Interpretation

The short story “Araby” contains a complex exploration of a young man’s love. Let’s see how a student, Madelyn Mackenzie, captures her reactions to the story in in- quiry notes, organizes them in an outline, and transforms them into an essay. Her essay provides a good example of a clearly organized approach to analysis. Mad- elyn selects a literary element—the setting—for close exploration. She develops a set of concepts relating to that literary element, focusing on the imagination and how it conflicts with reality. In order to develop her ideas, she creates three strong subpoints. Those subpoints become the organizational structure of her essay.

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Student Work: Inquiry Notes

Questions: As I read this story, I had many questions: –Why is the narrator so obsessed with his neighbor friend’s sister? What triggers this obsession? –Why does he focus on getting the girl a gift? Why does he want to show his love for her by giving her something? –Why does he focus on the bazaar? Why does that become such a meaningful place? –My main question has to do with the ending: Why does it have to end in such a negative way? He seems to realize that his ideals of love are shattered? Why?

In order to answer these questions, I could look at these literary elements: –What is the main character’s key qualities? –What are the different settings that come into play? –What imagery is used in the story?

As I think about my questions, I am coming up with three types of ideas. The first focuses on the narrator. He seems to be strangely obsessed with his friend’s sister. But, the more I think about it, this seems to be a typical case of first love (like “puppy love” or a “crush”)? His love is very unrealistic and very idealized. His love becomes an obsession (like when he looks at her by lying on the floor). What seems to be unique, and even positive, is his imagination. He has a powerful imagination that seems to be feeding into this love. For example, I love how he re-imagines the market. He can’t help but imagine that his love will come true.

My second idea has to do with the setting. The setting of the story is actually nega- tive. The street is described as dark and broken. His world seems to be one of routine. The home life is a bit depressing—he is told promises that aren’t quite upheld. But, the bazaar seems to be a magical setting. It is very exciting and full of promise. This place becomes imagined as the solution to the narrator’s drams of love: he will get the girl a wonderful gift at the bazaar.

As I noted in my questions, I am most concerned with the ending. This is my third idea. Why does it have to end in such a negative way? The narrator’s dreams are shattered! The bazaar is not this magical place, but a place of frustration and fear. He realizes he isn’t going to get the girl. I guess this is reality, but I was hoping for a happier ending. Perhaps this is the story’s way of showing what the process of growing up is. Perhaps everyone’s unrealistic first love has to end this way. We have to learn to deal with disappointment.

Student Work: Outlining

Initial Notes:

Setting as a key element in the story –Setting of the town, the streets –Setting of the house –Setting of the bazaar –Also settings are transformed by the imagination

So, these settings can be imagined as settings of love, possibility

–The story traces the narrator’s belief that he can achieve love, but at the end there is the failure of that belief. The story turns negative at the end.

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–The setting goes through a transformation, too? Does the way the setting is used change? –At first, the setting is dark, but the imagination has hope–it is positive in the face of that dark setting. –At the end, the setting is the magical and exotic bazaar. But, this space does not meet his expectations—not place of love/hope. So, this is the space where the narrator loses his hope for future love. –The paper can track this shift.

Organizing ideas:

Contrast these settings: Daily, everyday world vs. World of imagination

Thesis topic: Reality vs. Imagination shown in setting Subpoint development: –Step 1. Imagination overcomes dark setting (imagination: hope for love) –Step 2: Imagination becomes overactive, really wants love, starts to get frustrated –Step 3: Imagination is overwhelmed by the setting of the bazaar. It is disproved or undermined by the setting, giving us the negative ending.

Student Analytical Essay: “Everyday and Imagined Settings in ‘Araby’ ”

Let’s take a look at the essay that Madelyn Mackenzie wrote using her inquiry notes and outlining.

Mackenzie 1

Madelyn Mackenzie

Professor Rodriguez

English 102-26

12 February 2016

Everyday and Imagined Settings in “Araby”

James Joyce’s “Araby” features two settings: the daily world of the

narrator and the exotic world of the “Araby” bazaar. By contrasting these

two settings, the story is able to contrast the world of everyday work, which

is full of stress and broken dreams, and the world of the imagination, which

is full of hope and promised fulfillment. The world of the imagination is very

powerful, as it entices the narrator to the bazaar. The world of everyday

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Mackenzie 2

pressure proves more powerful, however, and it ultimately reveals that the

imagination creates false hopes. The setting emphasizes this conflict and its

resolution by showing how, first, the imagination overcomes the narrator’s

dark setting by encouraging love; second, the imagination starts to become

too extreme and is replaced by frustration with the setting; and, third, the

imagination is undermined and disproved by the setting of the unwelcoming

bazaar. In each of these crucial developments, the setting shows the

narrator’s conflicted emotions, which are the result of the conflict between

reality and the imagination.

The story opens with the young narrator describing his dark,

depressing setting, and explaining how his love of his neighbor adds life to

that setting. The unnamed narrator’s imagination is consumed by love for

the unnamed sister of his friend, Mangan. This love fires up his imagination.

As a first step in the story’s exploration of imagination, the imagination is

powerful and transforms his setting from dreary to magical. Describing his

everyday setting, the narrator explains that he lives on a “blind” (i.e.

dead-end) street, in a “musty” and “littered” house where a priest died, and

with a yard filled with “a few straggling bushes” and a “rusty bicycle pump”

(221). His activities take place in this dark setting with associations of

death (the priest) and decay (the rusty pump). As he plays, it grows dark

and the “the houses had grown somber” (221).

Against this depressing backdrop, the narrator’s imagination conjures

up a magical world of love. The romance book he found in the dead priest’s

room may have filled his thoughts with love and imagination. He describes

himself as watching Mangan’s sister, going as far as lying on the floor and

watching her through a crack in the window sash (221). He then describes a

scene in which his romantic imagination transforms his everyday setting.

His love transforms the physical setting into a psychological setting. He

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Mackenzie 3

goes to the Saturday market, a setting that he describes as “most hostile to

romance” (221). Although he travels through “flaring streets, jostled by

drunken men and bargaining woman,” and hears the sounds of “curses of

laborours” and “the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the

barrels of pigs’ cheeks,” his imagination transforms his setting (221). As if

he was a knight in shining armor, he protects his sensation of love from

these rude foes and “imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng

of foes” (221). In this scene, the narrator shows his imagination’s ability to

transform his dark physical setting into a vivid psychological setting of love.

As the second phase in the development of the imagination, the

imagination becomes so powerful that it starts to disturb the narrator’s

everyday life. When the girl finally speaks to the narrator, she makes an

innocent remark that turns the narrator’s imagination into a form of ecstasy

and a form of torture. In his first conversation with the girl, she asks if he is

going to the “Araby” bazaar; she imagines that it will be “splendid” and

wishes she could go, which seems to increase the power of the narrator’s

imagination (222). He replies that he is going to the bazaar and promises to

bring her something from it. After this exchange, he can think of nothing

else. The story captures this mood of hope—the mood of a first crush. If he

can bring home a worthy gift, he might win the girl’s love. The bazaar

becomes a setting so magical that it could give the girl to him.

Imagining the bazaar, the narrator explains that he becomes sick of

his everyday setting: “I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I

chafed against the work of school” (222). His imagination becomes more

and more powerful. He creates a romantic setting for “Araby,” using the girl’s

enthusiasm as a starting point for a romantic image of the bazaar. He admits

that his imagination has become extreme: “The syllables of the word Araby

were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast

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Mackenzie 4

an Eastern enchantment over me” (222). The setting reflects this

psychological state: his fantasy has only briefly replaced the real setting of

his real world. However, his description admits that this powerful

imagination might not be positive; he hints that his psychological obsession

had become out of control.

The conflict between his everyday world and his overactive

imagination comes to a head when the narrator actually visits the “Araby”

bazaar. The setting of the bazaar forces the narrator to confront both his

dark and depressing everyday world and the tawdriness of triviality of what

he had imagined as a romantic world. In this third development of the

imagination, reality and fantasy are brought together, and reality must win

out over imagination. Importantly, this conflict takes place in the bazaar

setting. This setting has the potential to be magical: if an everyday market

can be transformed by the narrator’s imagination, why can’t an exotic

bazaar? However, this setting becomes the space that forces the narrator to

realize that his dreams will not become a reality.

The bazaar setting shows the imagination becoming overwhelmed by

the real world. The bazaar has imaginative possibilities; for example, the

narrator must enter the “the large building which displayed the magical

name.” However, the narrator comes too late; it is already closing and

whatever magic it might have had is disappearing. The bazaar is described as

“Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in

darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a

service” (223). The magical bazaar, which promised exotic treasures and

gifts of love, has become dark and silent. The setting of the bazaar has

become like the narrator’s everyday setting. The contrast between the

imagination and reality becomes striking when the narrator looks at the

bazaar stall. He can see nothing that he wants to buy. Instead, he must

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Mackenzie 5

listen to the counting of coins and the arguing of the stall owners. There is

no magic and no romance in the bazaar space. At the end of the short story,

the narrator becomes surrounded by dark: “the upper part of the hall was

completely dark” (000). As darkness starts to settle into the bazaar, the

narrator looks into the darkness and sees himself. His dark setting has

captured his changed mood. He realizes he “is a creature driven and derided

by vanity,” not driven by worthy romance and love.

The everyday setting overwhelms the romantic fantasies of the

narrator. The end of the story describes the narrator “gazing up into the

darkness” as though he sees the darkness of his setting for the first time.

The narrator cannot maintain his fantasy of love for the girl in such a dark

world. The setting shows the narrator’s coming of age: he starts the story

able to transform his setting with his imagination, but ends the story with

his imagination crushed by reality. The story ends on a negative, but realistic

note. The narrator is forced to leave his childish imagination behind. The

setting of “Araby” becomes the crucial representation of this conflict

between reality and the imagination and shows the ultimate defeat of the

imagination.

[New page]

Mackenzie 6

Work Cited

Joyce, James. “Araby.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto,

William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 220-24.

Print.

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BeHn • Song: Love Armed    231

From Inquiry to Interpretation to Argument: Maintaining an Interpretation in an

Analytical Paper

apHra BEHn Aphra Behn (1640–89) is regarded as the first English woman to have made a liv- ing by writing. Not much is known of her life, but she seems to have married a London merchant of Dutch descent and, after his death, to have served as a spy in the Dutch Wars (1665–67). After her return to England, she took up playwriting, and she gained fame with The Rover (1677). Behn also wrote novels, the most important of which is Oroonoko, or The Royal Slave (1688), which is among the first works in English to express empathy for enslaved Africans.

Song: Love Armed

Love in fantastic triumph sate, Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create, And strange tyrannic power he showed: From thy bright eyes he took his fire, Which round about in sport he hurled; But ’twas from mine he took desire, Enough to undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears: From thee, his pride and cruelty; From me, his languishments and fears; And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have armed And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

[16XX]

Maintaining Interpretive Interest Notes

The subject is Aphra Behn’s “Song: Love Armed.” In order to trace the development of an essay on this poem, we begin with a set of inquiry notes and two short en- tries in a journal kept by a first-year student, Geoffrey Sullivan. We then follow these entries with Geoffrey’s completed essay.

Student Work: Inquiry Notes

Key questions:

1. Who is speaking? The speaker seems to be a man who talks of the suffering he is undergoing. I am thinking it is a man due to the convention of the man being active in love (but it could be a woman, reflecting Aphra Behn as the woman author.) Does he seem to

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enjoy his plight? We often enjoy songs of unhappy love—maybe that is how the speaker is explaining his plight

2. Who is he speaking to? How is she described/characterized? He seems to be speaking to the woman (“thee”). She is said to exhibit “pride and cruelty” (line 10).

3. What is the action or event or issue being described? I am trying to figure out exactly what is going on, but it seems like Love has taken this pride and cruelty from the woman. Then, he seems to take “killing darts” from her. Are these being used against the speaker? Love is also taking “sighs and tears” and “languishments and fears” from the speaker. Love seems to be collecting all of these elements of broken love from the narrator.

4. What images stand out? The description of the bleeding heart at the beginning works to grab the reader. The opening describes Love as a person, which is a powerful image (I like the idea of him having tyrannic power—of being a tyrant!).

5. Further questions: Would men enjoy the poem more than women? Would a woman think this is unfair (that women are portrayed as mean)?

Student Work: Journal Writing

October 10. The title “Song: Love Armed” puzzled me at first; funny, I somehow was thinking of the expression “strong-armed” and at first I didn’t understand that “Love” in this poem is a human—no, not a human, but the god Cupid, who has a human form—and that he is shown as armed, with darts and so forth. The poem focuses on key emotions: pride and cruelty, languishments and fears.

October 13. This god of “Love” is Cupid, and so he is something like what is on a valentine card—Cupid with his bow and arrow. But valentine cards just show cute little Cupids, and in this poem Cupid is a real menace. He causes lots of pain (“bleeding hearts,” “tears,” “killing dart,” etc.). So what is Aphra Behn telling us about the god of Love, or love as an emotion? That love hurts? And she is singing about it! But we do sing songs about how hard life is. But do we sing them when we are really hurting, or only when we are pretty well off and just thinking about being hurt?

When you love someone and they don’t return your love, it hurts, but even when love isn’t returned it still gives some intense pleasure. Strange, but I think true. I wouldn’t say that love always has this two-sided nature, but I do see the idea that love can have two sides, pleasure and pain. And love takes two people—the lover and beloved. Maybe there’s also something to the idea that “opposites attract.” Anyway, Aphra Behn seems to be talking about men vs. women, pain vs. pleasure, power vs. weakness, etc. Pairs, opposites. And in two stanzas (a pair of stanzas?).

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Student Analytical Essay: “the Double Nature of Love’”

The following essay makes use of some, but not all, of Geoffrey preliminary notes, and it includes much that he did not think of until he reread his inquiry notes, reread the poem, and began drafting the essay.

Sullivan 1

Geoffrey Sullivan

Professor Morawski

English 2G

31 January 2016

The Double Nature of Love

Aphra Behn’s “Song: Love Armed” is in two stanzas, and it is about

two people, “me” and “thee,” that is, you and I, the lover and the woman he

loves.

I think the speaker is a man, since according to the usual code men

are supposed to be the active lovers and women are the (relatively) passive

people who are loved. In this poem, the beloved—the woman, I think—has

“bright eyes” (line 5) that provide the god of Love with fire, and she also

provides the god with “pride and cruelty” (10). This of course is the way the

man sees it if a woman does not respond to him; if she does not love him in

return, she is (he thinks) arrogant and cruel. What does the man give to

Love? He provides “desire” (7), “sighs and tears” (9), “languishments and

fears” (11). None of this sounds very manly, but the joke is that the god of

Love—which means love—can turn a strong man into a crybaby when a

woman does not respond to him.

Although both stanzas are clever descriptions of the god of Love, the

poem is not just a description. Of course there is not a plot in the way that a

short story has a plot, but there is a sort of a switch at the end, giving the

story something of a plot. The poem is, say, ninety percent expression of

feeling and description of love, but during the course of expressing feelings

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Sullivan 2

and describing love something happens, so there is a tiny story. The first

stanza sets the scene (“Love in fantastic triumph sate” [1]) and tells of some

of the things that the speaker and the woman contributed to the god of

Love. The woman’s eyes provided Love with fire, and the man’s feelings

provided Love with “desire” (7). The second stanza goes on to mention other

things that Love got from the speaker (“sighs and tears” [9]), and other

things that Love got from the beloved (“pride and cruelty” [10]), and in line

13 the poet says, “Thus thou and I the god have armed,” so the two humans

share something. They have both given Love his weapons. But—and this is

the story I spoke of—the poem ends by emphasizing their difference: Only

the man is “harmed,” and the woman is the “victor” because her heart is not

captured, as the man’s heart is. In the battle that Love presides over, the

woman is the winner; the man’s heart has fallen for the woman, but,

according to the last line, the woman’s heart remains “free.”

We have all seen the god of Love on valentine cards, a cute little Cupid

armed with a bow and arrow. But despite the bow and arrow that the

Valentine Day Cupid carries, I think that until I read Aphra Behn’s “Song:

Love Armed” I had never really thought about Cupid as powerful and as

capable of causing real pain. On valentine cards, he is just cute, but when I

think about it, I realize the truth of Aphra Behn’s concept of love. Love is (or

can be) two-sided, whereas the valentine cards show only the sweet side.

I think it is interesting to notice that although the poem is about the

destructive power of love, it is fun to read. I am not bothered by the fact

that the lover is miserable. Why? I think I enjoy the poem, rather than am

bothered by it, because he is enjoying his misery. After all, he is singing

about it, sort of singing in the rain, telling anyone who will listen about how

miserable he is, and he is having a very good time doing it.

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Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What do you think of the essay’s title? Is it sufficiently interesting and focused? 2. What are the writer’s chief points? Are they clear, and are they adequately de-

veloped? 3. Do you think Geoffrey Sullivan is too concerned with himself and that he loses

sight of the poem? Or do you find it interesting that he connects the poem with life?

4. Focus on the writer’s use of quotations. Does he effectively introduce and examine quoted lines and phrases?

5. What grade would you give Geoffrey’s essay? What evidence can you offer to support your evaluation?

[New page]

Sullivan 3

Work Cited

Behn, Aphra. “Love Armed.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William

Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson,

2017. 231. Print.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Editing a Draft

Is the title of my essay interesting? Do I identify the subject of my essay (author and title) early in the essay? What is my thesis? Do I state it soon enough (perhaps even in the title) and

keep it in view? Is the organization reasonable? Does each point lead into the next without

irrelevancies and without anticlimaxes? Is each paragraph unified by a topic sentence or a topic idea? Are there ad-

equate transitions from one paragraph to the next? Are generalizations supported by appropriate evidence, especially by brief

quotations from the text? Is the opening paragraph interesting and, by its end, focused on the topic? Is

the final paragraph conclusive without being repetitive? Is the tone appropriate? No sarcasm, no apologies, no condescension? If there is a summary, is it as brief as possible, given its purpose? Are the quotations adequately introduced, and are they accurate? Do they

provide evidence and let the reader hear the author’s voice, or do they mere- ly add words to the essay?

Is the present tense used to describe what the author does and the action of the work (“Shakespeare shows,” “Hamlet dies”)?

Analytical Essay    235

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236    Chapter 7 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

Your Turn: Additional Short Stories and Poems for Analysis

StorieS

edgar allan Poe Edgar Allan Poe (1809–49) was the son of traveling actors. His father abandoned the family almost immediately, and his mother died when he was two years old. As a child, Poe was adopted—though never legally—by a prosperous merchant and his wife in Richmond, Virginia. The tensions were great, aggravated by Poe’s drinking and heavy gambling, and, in 1827, Poe left Richmond for Boston. He wrote, served briefly in the army, attended West Point (but left within a year), and became an editor for the remaining eighteen years of his life. It was during these years, too, that he wrote the poems, essays, and fiction—especially detective stories and horror stories—that have made him famous.

The Cask of Amontillado

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ven- tured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled—but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary Fortunato, like his country- men, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I

Have I kept in mind the needs of my audience, for instance, by defining un- familiar terms or by briefly summarizing works or opinions with which the reader may be unfamiliar?

Is documentation provided where necessary? Are the spelling and punctuation correct? Are other mechanical matters (such

as margins, spacing, and citations) in correct form? Have I proofread my es- say carefully?

Is the essay properly identified—author’s name, instructor’s name, course number, and date?

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Poe • The Cask of Amontillado    237

did not differ from him materially;—I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti- striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him—“My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe1 of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”

“How?” said he, “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival?”

“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontil- lado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”

“Amontillado!” “I have my doubts.” “Amontillado!” “And I must satisfy them.” “Amontillado!” “As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn,

it is he. He will tell me—” “Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.” “And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.” “Come, let us go.” “Whither?” “To your vaults.” “My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have

an engagement. Luchesi—” “I have no engagement; come.” “My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I

perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”

“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amon- tillado.”

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure2 closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were suf- ficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

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1pipe wine cask. 2roquelaure short cloak.

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The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

“The pipe,” said he. “It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which gleams from

these cavern walls.” He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that dis-

tilled the rheum of intoxication. “Nitre?” he asked, at length. “Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?” “Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh!

ugh!” My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. “It is nothing,” he said, at last. “Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You

are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—”

“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing: it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”

“True—true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily—but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer: He paused and nodded to me familiarly,

while his bells jingled. “I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.” “And I to your long life.” He again took my arm, and we proceeded. “These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.” “The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.” “I forget your arms.” “A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant

whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.” “And the motto?” “Nemo me impune lacessit.”3 “Good!” he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm

with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and pun- cheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture tickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough—”

“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.” I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His

eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.

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3Nemo me impune lacessit no one dare attack me with impunity (the motto of Scotland).

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I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque one. “You do not comprehend?” he said. “Not I,” I replied. “Then you are not of the brotherhood.” “How?” “You are not of the masons.”4 “Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.” “You? Impossible! A mason?” “A mason,” I replied. “A sign,” he said. “It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my

roquelaure. “You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the

Amontillado.” “Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him

my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amon- tillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and de- scending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead, in the fash- ion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still or- namented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the cata- combs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi—” “He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward,

while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extrem- ity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewil- dered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”

“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonish- ment.

“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.” As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have

before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building-stone

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4of the masons i.e., a member of the Freemasons, an international secret fraternity.

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240    Chapter 7 Analysis: Inquiry, Interpretation, and Argument

and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of masonry when I discovered that the intoxica- tion of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the masonwork, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesi- tated—I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in vol- ume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was suc- ceeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!”

“The Amontillado!” I said. “He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will

not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”

“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.” “For the love of God, Montresor!” “Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!” But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called

aloud; “Fortunato!” No answer. I called again; “Fortunato!” No answer still, I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall

within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick— on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat! 5

[1846]

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5In pace requiescat! may he rest in peace!

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Silko • The Man to Send Rain Clouds    241

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. To whom does Montresor tell his story? The story he tells happened fifty years earlier. Do we have any clue as to why he tells it now?

2. At the end of the story, we learn that the murder occurred fifty years ago. Would the story be equally effective if Poe had had Montresor reveal this fact at the outset? Why, or why not?

3. Poe sets Montresor’s story at dusk, “during the supreme madness of the carnival season.” What is the “carnival season”? (If you are uncertain as to the meaning of “carnival,” consult a dictionary.) What details of the story derive from the setting?

4. In the first line, Montresor declares, “The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.” Do we ever learn what those injuries and that insult were? What do we learn about Montresor from this declaration?

5. How does Montresor characterize Fortunato? What details of his portrait unwit- tingly enlist our sympathy for Fortunato? Does Montresor betray any sympathy for his victim?

6. “The Cask of Amontillado” is sometimes referred to as a “horror tale.” Do you think it has anything in common with horror movies? If so, what? (You might begin by making a list of the characteristics of horror movies.) Why do people take pleasure in horror movies? Does this story offer any of the same sorts of pleasure? In any case, why might a reader take pleasure in this story? Set forth your response in an argument of 250–500 words.

7. Construct a definition of madness (you may want to do a little research, but if you make use of your findings, be sure to give credit to your sources) and write an essay of 500–750 words, arguing whether or not Montresor is mad. (Note: You may want to distinguish between Montresor at the time of the killing and Montresor at the time of his narration.)

lEsliE marmon silko Leslie Marmon Silko was born in 1948 in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and grew up on the Laguna Pueblo Reservation some fifty miles to the west. Of her family she says,

We are mixed blood—Laguna, Mexican, white…. All those languages, all those ways of living are com- bined, and we live somewhere on the fringes of all three. But I don’t apologize for this any more—not to whites, not to full bloods—our origin is unlike any other. My poetry, my storytelling rise out of this source.

After graduating from the University of New Mexico in 1969, Silko entered law school but soon left to become a writer. She taught for two years at Navajo Commu- nity College at Many Farms, Arizona, and then went to Alaska for two years, where she studied Eskimo-Aleut culture and worked on a novel, Ceremony. After return- ing to the Southwest, she taught at the University of Arizona and then at the Univer- sity of New Mexico.

In addition to writing stories, a novel, and poems, Silko wrote the screenplay for Marlon Brando’s film Black Elk. In 1981, she was awarded a MacArthur Founda- tion genius grant.

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The Man to Send Rain Clouds

One

They found him under a big cottonwood tree. His Levi jacket and pants were faded light-blue so that he had been easy to find. The big cottonwood tree stood apart from a small grove of winterbare cottonwoods which grew in the wide, sandy arroyo. He had been dead for a day or more, and the sheep had wandered and scattered up and down the arroyo. Leon and his brother-in-law, Ken, gath- ered the sheep and left them in the pen at the sheep camp before they returned to the cottonwood tree. Leon waited under the tree while Ken drove the truck through the deep sand to the edge of the arroyo. He squinted up at the sun and unzipped his jacket—it sure was hot for this time of year. But high and north- west the blue mountains were still deep in snow. Ken came sliding down the low, crumbling bank about fifty yards down, and he was bringing the red blanket.

Before they wrapped the old man, Leon took a piece of string out of his pocket and tied a small gray feather in the old man’s long white hair. Ken gave him the paint. Across the brown wrinkled forehead he drew a streak of white and along the high cheekbones he drew a strip of blue paint. He paused and watched Ken throw pinches of corn meal and pollen into the wind that fluttered the small gray feather. Then Leon painted with yellow under the old man’s broad nose, and finally, when he had painted green across the chin, he smiled.

“Send us rain clouds, Grandfather.” They laid the bundle in the back of the pickup and covered it with a heavy tarp before they started back to the pueblo.

They turned off the highway onto the sandy pueblo road. Not long after they passed the store and post office they saw Father Paul’s car coming toward them. When he recognized their faces he slowed his car and waved for them to stop. The young priest rolled down the car window.

“Did you find old Teofilo?” he asked loudly. Leon stopped the truck. “Good morning, Father. We were just out to the sheep

camp. Everything is O.K. now.” “Thank God for that. Teofilo is a very old man. You really shouldn’t allow him

to stay at the sheep camp alone.” “No, he won’t do that any more now.” “Well, I’m glad you understand. I hope I’ll be seeing you at Mass this week—

we missed you last Sunday. See if you can get old Teofilo to come with you.” The priest smiled and waved at them as they drove away.

Two

Louise and Teresa were waiting. The table was set for lunch, and the coffee was boiling on the black iron stove. Leon looked at Louise and then at Teresa.

“We found him under a cottonwood tree in the big arroyo near sheep camp. I guess he sat down to rest in the shade and never got up again.” Leon walked toward the old man’s head. The red plaid shawl had been shaken and spread carefully over the bed, and a new brown flannel shirt and pair of stiff new Levis were arranged neatly beside the pillow. Louise held the screen door open while Leon and Ken carried in the red blanket. He looked small and shriv- eled, and after they dressed him in the new shirt and pants he seemed more shrunken.

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It was noontime now because the church bells rang the Angelus.1 They ate the beans with hot bread, and nobody said anything until after Teresa poured the coffee.

Ken stood up and put on his jacket. “I’ll see about the grave-diggers. Only the top layer of soil is frozen. I think it can be ready before dark.”

Leon nodded his head and finished his coffee. After Ken had been gone for a while, the neighbors and clanspeople came quietly to embrace Teofilo’s family and to leave food on the table because the grave-diggers would come to eat when they were finished.

Three

The sky in the west was full of pale-yellow light. Louise stood outside with her hands in the pockets of Leon’s green army jacket that was too big for her. The fu- neral was over, and the old men had taken their candles and medicine bags and were gone. She waited until the body was laid into the pickup before she said anything to Leon. She touched his arm, and he noticed that her hands were still dusty from the corn meal that she had sprinkled around the old man. When she spoke, Leon could not hear her.

“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.” “I said that I had been thinking about something.” “About what?” “About the priest sprinkling holy water for Grandpa. So he won’t be thirsty.” Leon stared at the new moccasins that Teofilo had made for the ceremonial

dances in the summer. They were nearly hidden by the red blanket. It was getting colder, and the wind pushed gray dust down the narrow pueblo road. The sun was approaching the long mesa where it disappeared during the winter. Louise stood there shivering and watching his face. Then he zipped up his jacket and opened the truck door. “I’ll see if he’s there.”

Ken stopped the pickup at the church, and Leon got out; and then Ken drove down the hill to the graveyard where people were waiting. Leon knocked at the old carved door with its symbols of the Lamb. While he waited he looked up at the twin bells from the king of Spain with the last sunlight pouring around them in their tower.

The priest opened the door and smiled when he saw who it was. “Come in! What brings you here this evening?”

The priest walked toward the kitchen, and Leon stood with his cap in his hand, playing with the earflaps and examining the living room—the brown sofa, the green armchair, and the brass lamp that hung down from the ceiling by links of chain. The priest dragged a chair out of the kitchen and offered it to Leon.

“No thank you, Father. I only came to ask you if you would bring your holy water to the graveyard.”

The priest turned away from Leon and looked out the window at the patio full of shadows and the dining-room windows of the nuns’ cloister across the patio. The curtains were heavy, and the light from within faintly penetrated; it was impos- sible to see the nuns inside eating supper. “Why didn’t you tell me he was dead? I could have brought the Last Rites anyway.”

Leon smiled. “It wasn’t necessary, Father.” The priest stared down at his scuffed brown loafers and the worn hem of his

cassock. “For a Christian burial it was necessary.”

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1The Angelus a devotional prayer commemorating the annunciation (the angel gabriel’s announcement delivered to mary of the incarnation of god in the human form of Jesus).

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His voice was distant, and Leon thought that his blue eyes looked tired. “It’s O.K., Father, we just want him to have plenty of water.” The priest sank down in the green chair and picked up a glossy missionary maga-

zine. He turned the colored pages full of lepers and pagans without looking at them. “You know I can’t do that, Leon. There should have been the Last Rites and a

funeral Mass at the very least.” Leon put on his green cap and pulled the flaps down over his ears. “It’s getting

late, Father. I’ve got to go.” When Leon opened the door Father Paul stood up and said, “Wait.” He left the

room and came back wearing a long brown overcoat. He followed Leon out the door and across the dim churchyard to the adobe steps in front of the church. They both stooped to fit through the low adobe entrance. And when they started down the hill to the graveyard only half of the sun was visible above the mesa.

The priest approached the grave slowly, wondering how they had managed to dig into the frozen ground, and then he remembered that this was New Mexico, and saw the pile of cold loose sand beside the hole. The people stood close to each other with little clouds of steam puffing from their faces. The priest looked at them and saw a pile of jackets, gloves, and scarves in the yellow, dry tumbleweeds that grew in the graveyard. He looked at the red blanket, not sure that Teofilo was so small, wondering if it wasn’t some perverse Indian trick—something they did in March to ensure a good harvest—wondering if maybe old Teofilo was actually at sheep camp corraling the sheep for the night. But there he was, facing into a cold dry wind and squinting at the last sunlight, ready to bury a red wool blanket while the faces of the parishioners were in shadow with the last warmth of the sun on their backs.

His fingers were stiff, and it took them a long time to twist the lid off the holy water. Drops of water fell on the red blanket and soaked into dark icy spots. He sprinkled the grave and the water disappeared almost before it touched the dim, cold sand; it reminded him of something—he tried to remember what it was, because he thought if he could remember he might understand this. He sprinkled more water; he shook the container until it was empty, and the water fell through the light from sundown like August rain that fell while the sun was still shining, almost evaporating before it touched the wilted squash flowers.

The wind pulled at the priest’s brown Franciscan robe and swirled away the corn meal and pollen that had been sprinkled on the blanket. They lowered the bun- dle into the ground, and they didn’t bother to untie the stiff pieces of new rope that were tied around the ends of the blanket. The sun was gone, and over on the highway the eastbound lane was full of headlights. The priest walked away slowly. Leon watched him climb the hill, and when he had disappeared within the tall, thick walls, Leon turned to look up at the high blue mountains in the deep snow that reflected a faint red light from the west. He felt good because it was finished, and he was happy about the sprinkling of the holy water, now the old man could send them big thunderclouds for sure.

[1969]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. How would you describe the response of Leon, Ken, Louise, and Teresa to Teofilo’s death? To what degree does it resemble or differ from responses to death that you are familiar with?

2. How do the funeral rites resemble or differ from those of your community?

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Collins • Introduction to Poetry    245

3. How well does Leon understand the priest? How well does the priest under- stand Leon?

4. At the end of the story, we are told that Leon “felt good.” Do you assume that the priest also felt good? What evidence supports your view?

5. From what point of view is the story told? Mark the passages where the narrator enters a character’s mind, and then explain what, in your opinion, Silko gains (or loses) by doing so.

Poems

Billy Collins Born in New York City in 1941, Collins is a professor of English at Lehman College of the City University of New York. He is the author of several books of poetry and the recipient of numerous awards, including one from the National Endowment for the Arts. Collins’s Sailing Alone around the Room: New and Selected Poems was pub- lished in 2001; in the same year, he was appointed poet laureate of the United States.

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.

[1988]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Billy Collins has said of this poem, “It’s about the teaching of poetry to stu- dents.” What is Collins recommending? What is he objecting to?

2. One critic has said that “Introduction to Poetry” is a “good poem” but that lines 9–16 “should have come first”—that Collins should first have stated the bad way in which students often react and then come forward with the right way. Prepare an argument in which you agree with this critic’s comment, and then prepare an argument in which you disagree. Which of the two arguments do you find more convincing?

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3. Which image in the poem do you think is the most effective? Is there an image that you think is not effective, that is confusing or awkward, or that you cannot understand?

4. Are the final two stanzas disturbing? Too disturbing? In their tone, are these stanzas similar to, or different from, the preceding stanzas?

5. If someone asked, “What’s the best way to teach poetry?” what would you say? 6. This is a relatively short poem, just sixteen lines long. Please try to memorize it.

Is this hard or easy for you? Does memorizing poems help you to enjoy poetry more? A lot, or a little? Not at all?

roBErt Frost Robert Frost (1874–1963) was born in California. After his father’s death in 1885, Frost’s mother took the family to New England, where she taught in high schools in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Frost studied for part of one term at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, then did various jobs (including teaching), and from 1897 to 1899 was enrolled as a special student at Harvard. He later farmed in New Hampshire, published a few poems in local newspapers, left the farm and taught again, and in 1912 left for England, where he hoped to achieve more popular suc- cess as a writer. By 1915, he had won a considerable reputation, and he returned to the United States, settling on a farm in New Hampshire and cultivating the image of the country-wise farmer-poet. In fact, he was well read in the classics, in the Bible, and in English and American literature. Among Frost’s many comments about literature, here are three: “Writing is unboring to the extent that it is dramatic”; “Every poem is . . . a figure of the will braving alien entanglements”; and, finally, a poem “begins in delight and ends in wisdom. . . . It runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.”

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence:

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keaTS • Ode on a Grecian Urn    247

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

[1916]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. If “The Road Not Taken” consisted of only the first and last stanzas, we would probably feel that Frost was talking about a clear-cut choice between two dis- tinctive ways of life—for instance, the life of a poet or the life of a farmer. The poem does not consist only of the first and last stanzas, however. What do the two middle stanzas do? Do they complicate the poem in an interesting way? Or, do they make a muddle of it? Please explain.

2. The poem is often interpreted as Frost’s statement that he chose the life of a poet. Yet, Frost on several occasions said that he was spoofing the indecisive- ness of a friend and fellow-poet, Edward Thomas. Given the fact that the middle stanzas suggest that the two roads are pretty much the same, and given the fact that the speaker in the last stanza does seem to playfully mock himself (“I shall be telling this with a sigh / Somewhere ages and ages hence”), do you think that we should or should not take the poem as a serious statement about the decisions we must make? Please explain.

JoHn kEats John Keats (1795–1821), son of a London stable keeper, was taken out of school when he was fifteen years old and apprenticed to a surgeon and apothecary. In 1816, he was licensed to practice as an apothecary-surgeon, but he almost immedi- ately abandoned medicine and decided to make a career as a poet. His progress was amazing: He published books of poems—to mixed reviews—in 1817, 1818, and 1820, before dying of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five. Today he is esteemed as one of England’s greatest poets.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

I Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

II Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

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Not to the sensual° ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

III

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

IV

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e’er return.

V

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede° Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

[1820]

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13 sensual sensuous. 41 brede design.

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eSPaDa • Bully    249

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In the first stanza, Keats calls the urn an “unravished bride of quietness,” a “foster-child of silence and slow time,” and a “Sylvan historian.” Paraphrase each of these terms.

2. How much sense does it make to say that “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard / Are sweeter” (lines 11–12)?

3. In the second stanza, Keats says that the youth will forever sing, the trees will forever have their foliage, and the woman will forever be beautiful. But what words in the stanza suggest that this scene is not entirely happy? Where else in the poem is it suggested that there are painful aspects to the images on the urn?

4. What arguments can you offer to support the view that “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”?

5. There is much uncertainty about whether everything in the last two lines should be enclosed within quotation marks, or only “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” If only these five words from line 49 should be enclosed within quotation marks, does the speaker address the rest of line 49 and the whole of line 50 to the urn or to the reader of the poem?

martín Espada Martín Espada was born in Brooklyn in 1957. He received a bachelor’s degree from the University of Wisconsin and a law degree from Northeastern University. A poet who publishes regularly, Espada teaches creative writing at the University of Massachusetts–Amherst.

Bully

Boston, Massachusetts, 1987

In the school auditorium, the Theodore Roosevelt statue is nostalgic for the Spanish-American War, each fist lonely for a saber, or the reins of anguish-eyed horses, or a podium to clatter with speeches glorying in the malaria of conquest. But now the Roosevelt school is pronounced Hernández. Puerto Rico has invaded Roosevelt with its army of Spanish-singing children in the hallways, brown children devouring the stockpiles of the cafeteria, children painting Taáno ancestors that leap naked across murals. Roosevelt is surrounded by all the faces he ever shoved in eugenic spite

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and cursed as mongrels, skin of one race, hair and cheekbones of another. Once Marines tramped from the newsreel of his imagination; now children plot to spray graffiti in parrot-brilliant colors across the Victorian mustache and monocle.

[1990]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What was Theodore Roosevelt famous for? If you are not sure, consult an encyclopedia. In the first stanza of “Bully,” what words best express Espada’s attitude toward Roosevelt?

2. In the second stanza, what does Espada mean when he says “Puerto Rico has invaded Roosevelt”? What does he mean by an “army of Spanish-singing children”? What are the Taíno?

3. What does “bully” mean as a noun? As an adjective? 4. Roosevelt was a great believer in America as a “melting pot.” What is this theory?

Do you think there is a great deal to it, something to it, or nothing to it? Why? 5. In one of Roosevelt’s speeches, he states “Every immigrant who comes here

should be required within five years to learn English or leave the country.” What do you think of this idea? Why? Suppose that, for some reason (perhaps politi- cal, perhaps economic), you decided to spend the rest of your life in, say, Argentina, or Germany, or Israel, or Nigeria. Do you think the government might reasonably require you to learn the national language? Support your response with reasons.

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251

C h a p t e r 8

Pushing Analysis Further: Reinterpreting

and Revising

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Define interpretation and describe the process for interpreting literary texts

• Evaluate your response to literature

• Use different strategies to develop your analytical writing, including rethinking first responses, exploring literary form, and emphasizing concepts and insights

• Use revision to strengthen your analytical thinking and writing

Interpretation and Meaning We can define interpretation as

• a setting forth of your understanding of a literary work’s meaning or • a setting forth of your understanding of one or more of the meanings of a

work of literature.

This question of meaning versus meanings deserves an explanation. Although some critics believe that a work of literature has a single meaning (the meaning it had for the author), most critics hold that a work has several meanings, for instance, the meaning it had for the author, the meaning(s) it had for its first readers (or viewers, if the work is a drama), the meaning(s) it had for later readers, and the meaning(s) it has for us today.

Take Hamlet (1600–01), for example. Perhaps this play about a man who has lost his father had a very special meaning for Shakespeare, who had recently lost his own father. Further, Shakespeare had earlier lost a son named Hamnet, a vari- ant spelling of Hamlet. The play, then, may have had important psychological meanings for Shakespeare, but the audience could not have shared (or even known) those meanings.

What did the play mean to Shakespeare’s audience? Perhaps the original audience of Hamlet—people living in a monarchy, presided over by Queen Elizabeth I—were especially concerned with the issue (specifically raised in Hamlet) of whether a monarch’s subjects ever have the right to overthrow the

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252    Chapter 8 Pushing Analysis Further: Reinterpreting and Revising

monarch. But, obviously, for twenty-first-century Americans, the interest in the play lies elsewhere, and the play must mean something else. If we are familiar with Freud, we may see in the play a young man who subconsciously lusts after his mother and seeks to kill his father (in the form of Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle). Or, we may see the play as being largely about an alienated young man in a bourgeois society. Or, we may see the work as a meditation on the character of a person who thinks too much and acts too little. The interpretations are countless.

This multitude of possible meanings is exactly what makes literature art. Literature encourages imagination and creativity on the part of the reader, not just the author. The analytical essay emphasizes the reader’s meaning-making abilities. The reader creates his or her own understanding of the work and creates a convincing explanation of that understanding, to be shared with his or her own readers; in this way, the creative energy of the literary work informs the creative thinking shared through an analytical paper.

Is the Author’s Intention a Guide to Meaning?

Shouldn’t we be concerned, you might ask, with the intention of the author? The question is reasonable, but it presents difficulties, as the members of the U.S. Supreme Court find when they try to base their decisions on the original intent of the writers of the Constitution. First, for older works, we almost never know what the intention was. Authors did not leave comments about their intentions. We have Hamlet, but we do not have any statement of Shakespeare’s intention concerning this or any other play. It might be argued that we can deduce Shakespeare’s inten- tion from the play itself, but to argue that we should study the play in the light of Shakespeare’s intention and that we can know his intention by studying the play is to argue in a circle. We can say that Shakespeare must have intended to write a tragedy (if he intended to write a comedy, he failed), but we cannot go much further in talking about his intention.

Even if an author has gone on record expressing an intention, we may think twice before accepting the statement as definitive. The author may be speaking facetiously, deceptively, mistakenly, or unconvincingly. For instance, Thomas Mann said, probably sincerely and accurately, that he wrote one of his novels merely in order to entertain his family, but we may nevertheless take the book seriously and find it to be profound.

What Characterizes a Sound Interpretation?

Even the most vigorous advocates of the idea that meaning is indeterminate do not believe that all interpretations are equally significant. Rather, they believe that an interpretive essay is offered against a background of ideas, shared by essayist and reader, as to what constitutes a persuasive argument. Although a literary work encourages interpretation, there will be weak interpretations and strong interpreta- tions. A strong interpretative essay (even if it is characterized as “interpretive free play” or “creative engagement”) will have to be

• coherent, • plausible, and • rhetorically effective.

The presentation—the rhetoric—as well as the interpretation is significant. This means that the essayist cannot merely set down random expressions of feeling or

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Mora • Immigrants    253

unsupported opinion. The essayist must, on the contrary, convincingly argue a thesis—that is, point to evidence so that the reader will not only know what the essayist believes but also will understand why he or she believes it.

There are lots of ways of making sense (and even more ways of making non- sense), but one important way of helping readers to see things from your point of view is to do your best to face all the complexities of a work. Put it this way: Some interpretations strike a reader as better than others because they are more inclusive, that is, because they account for more of the details of the work. The less satisfac- tory interpretations leave a reader pointing to aspects of the work—to some parts of the whole—and saying, “Yes, but your explanation doesn’t take account of. . . .”

This does not mean that a reader must feel that a persuasive interpretation says the last word about the work. We always realize that a work—if we value it highly— is richer than the discussion; again, however, for us to value an interpretation, we must find the interpretation plausible and inclusive.

Interpretation often depends on making connections not only among elements of the work (for instance, among the characters in a story or among the images in a poem), and among the work and other works by the author, but also on making connections between a particular work and a cultural context. The cultural context usually includes other writers and specific works of literature, since any given liter- ary work participates in a tradition. That is, if a work looks toward life, it also looks toward other works. A sonnet is about human experience, but it is also part of a tradition of sonnet writing. The more works of literature you are familiar with, the better equipped you will be to interpret any particular work. Here is how Robert Frost put it, in the preface to Aforesaid, a book of verse published in 1954:

A poem is best read in the light of all the other poems ever writ- ten. We read A the better to read B (we have to start somewhere; we may get very little out of A). We read B the better to read C, C the better to read D, D the better to go back and get something more out of A. Progress is not the aim, but circulation. The thing is to get among the poems where they hold each other apart in their places as the stars do.

Precisely because a literary work generates multiple meanings informed by details within the work and connections beyond the work, it provides an opportu- nity to develop your critical thinking abilities. Let’s explore how to take an initial interpretation and continue to push it to become more meaningful, resulting in a stronger analytical paper.

Interpreting Pat Mora’s “Immigrants”

Let’s think about interpreting a short poem by a contemporary poet, Pat Mora.

Pat Mora of Mexican American descent, Pat Mora was born in 1942 in El Paso, Texas. She writes poetry, nonfiction, and children’s books that explore the border between Mex- ico and America, emphasizing its cultural diversity and flexible bilingual lan- guage. A energetic advocate of the pleasure of reading books, which she calls “book- joy,” Mora supports several literacy initiatives and founded what she calls “Children’s Day, Book Day, El dia de los ninos, El dia de los libros,” a literacy celebration often know as Día.

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254    Chapter 8 Pushing Analysis Further: Reinterpreting and Revising

Immigrants

wrap their babies in the American flag, feed them mashed hot dogs and apple pie, name them Bill and Daisy, buy them blonde dolls that blink blue eyes or a football and tiny cleats before the baby can even walk, speak to them in thick English, hallo, babee, hallo. whisper in Spanish or Polish when the babies sleep, whisper in a dark parent bed, that dark parent fear, “Will they like our boy, our girl, our fine american boy, our fine american girl?”

[1986]

Perhaps most readers will agree that the poem expresses or dramatizes a desire, attributed to “immigrants,” that their child grow up in an Anglo mode. (Mora is not saying that all immigrants have this desire; she has simply invented one speaker who offers details about immigrants. Reader Jones may say that Mora says all immigrants have this desire, but that is Jones’s interpretation.) For this reason, the parents call their children Bill and Daisy (rather than, say, José and Katarzyna) and give them blonde dolls and a football (rather than dark-haired dolls and a soc- cer ball). Up to this point, the parents seem a bit silly in their mimicking of Anglo ways. The second part of the poem, however, gives the reader a more interior view of the parents, and brings out the fear, hope, and worried concern that lie behind their behavior: Some unspecified “they” may not “like / our boy, our girl.” Who are “they”? Most readers will probably agree that “they” refers to native-born citizens, especially the blonde, blue-eyed “all-American” Anglo types that until recently dominated the establishment in the United States.

By reviewing the ideas raised by the poem, we are well on our way to creating an interpretation of it. But it is crucial to reread the poem and continue to interpret it, developing a more sophisticated understanding of its ideas.

We can raise further questions about the interpretation of the poem.

• Exactly what does the poet mean when Mora says that immigrants “wrap their babies in the American flag”? Are we to take this literally? If not, how are we to take it?

• Why must the parent’s whisper the last lines of the poem? Why can’t they speak them loudly? Why are they whispered in a “dark parent bed?” What is the significance of that location?

• Why is the word “american” in the last two lines not capitalized? Is Mora imitating the nonnative speaker’s uncertain grasp of English punctuation? (If so, why does Mora capitalize “American” in the first line and “Spanish” and “Polish” later in the poem?) Or, is she perhaps implying some mild res- ervation about becoming 100 percent American, some suggestion that, in changing from Spanish or Polish to “American,” there is a loss?

A reader might seek out Mora and ask her why she didn’t capitalize “american” in the last line, but Mora might not be willing to answer, or she might not give a straight answer, or she might say that she doesn’t really know why—it just seemed

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Strategy #1: Pushing Analysis by Rethinking First Responses    255

right when she wrote the poem. Most authors do, in fact, take this last approach. When they are working as writers, they work by a kind of creative instinct, a kind of feel for the material. Later, they can look critically at their writing, but that’s another sort of experience.

To return to our basic question: What characterizes a good interpretation? The short answer is evidence and especially evidence that seems to cover all relevant issues. In an essay, it is not enough merely to assert an interpretation. Your readers don’t expect you to make an airtight case, but, because you are trying to help read- ers to understand a work—to see a work the way you do—you are obliged to

• offer reasonable supporting evidence, • explain how the evidence develops your ideas, and • take account of what might be set forth as counterevidence to your thesis.

Of course, your essay may originate with an intuition or an emotional response, a sense that the work is about such and such, but this intuition or emotion must then be examined, and it must stand a test of reasonableness. Your readers may not be convinced that your interpretation is right or true, but they must feel that the inter- pretation is plausible and in accord with the details of the work, rather than, say, highly eccentric and irreconcilable with some details.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Developing an Interpretation

Do I know the work well enough to offer a thoughtful interpretation? Have I looked up the meanings of words that were unfamiliar to me? Have I engaged in enough brainstorming to develop my own ideas about the text?

Have I discussed the work with my classmates—or at least argued with myself—so that I can reasonably believe that my interpretation makes sense?

Have I reread the literary text and rethought my original responses? Have I taken time to reinterpret the text, add new ideas to my interpretation, or develop my interpretation by introducing new concepts or evidence?

What is my thesis, my main point? Can I state it in a sentence? Does my thesis express my understanding of the literary work? Have I

expressed my insights about the work? Have I avoided general, obvious, or conventional interpretations of the work?

Have I supported my thesis with evidence, using brief quotations from the text? Have I used the evidence to develop by interpretation?

Have I taken account of evidence that may seem to contradict my thesis? Have I kept my audience in mind? Have I given credit to all sources for borrowed words and borrowed ideas? (On

avoiding plagiarism, see pages 403–404. For citation style see Appendix B.)

Strategy #1: Pushing Analysis by Rethinking First Responses

Usually, you will begin with a strong response to your reading—interest, boredom, bafflement, annoyance, shock, pleasure, or whatever. Then, if you are going to think critically about the work, you will go on to examine your response in order to understand it, to deepen it, or to change it.

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256    Chapter 8 Pushing Analysis Further: Reinterpreting and Revising

How can you change a response? Critical thinking involves seeing an issue from all sides, to as great a degree as possible. As you know, in everyday usage, to criticize usually means to find fault, but, in literary studies, the term does not have a negative connotation. Rather, it means “to examine carefully.” (The word criticism comes from a Greek verb meaning “to distinguish,” “to decide,” “to judge.”) Never- theless, in one sense, the term critical thinking does approach the everyday meaning, since critical thinking requires you to take a skeptical view of your response. You will, so to speak, argue with yourself, seeing if your response can stand up to doubts.

Let’s say that you have found a story to be implausible. Ask yourself the following questions:

• Exactly what is implausible in the story? • Is implausibility always a fault? • If so, exactly why?

Your answers may deepen your response. Usually, you will find supporting evi- dence for your response, but, in your effort to distinguish and to decide and to judge, try also (if only as an exercise) to find counterevidence. See what can be said against your position. (The best lawyers, it is said, prepare two cases—their own and the other side’s.) As you consider the counterevidence, you will some- times find that it requires you to adjust your thesis. You may even find yourself developing an entirely different response. That’s fine, though, of course, the paper that you ultimately hand in should clearly argue a thesis.

In short, critical thinking means examining or exploring one’s own responses, by questioning and testing them. Critical thinking is not so much a skill (though it does involve the ability to understand a text) as it is a habit of mind or, rather, several habits, including

• open-mindedness, • intellectual curiosity, and • willingness to work.

It may involve, too, a willingness to discuss the issues with others and to do research on writing a research paper, which will be discussed in Chapter 10.

Let’s explore how you can revisit a first response and develop it into a success- ful interpretation that demonstrates your critical thinking skills. Students in a composition course noted their first impressions of a story and then, as part of a classroom exercise, revisited those first responses and developed them further. By examining their first and second responses, we can see what elements of thinking characterize interpretive writing. After writing the first response, the class was encouraged to reread the story and their notes and to work toward an interpreta- tion that

• makes an argument, • contains conceptual thinking, and • selects supporting evidence.

Although the writing is rough, the elements of a successful analytical paper are in place.

Let’s turn to the literary texts that triggered this interpretive process. Some years ago, Steve Moss, a writer, editor, and publisher, began having an annual

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WhitMore • Bedtime Story    257

contest in which contestants submitted stories of fifty-five words or fewer (plus a title that could be as long as seven words). Let’s explore three entries that were accepted for publication.1 Following each short story is a student’s first response to it and then a more developed interpretation of it.

Jeffrey WhitMore

Bedtime Story

“Careful, honey, it’s loaded,” he said, re-entering the bedroom. Her back rested against the headboard. “This for your wife?” “No. Too chancy. I’m hiring a professional.” “How about me?” He smirked. “Cute. But who’d be dumb enough to hire a lady hit man?” She wet her lips, sighting along the barrel. “Your wife.”

All readers will have their own responses to this story, and they will make their own evaluations as to whether it is effective. Here, we offer the first response of one of our students, followed by a more interpretive response. Although this is a rough brainstorming exercise, a comparison of the two responses reveals that the revised response is moving toward a more focused interpretation of the work. With a bit more work, it could be transformed into a compelling thesis argument.

Student Work: Response Writing Revisited

First Response: Clever; I expected a sort of child’s nursery tale, and instead got a story that in part is about adults going to bed sexually—so I did get a “bedtime story” but not what I first expected. Sort of clever. The ending gets even more clever, because we didn’t see it coming. The story creates a twist on the male/female relationship. The woman in the bed that he is having the affair with is the hired hitman—and he is the target! I didn’t see that coming. Certainly it is clever. Expanded Response: What do we make of the relationships set up between the man and the woman? There are only two characters—and a very very short story, so we don’t expect elaborate characterization. But, even with this limited information, the man is neatly shown to be a self-satisfied jerk. He thinks he is smart—”Too chancy. I’m hiring a professional”—and he “smirked” when his girlfriend suggests she might act as a hit-man. He has a conventional superior-male idea that a woman can’t do a difficult job—but at the end of the story he knows (if only for a few seconds!!) better. This is his key realization: that his lover has been hired to kill him AND that a woman can be a hired hit-man and do a good job of it. He didn’t even suspect her! So, she’s obviously been doing a great job of being a double-crosser. She probably even relied on his superior- ity complex, knowing she wouldn’t even be suspected by him. Because of the way the woman has set up the last lines of the story, she is obviously smart. She’s not just a “honey.”

Here is the second story and a second student’s response to it.

1Steve Moss, ed., The World’s Shortest Stories (Philadelphia: running Press, 1998).

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258    Chapter 8 Pushing Analysis Further: Reinterpreting and Revising

Douglas l. haskins

Hide and Seek

At last he would really show them. He’d picked the very best place to hide. They’d all say he could play the game better than anyone. When they found him, they’d clap their hands.

The dopes. How dumb can they get? They should have looked here first! It’s so obvious.

Here in the abandoned refrigerator.

After reading the preceding short story, the student made some free writing notes that she then reread and expanded. Notice how the student moves from a personal first response to an analytical assessment in the second response. Both responses focus on the main character, but the first response is emotional and focuses on conveying the facts of the story. The expanded response becomes analytical, containing an assessment of the qualities of the narrator and a clear focus on the concept of intelligence.

Student Work: Response Writing Revisited

First Response: This story is horrible! I guess it is “effective” because it really hits me, hurts me, but it is so cruel. As I understand it, the narrator hides in an abandoned refrigerator—and presumably he dies. This is horrific. It is showing the last thoughts of a child before he dies. I don’t even want to think about this scene. Frankly, I don’t think a story like this should be published. It is too frightening. Expanded Response: When I get over the emotions of horror that this story triggered, I can start to focus on the narrator. The words “dope” and “dumb” leap out at me, making me realize that the story is exploring the idea of intelligence—who is the smart one here? This kid wants to show other kids that he is smart, that “he could play the game better than anyone.” What we hear are the thoughts of the kid before he died— his attempt to be a winner at the game of hide-and-seek and have his friends “clap” for him. And I think we also hear, in a way, what is said after the other kids discover his dead body: We “should have looked here first! It’s so obvious.” The narrator thinks he is smart, but he makes (unfortunately) a dumb choice of a hiding place. The kids who, if they find him too late, would fulfill his expectations that they are dumb—they don’t think to look in the refrigerator.

Finally, we have the third story from the same collection of stories of fifty-five words or fewer, this time with only the first response from a student. We offer a series of questions that encourage you to write an expanded response.

Mark Plants

Equal Rites

“Highly irregular,” said the priest. “The diocese allows them,” replied one of the men. Overcoming a visceral dislike of same sex unions, the priest agreed to hold the

ceremony quietly. There was a harpist. Both men wore tuxedos. But the priest, even while donning her vestments, still wondered if she was

doing the right thing.

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Strategy #2: Pushing Analysis by Exploring Literary Form    259

Student Work: Response Writing Revisited

First Response: The twist in this story is that the priest is a woman. The story seems to be about same-sex unions, but then the story reveals that it is really interested in the gender of the priest. The shock is not that the church is allowing same-sex unions, but that the church allows woman priests. This story is obviously taking place in the not-too-distant future. I wonder if this is a comment on where the religion is headed? Maybe the church will allow women to be priests before allowing same-sex marriage?

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. How would you expand this first response, making it more analytical? 2. What key concepts appear in the first response that could provide a foundation

for further thinking? For example, are you interested in the idea of gender? Or, are you interested in the idea of religion? Are there additional concepts that you would want to address?

3. The first response does not contain any direct quotations from the story. What phrases or lines from the story do you feel are the most important and would thus include in your response?

Strategy #2: Pushing Analysis by Exploring Literary Form

One of the best ways to deepen literary analysis is to examine the literary work’s structures—what we might call the artfulness of the work, such as the work’s meter or use of figurative language—in addition to its themes. A literary work connects form (the shape and structure that it gives to language) to content (the ideas it wants to express). Literature asks us to pay attention to both form and content, and to think about how they work together to create meaning.

In an analytical paper, you will be expected not only to explore a literary work’s key ideas but also to explain how those ideas are conveyed by form. If you are looking to improve, expand, or develop a paper, you should examine how you are building an analysis of form into your paper. In order to explore form, you must work closely with textual evidence. As a result, a careful attention to the for- mal qualities of literature will almost always improve your writing, as it will inte- grate meaningful evidence into your writing.

To explore how careful attention to a formal element can improve a paper, let’s turn to poetry. Because it highlights form, poetry allows us to practice seeing the connections between form and content. A poem often uses rhyme, repetition, line breaks, and stanza breaks, taking a specific shape on the page. That shape, in turn, highlights or enacts specific ideas. For example, if you are analyzing a poem that expresses frustrated anger, you may notice that the poem features fragmented lines that “break off” in mid-idea; you will want to explain how the form of the fragmented lines expresses the idea of anger. As we say elsewhere in the text, an analytical essay answers the somewhat odd-sounding question, “How does a poem mean?” in addition to the expected question, “What does the poem mean?”

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In an analytical paper on a poem, you’ll want to use your knowledge about poetry by locating, naming, and analyzing the poetic devices that create the poem’s meaning.

Let’s consider an analytical paper assignment that focuses on the formal ele- ments of a poem, asking you to explore the poem’s imagery. You might mark up the poem, locating its key images and taking marginal notes that start to question and interpret those images. You might then expand your ideas, developing them into a set of inquiry questions that focus on the issue of form: What is the poem is about? What are the ideas being expressed by the imagery in the poem? What are its most thought-provoking images in the poem? What feelings do the images evoke? What specific words are used to convey its imagery? Does the imagery take on the significance of a symbol, as we discuss in Chapter 15? And, is that symbol conventional or unique?

When you are writing an analysis, review the literary structures you have been studying. Locate those structures in the literary work, and analyze how they convey ideas. If your instructor asks you to focus on a specific literary element—for instance, meter or figurative language—reread the text, focus on that element and how it contributes to the text’s meaning. In your annotations and brainstorming notes, examine your selected literary element closely. Emphasize your overarching interpretation by transforming it into a thesis argument that you set forth at the beginning of your paper. If you are interpreting a specific literary element, make sure that element is central to your thesis argument. Then, create a hierarchy of ideas, in which your secondary interpretations become subpoints in your paper, continuing to analyze the selected formal element throughout the paper. Keeping focused on a specific literary element will benefit your paper; in addition to strengthening your use of evidence, it will help you to avoid inserting a summary and overly general ideas about the text.

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Using Formal Evidence in an Analytical Essay

Did I review the literary forms and structures I have been studying? Do I understand the definitions of these forms? Do I understand the examples of that form provided by this literary work, and can I locate examples of those forms in other literary works?

Did I read the literary work closely, annotating it for the selected literary forms?

Did I consider what seems to be the literary work’s most important formal element? Does the work call attention to, for example, its use of voice, imagery, plot, setting, characterization, or dramatic irony?

Did I emphasize the ideas being expressed though these literary forms? Did I make sure to connect form to content?

Did I create inquiry questions that focus on the issues of form and then use those questions to deepen my analysis of the text?

Are issues of literary form central to my thesis argument? Did I use issues of form to push my analytical thinking? Did I address issues

of form throughout my paper?

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hughes • Mother to Son    261

Let’s see how an exploration of literary form can be used to brainstorm ideas for a paper and develop a draft. We can turn to the annotations, inquiry notes, and final paper written by Ayn Brady, a first-year student in an introductory course on writing about literature. Her paper examines “Mother to Son,” a poem written by one of the most important poets of the twentieth century, Langston Hughes. As Ayn’s analysis of the poem’s poetic devices shows, Hughes’s poetry uses straight- forward language to capture complex ideas.

langston hughes For biographical information on Langston Hughes, see page 429.

Mother to Son

Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

[1922]

Student Work: Annotation Exploring Form

Ayn’s class has been given an assignment asking them to explore how a poem’s poetic form contributes to its meaning. Ayn’s annotations on the poem show her first attempts to explore the poem’s form. She takes notes on the poem’s formal elements on the right-hand side of the poem and takes notes on the conceptual content on the left-hand side of the poem. This strategy allows her to make sure

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Did I make my ideas specific by illustrating them with interesting quotations? Did I explain the formal elements used in those quotations?

Did I use the analysis of form to come to a more sophisticated understanding of the poem’s meaning?

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Student Work: Inquiry Notes Exploring Form

After completing her annotations, Ayn generates a series of inquiry questions that help her to analyze the poem’s formal elements, including its imagery, voice, and diction. Notice how her inquiry questions help her to locate and organize evidence that she could use in her paper.

“Mother to Son” What poetic structures or devices does this poem use to make meaning? Right away, I notice the straightforward language, as if the speaker is speaking

right at me (just like the voice is talking to the son) in everyday/colloquial language. The meaning of the poem is clear: it is conveying the difficulties of a tough life. This life is like climbing up a difficult staircase. But, how does this poem capture the difficulty of that climb? How does the poem make us feel that sense of difficulty? I guess that the question I want to answer by looking at the poem’s form.

Imagery: How does the poem use imagery? Central image = image of climbing stairs Stairs are not glass stairs, but difficult, rough, not-easy stairs **Does this become a metaphor? Life is like climbing stairs?

mother talking to son

strong images of hard stairs = hard climb = hard lifeTheHarsh

Stairs

The Climb

The Lesson!

Strong voice of “I”

one word – harsh, lonely word

repetition of “and” and “in’” for “ing” words become repeated like stairs are repeated – like repeated sound of steps up stairs?

repetition

repeats line 2

don’t give up – lesson for son & African Americans

“Mother to Son”

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor–

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now–

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

that she is giving enough consideration to the poem’s form and allows her to see more clearly the patterns of poetic structure used by Hughes.

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What are the specific words used by the poem to build up these images? –tacks –splinters –boards –no carpet, bare –landing –turnings –no light = dark

These images add up to the idea of a difficult climb—the stairs are rough and broken; they are all uphill. The words are easy to understand, but create a strong and clear image of a tough climb.

Voice: How does the poem use voice? Poem has a strong speaking persona Mother speaking directly to son—directly addresses him in the first line and again

near end (“honey”) She directly addresses him and tells him what to do: “Don’t you fall now”

Language: How does the poem use language? The poem uses colloquial language—language that seems slangy and everyday

–ain’t –climbin’ –reachin’ –turnin’ –goin’

Spoken language, as if talking directly to you. Maybe the language itself is tired, not precise, due to difficult climb?

Pattern: How does the pattern of the words create meaning? Repetition

–And, and, and –I’se still, I’se still

Short lines The poem starts to feel like the stairs, like the steps going up a staircase Maybe the poem is meant to imitate the feel of step-by-step (line-by-line) action

of going up the stairs

What seems to be the key content—the meaning—of the poem? Does the form capture that meaning?

The mother is giving a lesson to her son. The key lesson is “So, boy, don’t you turn back,” meaning that the boy cannot give up or turn back from difficulties. He must continue up the stairs, just as she has gone up the stairs. Do not turn back, rest, or give up! Keep going! The mother shows a successful climb—the poem acts out the climb–making it clear that the climb can be done.

Can the poem be connected to a larger context? Harlem Renaissance

The poem could be read as a comment on the larger African-American struggle against prejudice—African-Americans have had a hard and difficult climb towards equality, but they cannot give up.

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Student Analytical Essay: “Accepting the Challenge of a Difficult Climb in Langston Hughes’s ‘Mother to Son’”

Ayn takes the interesting insights that she has generated in her inquiry notes and turns them into the following paper:

Brady 1

Ayn Brady

Professor Singh

English 150-32

10 March 2016

Accepting the Challenge of a Difficult Climb

Langston Hughes’s “Mother to Son” centers on the key metaphor that

life can be compared to the act of climbing stairs. The poem develops this

metaphor by using poetic devices, focusing on the poetic language of the

poem’s speaker. As the title reveals, the poem features the persona of a

mother. The mother describes her life as climbing stairs and expresses the

feeling of climbing stairs by using colloquial language and the repetition of

words and sounds. The pattern of the language sounds like the pattern of

climbing up stairs one after the other. The climbing of stairs is difficult and

stressful, with no break. Thus, life for the speaker has been difficult and

stressful with no break. “Mother to Son” conveys the feeling of this difficult

life by creating a strong speaking persona, using repetition, using colloquial

language, and developing a clear metaphor.

The poem creates the persona of a mother who is talking to her son.

The poem’s first line is “Well son, I’ll tell you,” creating a speaking situation

in which the mother is talking directly to the son—and to the reader (1). The

speaker’s voice creates a strong connection between herself and her son. She

even addresses the son as “honey” towards the end of the poem. As she

shares the difficulties of her life with him, the mother’s voice seems honest

and open. As the poem progresses, it becomes clear that the mother is giving

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Brady 2

a lesson to her son. The speaker addresses the listener directly with the key

lesson “So, boy, don’t you turn back,” meaning that the boy cannot give up

or turn back from difficulties.

The poem is told from the perspective of this persona, using the

language, experiences, and knowledge of the mother. The mother has had a

difficult life, which is effectively presented through the metaphor of an

upward climb. The poem sets itself up to feel like a set of stairs. The poem

has very short lines, like the short steps a person takes on stairs. The

language repeats itself, such as repeating the word “and” at the start of six

of its lines (4-6, 10-12). The repetitive language captures the repetition of

climbing upwards. In addition, the mother’s colloquial language, such as

the use of “I’se” for “I’m,” reveals that the hard work of climbing happens in

everyday life (9, 18-19). Life can feel like a constant struggle and the

speaker’s language captures this feeling.

Through its persona and poetic language, the poem develops the

metaphor that life is a difficult staircase that requires a stressful climb. The

poem opens and closes with a statement that makes the comparison between

life and staircase clear: the mother says “Life for me ain’t been no crystal

stair” (2). The metaphor of “life as staircase” is set up through a negative

statement; the mother sees the possibility that life could be a crystal stair,

as for example in a TV spectacular musical, but knows that her life is not

that. A crystal staircase would be glittering, precious, and handled

delicately. However, this speaker’s life is the opposite and she opens the

poem with this idea of opposition and negativity.

The metaphor of life being a difficult set of stairs is developed

through clear imagery. For lines 3-7, the poem creates a staircase of short

lines and gives one image per line. Each image conveys the difficulty of the

climb: the speaker’s stairs has “had tacks in it;” followed by “Splinters,” and

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Brady 3

“boards torn up,” and “places with no carpet on the floor” (3-7). Although

these words describe the stairs, they are really describing the speaker’s hard

life. The mother has been challenged by a series of painful obstacles. Each of

these lines starts with the word “and,” making a repetitive pattern of

sound—perhaps imitating the repetitive act of climbing a staircase. This

repetition of “and,” followed by strong descriptive words, makes the idea of

stairs come alive. In a set of stairs, each stair is similar—and there is always

another stair ahead.

The image of these difficult stairs culminates in a very effective line.

Line 8 contains one word, left to stand all alone: “bare.” The word “bare” is

presented in a bare and lonely way that makes it meaning clear. The word

can be seen as representing the mother, who must have had to stand “bare”

and alone throughout her life.

After describing the stairs, the speaker explains her attitude: she

continues to climb the stairs no matter what obstacles they throw in her way.

Lines 9-12 shift from describing the stairs to her describing herself and her

climbing activity. As the speaker describes her climbing activity, it feels real

because the lines are presented in colloquial, everyday language. For

example, the speaker explains “I’se been a-climbin’ on,” which captures the

feeling of an everyday struggle that causes weariness but that has been

accepted and is now part of life (9). The mother continues to describe her

climbing through a list of active verbs that are presented in her unique voice:

“And reachin’ landin’s/And turnin’ corners./And sometimes goin’ in the

dark” (10-12). This use of “in’” for “ing” becomes a pattern. The stairs might

continue one after another in repetitive pattern, but the mother will continue

to climb them. The mother’s description of her activity reveals that she will

not give up, but sees the stairs as a challenge to be met and overcome.

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Brady 4

In this speaking situation, the speaking mother wants to make sure

that the listening son learns from her upwards climb. The mother addresses

him directly, saying “So boy, don’t you turn back/Don’t you set down on the

steps/’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard./Don’t you fall now—” (14-17). The

mother wants her son to continue her climb. He must learn from her example

and continue a forward, upward march. The mother does not want the son to

take any backward steps, but urges him to continue without turning around

or taking a rest. The strength of the mother’s persona comes across in these

lines. She ends her poem by saying “For I’se still goin’ honey,/I’se still

climbin’/And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair” (18-20).

This final section of the poem describes the upward climb as if it were

the mother’s individual life, but the climb can also be read as describing the

African-American experience. Knowing that Langston Hughes was African-

American and wrote during the Harlem Renaissance can help to position the

poem in the larger context of the African-American struggle to achieve

recognition and equal rights. The mother’s upward climb can be read as

expressing the struggle to move forward in the face of prejudice. In this

reading, the mother’s climb becomes inspirational. Though faced with

numerous obstacles, the mother has continued to tackle and overcome

those obstacles. The boy must not let that legacy be forgotten. The boy must

make sure that he picks up and continues from his mother’s point in the

upward climb—he cannot go backward. In this way, the boy can be seen as

representing the next generation of African-Americans who are being urged

to continue the struggle of the previous generation. Just like the boy, the

newest generation must not lose the gains of their parents. When read this

way, the metaphor of climbing stairs becomes a way of explaining the

struggle for equality.

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Strategy #3: Pushing Analysis by Emphasizing Concepts and Insights

Because a literary text is open-ended—it does not come right out and say, “This is what I’m about”—literary analysis asks the student to create his or her own inter- pretation of the text; in essence, the student says, “This is what I think the text is about.” A successful interpretation is grounded in a careful close reading but does not hesitate to reach for a unique understanding of the text. In an analytical paper, you are asked to develop your critical thinking skills—to use writing about a liter- ary work in order to push your ideas to become richer, deeper, and more complex. In analysis, you build on close reading by using writing to define, explain, and

Brady 5

Hughes’s “Mother to Son” is a powerful poem that makes the reader

feel the difficulty of the speaker’s life. The poem gains its power from the

effective use of poetic devices, including voice, repetition, colloquialisms,

and imagery. The challenge of constantly climbing stairs is an effective

metaphor for the difficulty of moving forward in life. The poem is especially

effective in expressing the difficulty of moving ahead in a life that is “bare”

rather than bright with crystal. This is especially true if the speaker is an

African-American woman. The speaker inspires her son and the reader to

continue to fight for equality.

[New page]

Brady 6

Work Cited

Hughes, Langston. “Mother to Son.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet,

William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston:

Pearson, 2017. 261. Print.

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Frost • Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening    269

develop your most meaningful interpretation of the text. You then present that interpretation as an argument, attempting to convince your reader of your interpre- tation’s originality and importance.

How can you develop your analytical thinking and writing to make it more sophisticated? Perhaps your instructor or a peer has said to you, “Develop your ideas further.” How can you do that?

Analysis emphasizes the reader’s idea-based interpretation of the text and for- mulation of an argument about those ideas. In its broadest sense, an analytical paper allows you to investigate how a text makes meaning. As a result, you want to emphasize your insights about the text: What unique ideas is the text triggering in your mind? What strikes you as important and interesting about the text? One way to make sure that you are developing new ideas and not just regurgitating basic information (such as providing a plot summary) is to locate the concepts that you feel are more central to the text. Position yourself as a conceptual thinker, able to see the more abstract ideas that the literary text is exploring. For example, in her paper on Langston Hughes’s “Mother to Son,” Ayn Brady did not limit herself to arguing that the poem depicts a woman climbing stairs. Instead, she argued that the poem addresses the more abstract idea of rising to the challenge of a difficult life. Ayn pushed this idea further and connected it to the concept of equality, spe- cifically the African American struggle for equality.

At the same time that you are exploring abstract concepts, you want to root those concepts in the specific details of the text. As we’ve discussed throughout this text, an analytical paper is a testing ground for your ability to explain how smaller details connect to larger ideas. An analytical paper often explores the rela- tionships among specific “parts” of the literary text and the contributions of those parts to the text’s “whole,” or its conceptual meaning. These “parts” can be the liter- ary elements (such as character or voice) that work together to create the text’s larger, more overarching ideas.

Further, as we’ve just seen in Ayn’s paper, an analytical paper that asks the student to explore a literary work often asks for an in-depth exploration of formal elements and structures. When you are working on the paper, you should locate and interpret meaningful details and patterns in the text, using those details and patterns to trigger original interpretations. These interpretations should express a larger understanding of the literary text, using the literary elements to illuminate larger conceptual concerns.

Let’s read Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and then read two analytical essays written by first-year students. These two papers offer very different interpretations of the same poem, allowing you to see how one student’s interpretation of a poem can lead to emphasizing concepts and evidence that differ greatly from another student’s insights.

robert frost For biographical information on Robert Frost, see page 246.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

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My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

[1923]

Manuscript version of Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” The first part is lost.

Student Analytical Essay: “Stopping by Woods—and Going On”

Let’s turn to our first analytical essay on Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” This student, Darrel Jenkins, selects specific evidence to support his unique interpretation of the poem. See if you agree with his assessment of the poem’s narrator.

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Jenkins 1

Darrel Jenkins

Professor Conner

English 1102

21 December 2016

Stopping by Woods—and Going On

Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is about what

the title says it is. It is also about something more than the title says.

When I say it is about what the title says, I mean that the poem really

does give us the thoughts of a person who pauses (that is, a person who is

“stopping”) by woods on a snowy evening. (This person probably is a man,

since Robert Frost wrote the poem and nothing in the poem clearly indicates

that the speaker is not a man. But, and this point will be important, the

speaker perhaps feels that he is not a very masculine man. For example, the

speaker uses the word “lovely,” which sounds more like the word a woman

would use than a man.) In line 3 the speaker says he is “stopping here,” and

it is clear that “here” is by woods, since “woods” is mentioned not only in

the title but also in the first line of the poem, and again in the second

stanza, and still again in the last stanza. It is equally clear that, as the title

says, there is snow, and that the time is evening. The speaker mentions

“snow” (4), and “downy flake” (12), and “downy flake”, and he says this is

“The darkest evening of the year” (8).

But in what sense is the poem about more than the title? The title does

not tell us anything about the man who is “stopping by woods,” but the poem—

the man’s meditation—tells us a lot about him. In the first stanza he reveals

that he is uneasy at the thought that the owner of the woods may see him

stopping by the woods. Maybe he is uneasy because he is trespassing, but the

poem does not actually say that he has illegally entered someone else’s

property. More likely, he feels uneasy, almost ashamed, of watching the “woods

fill up with snow” (4). That is, he would not want anyone to see that he

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Jenkins 2

actually is enjoying a beautiful aspect of nature and is not hurrying about

whatever his real business is in thrifty Yankee style.

The second stanza gives more evidence that he feels guilty about

enjoying beauty. He feels so guilty that he even thinks the horse thinks

there is something odd about him. In fact, he says that the horse thinks he

is “queer” (5), which means “odd,” but also (as is shown by The American

Heritage Dictionary) can mean “gay,” “homosexual.” A traditional man, he

sort of suggests, would not spend time looking at snow in the woods when

he has work to attend to.

So far, then, the speaker in two ways has indicated that he feels

insecure, though perhaps he does not realize that he has given himself away.

First, he expresses uneasiness that someone might see him watching the

woods fill up with snow. Second, he expresses uneasiness when he suggests

that even the horse thinks he is strange or different, or at least

unbusinesslike. And so in the last stanza, even though he finds the woods

beautiful, he decides not to stop and to see the woods fill up with snow. And

his description of the woods as “lovely” (13).—a woman’s word—sounds as

though he may be something less than a he-man. He seems to feel ashamed

of himself for enjoying the sight of the snowy woods and for seeing them as

“lovely,” and so he tells himself that he has spent enough time looking at the

woods and that he must go on about his business. In fact, he tells himself

twice that he has business to attend to. Why? Perhaps he is insisting too

much. Just as we saw that he was excessively nervous in the first stanza,

afraid that someone might see him trespassing and enjoying the beautiful

spectacle, now at the end he is again afraid that someone might see him

loitering, and so he very firmly, using repetition as a form of emphasis, tries

to reassure himself that he is not too much attracted by beauty and is a man

of business who keeps his promises.

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Frost gives us, then, a man who indeed is seen “stopping by woods on

a snowy evening,” but a man who, afraid of what society will think of him, is

also afraid to “stop” long enough to fully enjoy the sight that attracts him,

because he is driven by a sense that he may be seen to be trespassing and

also may be thought to be unmanly. So after only a brief stop in the woods he

forces himself to go on, a victim (though he probably doesn’t know it) of the

work ethic and of an over-simple idea of manliness.

[New page]

Jenkins 4

Work Cited

Frost, Robert. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Literature for Composition.

Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon.

11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 269-70. Print.

Analyzing the Analytical Essay’s Development of a Conceptual Interpretation

Let’s examine this essay. The title is interesting. It tells the reader which literary work will be discussed

(“Stopping by Woods”), and it arouses interest, in this case by a sort of wordplay (“Stopping . . . Going On”). A title of this sort is preferable to a title that merely announces the topic, such as “An Analysis of Frost’s ‘Stopping by Woods’” or “On a Poem by Robert Frost.”

The opening paragraph helpfully names the exact topic (Robert Frost’s poem) and says that the poem is about something more than its title. The writer’s thesis presumably will be a fairly specific assertion concerning what the poem is about.

The body of the essay, beginning with the second paragraph, begins to devel- op the thesis. The thesis perhaps can be summarized: “The speaker, insecure of his masculinity, feels ashamed that he responds with pleasure to the sight of the snowy woods.” The thesis introduces the key concept of masculinity. This is

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Darrel’s insight into the poem: that it addresses insecurities and, more specifically, insecurities about what constitutes manly thoughts and businesslike behavior. The writer’s evidence in the second paragraph is that the word “lovely” is “more like the word a woman would use than a man.” Readers of Darrel’s essay may at this point be unconvinced by this evidence, but probably they will suspend judg- ment. In any case, he has offered what he considers to be evidence in support of his thesis.

The next paragraph dwells on what is said to be the speaker’s uneasiness, and the following paragraph references the word “queer,” which, Darrel correctly says, can mean “gay, homosexual.” The question of course is whether here, in this poem, the word has this meaning. Do we agree with Darrel’s assertion, in the last sen- tence of this paragraph, that Frost is suggesting that “A traditional man . . . wouldn’t spend time looking at snow in the woods”?

Clearly, this is the way Darrel takes the poem, but is his response to these lines reasonable? After all, what Frost says is this: “My little horse must think it queer / To stop without a farmhouse near.” Is it reasonable to see a reference to homo- sexuality (rather than merely to oddness) in this use of the word “queer”? Hasn’t Darrel offered a response that, so to speak, is private? It is his response, but are we likely to share it and to agree that we see it in Frost’s poem?

The next paragraph, amplifying the point that the speaker is insecure, offers as evidence the argument that “lovely” is more often a woman’s word than a man’s word. What do you think of Darrel’s assertions that the speaker of the poem “was excessively nervous in the first stanza” and is now “afraid that some- one might see him loitering”? In your opinion, does the text lend much support to Darrel’s view?

The concluding paragraph effectively reasserts and clarifies Darrel’s thesis, saying that the speaker hesitates to stop and enjoy the woods because “he is driven by a sense that he may be seen to be trespassing and also may be thought to be unmanly.”

The big questions, then, are these:

• Is the thesis argued rather than merely asserted, and • Is it argued convincingly?

Or, to put it another way,

• Is the evidence adequate?

Darrel certainly does argue (offer reasons) rather than merely assert, but does he offer enough evidence to make you think that his response is one that you can share? Do you think that he is correct to have positioned the concept of masculinity as central to the poem and to, more specifically, emphasized anxieties about masculinity? Has he helped you to enjoy the poem by seeing things that you may not have noticed, or has he said things that, however interesting, seem to you not to be in close contact with the poem as you see it?

Student Analytical Essay: “ ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ as a Short Story”

Here is another interpretation of the same poem. In this paper, Sara Fong demon- strates how a poem can lead to differing interpretations by exploring two under- standings of this one poem. Let’s see what concepts this paper emphasizes.

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Fong 1

Sara Fong

Professor Patel

English 102

3 December 2016

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” as a Short Story

Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” can be read as

a poem about a man who pauses to observe the beauty of nature, and it can

also be read as a poem about a man with a death wish, a man who seems to

long to give himself up completely to nature and thus escape his

responsibilities as a citizen. Much depends, apparently, on what a reader

wants to emphasize. For instance, a reader can emphasize especially

appealing lines about the beauty of nature: “The only other sound’s the sweep /

Of easy wind and downy flake” (11–12), and “The woods are lovely, dark and

deep” (13). On the other hand, a reader can emphasize lines that show the

speaker is fully aware of the responsibilities that most of us agree we have.

For instance, at the very start of the poem he recognizes that the

woods are not his but are owned by someone else, and at the end of the

poem he recognizes that he has “promises to keep” (14) and that before he

sleeps (dies?) he must accomplish many things (go for “miles” [15]).

Does a reader have to choose between these two interpretations? I do

not think so; to the contrary, I think it makes sense to read the poem as a

kind of very short story, with a character whose developing thoughts make

up a plot with four stages. In the first stage, the central figure is an ordinary

person with rather ordinary thoughts. His very first thought is of the owner

of the woods. He knows who the owner is, and since the owner lives in the

village, the poet feels safe in trespassing, or at least in watching the woods “fill

up with snow” (4). Then, very subtly, the poet begins to tell us that although

this seems to be an ordinary person thinking ordinary thoughts, he is a

somewhat special person in a special situation. First of all, the horse thinks

something is strange. He shakes his bells, wondering why the driver doesn’t

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Fong 2

keep moving, as presumably ordinary drivers would. Second, we are told that

this is “The darkest evening of the year” (8). Frost could simply have said

that the evening is dark, but he goes out of his way to make the evening a

special evening.

We are now through with the first ten lines, and only six lines remain,

yet in these six lines the story goes through two additional phases. The first

three of these lines (“The only other sound’s the sweep / Of easy wind and

downy flake” [12] and “The woods are lovely, dark and deep” [13]) are

probably the most beautiful lines, in the sense that they are the ones that

make us say, “I wish I were there,” or “I’d love to experience this.” We feel

that the poet has moved from the ordinary thoughts of the first stanza, about

such businesslike things as who owns the woods and where the owner’s house

is, to less materialistic thoughts, thoughts about the beauty of the nonhuman

world of nature. And now, with the three final lines, we get the fourth stage

of the story, the return to the ordinary world of people, the world of

“promises” (14). But this world that we get at the end is not exactly the same

as the world we got at the beginning. The world at the beginning of the poem

is a world of property (who owns the woods, and where the house is), but the

world at the end of the poem is a world of unspecified and rather mysterious

responsibilities (“promises to keep” [14], “miles to go before I sleep” [16]).

It is almost as though the poet’s experience of the beauty of nature—a beauty

that for a moment made him forget the world of property—has in fact served to

sharpen his sense that human beings have responsibilities. He clearly sees that

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep” (13). and then he says (I add the italics),

“But I have promises to keep” (14). The “but” would be logical if after saying

that the woods are lovely, dark and deep, he had said something like “But in

the daylight they look different,” or “But one can freeze to death in them.”

The logic of what Frost says, however, is not at all clear: “The woods are lovely,

dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep” (13–14). What is the logical

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Fong 3

connection? We have to supply one, something like “but, because we are

human beings we have responsibilities; we can refresh ourselves by perceiving

the beauties of nature, and we can even for a moment get so caught up that

we seem to enter an enchanted forest (‘the woods are lovely, dark and

deep’), but we cannot forget our responsibilities.”

My point is not that Frost ends with an important moral, and it is also

not that we have to choose between saying it is a poem about nature or a

poem about a man with a death wish. Rather, my point is that the poem

takes us through several stages and that, although the poem begins and

ends with the speaker in the woods, the speaker has undergone mental

experiences—has, we might say, gone through a plot with a conflict (the

appeal of the snowy woods versus the call to return to the human world).

It is not a matter of good versus evil and of one side winning. Frost in no way

suggests that it is wrong to feel the beauty of nature—even to the

momentary exclusion of all other thoughts. But the poem is certainly not

simply a praise of the beauty of nature. Frost shows us, in this mini-story or

mini-drama, one character who sees the woods as property, then sees them

as a place of almost overwhelming beauty, and then (maybe refreshed by this

experience) rejoins the world of chores and responsibilities.

[New page]

Fong 4

Work Cited

Frost, Robert. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Literature for Composition.

Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon.

11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 269-70. Print.

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Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is the thesis of the essay? The thesis seems to support two interpretations. Is this successful?

2. How is Sara’s essay organized? How does the essay introduce and develop the concepts of nature and the concept of responsibility?

3. Does Sara offer convincing evidence to support her thesis? 4. How would you compare Sara’s essay to Darrel’s essay? Which interpretation do

you find more convincing? Which interpretation do you find more original and thought provoking?

5. Compare the evidence given by both Sara and Darrel. For example, they both quote the narrator watching the woods “fill up with snow” and the description of the woods as “lovely, dark, and deep,” but they create different arguments based on that evidence. How is this possible?

Strategy #4: Pushing Analysis through Revision

The writing process emphasizes revision as a way of improving your analytical ideas and your writing style. Writing encourages the discovery of new ideas; when we write, a “light bulb” will often go off in our head, and we suddenly gain a new insight. Revision should be seen as, first, a strategy used to continue this process of creating and shaping ideas, and second, a strategy used to improve the presen- tation of those ideas through correct writing. Make sure to use revision to improve your interpretation and develop your analysis.

Revising for Ideas versus Mechanics

Revision starts when you draft a paper, put it aside, and then return to it with a fresh perspective. Revision asks you to reread your own writing with a critical eye: What are the strengths and weaknesses of your paper? Using this self-critique, you then redraft the paper, reworking existing writing and adding new writing. As you revise your paper, it might be helpful for you to think of yourself as taking on two roles: thinker and editor.

Critique your draft as a thinker first. Make sure that your ideas are insightful, well developed, and supported by evidence. What are your best ideas? What are your weakest ideas? What ideas need more development? What ideas need more evidence? After you feel that your ideas are your best ideas, make sure that you show them off with a clear presentation. Are your concepts clearly defined, and do they follow a logical sequence?

After you have revised your paper for its ideas, then turn to writing mechanics. Take on the role of editor, and work on the correctness of your writing. Are your sentences grammatically correct? Are you choosing the best words to convey your ideas? Are you using an academic style?

Revising Using Instructor Feedback, Peer Feedback, and Self-Critique

Your instructor may ask you to turn in your paper’s first draft and give you feed- back on that draft. If your instructor gives you written comments, make sure that

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you understand the critique being offered and know how to use those comments in order to make changes to your paper. As you analyze your instructor’s com- ments, consider how they can be applied to the paper as a whole: How can a comment written in the margins of one paragraph be used to strengthen ideas in other sections? If your instructor is not giving you feedback on this specific paper, you should look back at earlier papers, read the instructor’s comments on those papers, and apply his or her comments to this new paper. See your instructor’s comments as encouraging a dialogue about your writing; if you do not understand your instructor’s comments, make an appointment to discuss them.

As part of the revision process, your class might include a peer workshop session that asks your classmates to provide feedback on your writing. Your class- mates’ reactions will indicate the parts of the paper that they found interesting and the parts that they found unclear, helping you to locate your paper’s strengths and weakness. Again, consider the “thinker” and “editor” stages of revision: Try to dis- tinguish between comments that will help you improve your ideas and comments that will help you correct your writing style.

Much of your revision will rely on your ability to engage in self-criticism. Work on developing ways to distance yourself from your own writing so that you can read it critically. Ensure critical reading by printing your paper out and reading the entire draft with a pencil in hand, annotating it as you would a literary work. This will ensure that you read your paper critically, and do not interrupt that self- criticism with typing, which will happen if you read your paper on the computer screen rather than from a printout.

Examining a Preliminary Draft with Revision in Mind

An early draft of a paper typically captures the writer’s ideas in a rough form, which then will be revised and improved. Let’s read the short story “Saboteur” by Ha Jin and then read a preliminary draft of an analysis of the story by a student in a composition course. The paper assignment asks for an analysis of approximately seven pages. How can a writer generate enough ideas to fill that many pages? The student, Owen Monroe, uses the revision process to deepen his thinking and to expand the ideas presented in his first draft. His final draft is also provided, allow- ing us to explore how he develops his ideas.

As we consider the revision process, let’s review the essay’s essential parts, which become the goals of revision.

An analytic essay’s basic components include:

• a clear central argument or thesis, • a sense of ideas becoming deeper or richer as the paper progresses, • the use of evidence—specific details and quotations—from the literary

work, • a series of well-organized paragraphs that sequentially develop the thesis,

and • the presentation of original insights in the writer’s voice and in a clear, cor-

rect writing style.

The revision process can include making large-scale changes, such as redefining the paper’s central idea or rearranging the order of paragraphs, and small-scale changes, such as improving word choice. It is best to work on the level of ideas first and to save working on such issues as grammatical correctness for a final step. Let’s look at Owen’s first draft, noting ideas that he could develop further. We can then examine what ideas he chose to expand in his revised draft.

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ha Jin Ha Jin is the pseudonym taken by Xuefei Jin, who was born in China in 1945. once his military service had ended, he studied the English language and then focused on English literature in his undergraduate and graduate work in Chinese universi- ties. He came to the United States in the mid-1980s to attend graduate school at Brandeis University, and later he did advanced work in creative writing at Boston University. Ha Jin has published two books of poetry, three novels, and several collections of short stories, including Ocean of Words (1996) and Under the Red Flag (1997). He is a professor in the English department at Boston University.

Saboteur

Mr. Chiu and his bride were having lunch in the square before Muji Train Station. On the table between them were two bottles of soda spewing out brown foam and two paper boxes of rice and sauteed cucumber and pork. “Let’s eat,” he said to her, and broke the connected ends of the chopsticks. He picked up a slice of streaky pork and put it into his mouth. As he was chewing, a few crinkles appeared on his thin jaw.

To his right, at another table, two railroad policemen were drinking tea and laughing; it seemed that the stout, middle-aged man was telling a joke to his young comrade, who was tall and of athletic build. Now and again they would steal a glance at Mr. Chiu’s table.

The air smelled of rotten melon. A few flies kept buzzing above the couple’s lunch. Hundreds of people were rushing around to get on the platform or to catch buses to downtown. Food and fruit vendors were crying for customers in lazy voices. About a dozen young women, representing the local hotels, held up plac- ards which displayed the daily prices and words as large as a palm, like free meals, air-conditioning, and on the river. In the center of the square stood a concrete statue of Chairman Mao, at whose feet peasants were napping, their backs on the warm granite and their faces toward the sunny sky. A flock of pigeons perched on the Chairman’s raised hand and forearm.

The rice and cucumber tasted good, and Mr. Chiu was eating unhurriedly. His sallow face showed exhaustion. He was glad that the honeymoon was finally over and that he and his bride were heading back for Harbin. During the two weeks’ vacation, he had been worried about his liver, because three months ago he had suffered from acute hepatitis; he was afraid he might have a relapse. But he had had no severe symptoms, despite his liver being still big and tender. On the whole he was pleased with his health, which could endure even the strain of a honey- moon; indeed, he was on the course of recovery. He looked at his bride, who took off her wire glasses, kneading the root of her nose with her fingertips. Beads of sweat coated her pale cheeks.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he asked. “I have a headache. I didn’t sleep well last night.” “Take an aspirin, will you?” “It’s not that serious. Tomorrow is Sunday and I can sleep in. Don’t worry.” As they were talking, the stout policeman at the next table stood up and threw

a bowl of tea in their direction. Both Mr. Chiu’s and his bride’s sandals were wet instantly.

“Hooligan!” she said in a low voice. Mr. Chiu got to his feet and said out loud, “Comrade Policeman, why did you

do this?” He stretched out his right foot to show the wet sandal.

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Jin • Saboteur    281

“Do what?” the stout man asked huskily, glaring at Mr. Chiu while the young fellow was whistling.

“See, you dumped tea on our feet.” “You’re lying, You wet your shoes yourself.” “Comrade Policeman, your duty is to keep order, but you purposely tortured

us common citizens. Why violate the law you are supposed to enforce?” As Mr. Chiu was speaking, dozens of people began gathering around.

With a wave of his hand, the man said to the young fellow, “Let’s get hold of him!”

They grabbed Mr. Chiu and clamped handcuffs around his wrists. He cried, “You can’t do this to me. This is utterly unreasonable.”

“Shut up!” The man pulled out his pistol. “You can use your tongue at our headquarters.”

The young fellow added, “You’re a saboteur, you know that? You’re disrupting public order.”

The bride was too petrified to say anything coherent. She was a recent college graduate, had majored in fine arts, and had never seen the police make an arrest. All she could say was, “Oh, please, please!”

The policemen were pulling Mr. Chiu, but he refused to go with them, holding the corner of the table and shouting, “We have a train to catch. We already bought the tickets.”

The stout man punched him in the chest, “Shut up. Let your ticket expire.” With the pistol butt he chopped Mr. Chiu’s hands, which at once released the table. Together the two men were dragging him away to the police station.

Realizing he had to go with them, Mr. Chiu turned his head and shouted to his bride, “Don’t wait for me here. Take the train. If I’m not back by tomorrow morn- ing, send someone over to get me out.”

She nodded, covering her sobbing mouth with her palm.

* * * *

After removing his belt, they locked Mr. Chiu into a cell in the back of the Railroad Police Station. The single window in the room was blocked by six steel bars; it faced a spacious yard, in which stood a few pines. Beyond the trees, two swings hung from an iron frame, swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in the building a cleaver was chopping rhythmically. There must be a kitchen upstairs, Mr. Chiu thought.

He was too exhausted to worry about what they would do to him, so he lay down on the narrow bed and shut his eyes. He wasn’t afraid. The Cultural Revolution was over already, and recently the Party had been propagating the idea that all citizens were equal before the law. The police ought to be a law-abiding model for common people. As long as he remained coolheaded and reasoned with them, they probably wouldn’t harm him.

Late in the afternoon he was taken to the Interrogation Bureau on the sec- ond floor. On his way there, in the stairwell, he ran into the middle-aged police- man who had manhandled him. The man grinned, rolling his bulgy eyes and pointing his fingers at him as if firing a pistol. Egg of a tortoise! Mr. Chiu cursed mentally.

The moment he sat down in the office, he burped, his palm shielding his mouth. In front of him, across a long desk, sat the chief of the bureau and a donkey-faced man. On the glass desktop was a folder containing information on his case. He felt it bizarre that in just a matter of hours they had accumulated a

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small pile of writing about him. On second thought he began to wonder whether they had kept a file on him all the time. How could this have happened? He lived and worked in Harbin, more than three hundred miles away, and this was his first time in Muji City.

The chief of the bureau was a thin, bald man who looked serene and intelli- gent. His slim hands handled the written pages in the folder in the manner of a lecturing scholar. To Mr. Chiu’s left sat a young scribe, with a clipboard on his knee and a black fountain pen in his hand.

“Your name?” the chief asked, apparently reading out the question from a form.

“Chiu Maguang.” “Age?” “Thirty-four.” “Profession?” “Lecturer.” “Work unit?” “Harbin University.” “Political status?” “Communist Party member.” The chief put down the paper and began to speak. “Your crime is sabotage,

although it hasn’t induced serious consequences yet. Because you are a Party member, you should be punished more. You have failed to be a model for the masses and you—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Mr. Chiu cut him off. “What?” “I didn’t do anything. Your men are the saboteurs of our social order. They

threw hot tea on my feet and on my wife’s feet. Logically speaking, you should criticize them, if not punish them.”

“That statement is groundless. You have no witness. Why should I believe you?” the chief said matter-of-factly.

“This is my evidence.” He raised his right hand. “Your man hit my fingers with a pistol.”

“That doesn’t prove how your feet got wet. Besides, you could have hurt your fingers yourself.”

“But I am telling the truth!” Anger flared up in Mr. Chiu. “Your police station owes me an apology. My train ticket has expired, my new leather sandals are ruined, and I am late for a conference in the provincial capital. You must compen- sate me for the damage and losses. Don’t mistake me for a common citizen who would tremble when you sneeze. I’m a scholar, a philosopher, and an expert in dialectical materialism. If necessary, we will argue about this in The Northeastern Daily, or we will go to the highest People’s Court in Beijing. Tell me, what’s your name?” He got carried away with his harangue, which was by no means trivial and had worked to his advantage on numerous occasions.

“Stop bluffing us,” the donkey-faced man broke in. “We have seen a lot of your kind. We can easily prove you are guilty. Here are some of the statements given by eyewitnesses.” He pushed a few sheets of paper toward Mr. Chiu.

Mr. Chiu was dazed to see the different handwritings, which all stated that he had shouted in the square to attract attention and refused to obey the police. One of the witnesses had identified herself as a purchasing agent from a shipyard in Shanghai. Something stirred in Mr. Chiu’s stomach, a pain rising to his rib. He gave out a faint moan.

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“Now you have to admit you are guilty,” the chief said. “Although it’s a serious crime, we won’t punish you severely, provided you write out a self-criticism and promise that you won’t disrupt the public order again. In other words, your release will depend on your attitude toward this crime.”

“You’re daydreaming,” Mr. Chiu cried. “I won’t write a word, because I’m in- nocent. I demand that you provide me with a letter of apology so I can explain to my university why I’m late.”

Both the interrogators smiled contemptuously. “Well, we’ve never done that,” said the chief, taking a puff at his cigarette.

“Then make this a precedent.” “That’s unnecessary. We are pretty certain that you will comply with our

wishes.” The chief blew a column of smoke toward Mr. Chiu’s face. At the tilt of the chief’s head, two guards stepped forward and grabbed the

criminal by the arms. Mr. Chiu meanwhile went on saying, “I shall report you to the Provincial Administration. You’ll have to pay for this! You are worse than the Japanese military police.”

They dragged him out of the room.

* * * *

After dinner, which consisted of a bowl of millet porridge, a corn bun, and a piece of pickled turnip, Mr. Chiu began to have a fever, shaking with a chill and sweating profusely. He knew that the fire of anger had gotten into his liver and that he was probably having a relapse. No medicine was available, because his briefcase had been left with his bride. At home it would have been time for him to sit in front of their color TV, drinking jasmine tea and watching the evening news. It was so lone- some in here. The orange bulb above the single bed was the only source of light, which enabled the guards to keep him under surveillance at night. A moment ago he had asked them for a newspaper or a magazine to read, but they turned him down.

Through the small opening on the door noises came in. It seemed that the police on duty were playing cards or chess in a nearby office; shouts and laughter could be heard now and then. Meanwhile, an accordion kept coughing from a remote corner in the building. Looking at the ballpoint and the letter paper left for him by the guards when they took him back from the Interrogation Bureau, Mr. Chiu remembered the old saying, “When a scholar runs into soldiers, the more he argues, the muddier his point becomes.” How ridiculous this whole thing was. He ruffled his thick hair with his fingers.

He felt miserable, massaging his stomach continually. To tell the truth, he was more upset than frightened, because he would have to catch up with his work once he was back home—a paper that was due at the printers next week, and two dozen books he ought to read for the courses he was going to teach in the fall.

A human shadow flitted across the opening. Mr. Chiu rushed to the door and shouted through the hole, “Comrade Guard, Comrade Guard!”

“What do you want?” a voice rasped. “I want you to inform your leaders that I’m very sick. I have heart disease and

hepatitis. I may die here if you keep me like this without medication.” “No leader is on duty on the weekend. You have to wait till Monday.” “What? You mean I’ll stay in here tomorrow?” “Yes.” “Your station will be held responsible if anything happens to me.” “We know that. Take it easy, you won’t die.”

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It seemed illogical that Mr. Chiu slept quite well that night, though the light above his head had been on all the time and the straw mattress was hard and infested with fleas. He was afraid of ticks, mosquitoes, cockroaches—any kind of insect but fleas and bedbugs. Once, in the countryside, where his school’s faculty and staff had helped the peasants harvest crops for a week, his colleagues had joked about his flesh, which they said must have tasted nonhuman to fleas. Except for him, they were all afflicted with hundreds of bites.

More amazing now, he didn’t miss his bride a lot. He even enjoyed sleeping alone, perhaps because the honeymoon had tired him out and he needed more rest.

The backyard was quiet on Sunday morning. Pale sunlight streamed through the pine branches. A few sparrows were jumping on the ground, catching caterpil- lars and ladybugs. Holding the steel bars, Mr. Chiu inhaled the morning air, which smelled meaty. There must have been an eatery or a cooked-meat stand nearby. He reminded himself that he should take this detention with case. A sentence that Chairman Mao had written to a hospitalized friend rose in his mind: “Since you are already in here, you may as well stay and make the best of it.”

His desire for peace of mind originated in his fear that his hepatitis might get worse. He tried to remain unperturbed. However, he was sure that his liver was swelling up, since the fever still persisted. For a whole day he lay in bed, thinking about his paper on the nature of contradictions. Time and again he was over- whelmed by anger, cursing aloud, “A bunch of thugs!” He swore that once he was out, he would write an article about this experience. He had better find out some of the policemen’s names.

It turned out to be a restful day for the most part; he was certain that his university would send somebody to his rescue. All he should do now was remain calm and wait patiently. Sooner or later the police would have to release him, although they had no idea that he might refuse to leave unless they wrote him an apology. Damn those hoodlums, they had ordered more than they could eat!

* * * *

When he woke up on Monday morning, it was already light. Somewhere a man was moaning; the sound came from the backyard. After a long yawn, and kicking off the tattered blanket, Mr. Chiu climbed out of bed and went to the window. In the middle of the yard, a young man was fastened to a pine, his wrists handcuffed around the trunk from behind He was wriggling and swearing loudly, but there was no sight of anyone else in the yard. He looked familiar to Mr. Chiu.

Mr. Chiu squinted his eyes to see who it was. To his astonishment, he recog- nized the man, who was Fenjin, a recent graduate from the Law Department at Harbin University. Two years ago Mr. Chiu had taught a course in Marxist material- ism, in which Fenjin had enrolled. Now, how on earth had this young devil landed here?

Then it dawned on him that Fenjin must have been sent over by his bride. What a stupid woman! A hookworm, who only knew how to read foreign novels! He had expected that she would contact the school’s Security Section, which would for sure send a cadre here. Fenjin held no official position; he merely worked in a private law firm that had just two lawyers; in fact, they had little business except for some detective work for men and women who suspected their spouses of hav- ing extramarital affairs. Mr. Chiu was overcome with a wave of nausea.

Should he call out to let his student know he was nearby? He decided not to, because he didn’t know what had happened. Fenjin must have quarreled with the

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police to incur such a punishment. Yet this could never have occurred if Fenjin hadn’t come to his rescue. So no matter what, Mr. Chiu had to do something. But what could he do?

It was going to be a scorcher. He could see purple steam shimmering and rising from the ground among the pines. Poor devil, he thought, as he raised a bowl of corn glue to his mouth, sipped, and took a bite of a piece of salted celery.

When a guard came to collect the bowl and the chopsticks, Mr. Chiu asked him what had happened to the man in the backyard. “He called our boss ‘bandit,’ ” the guard said. “He claimed he was a lawyer or something. An arrogant son of a rabbit.”

Now it was obvious to Mr. Chiu that he had to do something to help his res- cuer. Before he could figure out a way, a scream broke out in the backyard. He rushed to the window and saw a tall policeman standing before Fenjin, an iron bucket on the ground. It was the same young fellow who had arrested Mr. Chiu in the square two days before. The man pinched Fenjin’s nose, then raised his hand, which stayed in the air for a few seconds, then slapped the lawyer across the face. As Fenjin was groaning, the man lifted up the bucket and poured water on his head.

“This will keep you from getting sunstroke, boy. I’ll give you some more every hour,” the man said loudly.

Fenjin kept his eyes shut, yet his wry face showed that he was struggling to hold back from cursing the policeman, or, more likely, that he was sobbing in silence. He sneezed, then raised his face and shouted, “Let me go take a piss.”

“Oh yeah?” the man bawled. “Pee in your pants.” Still Mr, Chiu didn’t make any noise, gripping the steel bars with both hands,

his fingers white. The policeman turned and glanced at the cell’s window; his pis- tol, partly bolstered, glittered in the sun. With a snort he spat his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped it into the dust.

Then the door opened and the guards motioned Mr. Chiu to come out. Again they took him upstairs to the Interrogation Bureau.

The same men were in the office, though this time the scribe was sitting there empty-handed. At the sight of Mr. Chiu the chief said, “Ah, here you are. Please be seated.”

After Mr. Chiu sat down, the chief waved a white silk fan and said to him, “You may have seen your lawyer. He’s a young man without manners, so our director had him taught a crash course in the backyard.”

“It’s illegal to do that. Aren’t you afraid to appear in a newspaper?” “No, we are not, not even on TV. What else can you do? We are not afraid of

any story you make up. We call it fiction. What we do care about is that you coop- erate with us. That is to say, you must admit your crime.”

“What if I refuse to cooperate?” “Then your lawyer will continue his education in the sunshine.” A swoon swayed Mr. Chiu, and he held the arms of the chair to steady himself.

A numb pain stung him in the upper stomach and nauseated him, and his head was throbbing. He was sure that the hepatitis was finally attacking him. Anger was flaming up in his chest; his throat was tight and clogged.

The chief resumed, “As a matter of fact, you don’t even have to write out your self-criticism. We have your crime described clearly here. All we need is your signature.”

Holding back his rage, Mr. Chiu said, “Let me look at that.”

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With a smirk the donkey-faced man handed him a sheet, which carried words:

I hereby admit that on July 13 I disrupted public order at Muji Train Station, and that I refused to listen to reason when the railroad police issued their warning. Thus I myself am responsible for my arrest. After two days’ detention, I have real- ized the reactionary nature of my crime. From now on, I shall continue to educate myself with all my effort and shall never commit this kind of crime again.

A voice started screaming in Mr. Chiu’s ears, “Lie, lie!” But he shook his head and forced the voice away. He asked the chief, “If I sign this, will you release both my lawyer and me?”

“Of course, we’ll do that.” The chief was drumming his fingers on the blue folder—their file on him,

Mr. Chiu signed his name and put his thumbprint under his signature. “Now you are free to go,” the chief said with a smile, and handed him a piece

of paper to wipe his thumb with. Mr. Chiu was so sick that he couldn’t stand up from the chair at first try. Then

he doubled his effort and rose to his feet. He staggered out of the building to meet his lawyer in the backyard, having forgotten to ask for his belt back. In his chest he felt as though there were a bomb. If he were able to, he would have razed the entire police station and eliminated all their families. Though he knew he could do nothing like that, he made up his mind to do something.

* * * *

“I’m sorry about this torture, Fenjin,” Mr. Chiu said when they met. “It doesn’t matter. They are savages.” The lawyer brushed a patch of dirt off his

jacket with trembling fingers. Water was still dribbling from the bottoms of his trouser legs.

“Let’s go now,” the teacher said. The moment they came out of the police station, Mr. Chiu caught sight of a tea

stand. He grabbed Fenjin’s arm and walked over to the old woman at the table. “Two bowls of black tea,” he said and banded her a one-yuan note.

After the first bowl, they each had another one. Then they set out for the train station. But before they walked fifty yards, Mr. Chiu insisted on eating a bowl of tree-ear soup at a food stand. Fenjin agreed. He told his teacher, “You mustn’t treat me like a guest.”

“No, I want to eat something myself.” As if dying of hunger, Mr. Chiu dragged his lawyer from restaurant to restaurant

near the police station, but at each place he ordered no more than two bowls of food. Fenjin wondered why his teacher wouldn’t stay at one place and eat his fill.

Mr. Chiu bought noodles, wonton, eight-grain porridge, and chicken soup, respectively, at four restaurants. While eating, he kept saying through his teeth. “If only I could kill all the bastards!” At the last place he merely took a few sips of the soup without tasting the chicken cubes and mushrooms.

Fenjin was baffled by his teacher, who looked ferocious and muttered to him- self mysteriously, and whose jaundiced face was covered with dark puckers. For the first time Fenjin thought of Mr. Chiu as an ugly man.

* * * *

Within a month over eight hundred people contracted acute hepatitis in Muji. Six died of the disease, including two children. Nobody knew how the epidemic had started.

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Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Reread the ending of this story, and then write a paraphrase of it. What happens in the last two lines of the story? Why did it happen?

2. What does the title of the story mean? What is a saboteur? Look up a dictionary definition of the word. After you analyze the ending of the story, how would you explain the title of the story?

3. What is the “crime” that Mr. Chiu commits at the beginning of the story? What makes the arrest unfair? How does the context of the arrest, such as the fact that Mr. Chiu is on his honeymoon, make the arrest seem particularly unjust? Is Ha Jin offering a critique of Chinese society? As depicted in this story, what elements of Chinese society seem most problematic?

4. How does Ha Jin convey Mr. Chiu’s worsening health? Annotate the story, not- ing particularly vivid sentences that capture Mr. Chiu’s physical state. Do these descriptions start to have an impact on you as a reader? Do the descriptions make you feel the illness?

5. Who is Fenjin? What role does he play in the story? 6. Why does Mr. Chiu sign the confession? What causes him to give in to the

pressure of the police? Does he compromise his principles by signing the confession?

Student Analytical Essay: “Morals in Ha Jin’s ‘Saboteur’” (Preliminary Draft)

Ha Jin’s short story “Saboteur” tells a story of revenge. The story questions if that revenge is morally correct. The story details the unfair arrest and imprisonment of Mr. Chui and, later, his lawyer-student, Fenjin. Mr. Chui confesses to the “crime” of disrupting public order, and is then released. After being released from the prison in Muji, Mr. Chui purposely eats at several food stands, infecting the dishes with the hepatitis disease he is carrying. At the end of the story, his revenge is complete: eight hundred people in Muji have contracted hepatitis and six people have died. The story asks its readers to judge Mr. Chui as an individual and to decide if his revenge is morally right or wrong.

“Saboteur” explores the individual, asking us to judge the individual’s moral actions. The short story’s third-person narrator focuses on Mr. Chui as the protagonist, keeping him at the center of the story and making him a sympathetic character. He represents the idea of the individual faced with a moral challenge. When he returns from his honeymoon, Mr. Chui is filled with “exhaustion,” is feeling “worried,” and has just gotten over a serious hepatitis attack. A restful lunch with his wife is interrupted when a policeman throws a bowl of tea at their feet; when Mr. Chui questions their actions, he is arrested for disturbing the peace.

“Saboteur” develops the idea of the individual by showing that Mr. Chui’s individual rights are abused. Mr. Chui’s is treated unfairly when he is locked in jail and forced to sign a confession to his “crime” of disrupting society, a crime he did not commit. The police chief demands that Mr. Chui confess, saying, “Now you have to admit you are guilty. Although it’s a serious crime, we won’t punish you severely, provided you write out a self-criticism and promise that you won’t disrupt the public order again” (283). The story presents Mr. Chui as a person of integrity. At first, he maintains his innocence and demands an apology. Then, he becomes increasingly sick and feverish due to his hepatitis. However, even though he is in this physical pain, he still defends

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his innocence. The narrator presents a complex picture of the individual, showing how Mr. Chui’s external actions must reveal his internal beliefs. Fenjin comes to help Mr. Chui and is physically abused after being handcuffed to a tree. Mr. Chui feels “Anger was flaming up in his chest; his throat was tight and clogged” (285). The police manipulate Mr. Chui, telling him that they will release Fenjin only if Mr. Chui signs a confession. Mr. Chui decides to sign the confession, even though it goes against everything he believes. The narrator describes Mr. Chui’s internal struggle as he decides to go against his beliefs: “A voice started screaming in Mr. Chui’s ears, “lie, lie!” Mr. Chui is willing to go against his beliefs for the higher purpose of saving his lawyer-student from physical abuse.

Although Mr. Chui has been mistreated and been forced to go against his principles, our sympathy for Mr. Chui is soon tested by his act of revenge. Immediately after signing the confession paper, Mr. Chui decides on revenge, thinking that he would tear down the police department and kills their families, but he immediately admits he can’t do that. We know Mr. Chui has been wronged.

We are so sympathetic to Mr. Chui as an individual that we want him to have some sort of revenge against the police: he has used his hepatitis, which was triggered by the police, to seek revenge on the city.

Because the story focuses on Mr. Chui, it is easy to see the story as most concerned with the individual. The story shows an “individual vs. society” theme: Mr. Chui has been mistreated by society and, as an individual, he needs revenge or at least to find some justice. Because Mr. Chui is presented in a sympathetic light, we want him to achieve revenge. But, we need to think about the impact that revenge has on innocent lives. If we look at the individual lives of the people who die of hepatitis, it forces us to see Mr. Chui’s revenge as immoral. Examining the story through the individual helps us to ask questions about the morality and immorality of revenge.

If we remain focused only on Mr. Chui as an individual, we lose sight of some of the story’s moral questions. The story presents a society that has no sense of right and wrong. The story opens with the dramatic external conflict of the policeman throwing tea at Mr. Chui’s feet and arresting him. Then, when Mr. Chui is in jail, he confronts a corrupt police force that manufactures false evidence and forces a false confession. The police represent a society that has no sense of justice. Mr. Chui lives in a society that doesn’t believe in truth, order, innocence, and justice. Because his society does not believe in these values, does Mr. Chui have to live by those values? “Saboteur” shows us a society in which all sense of right and wrong has been lost. Mr. Chui’s actions are part of a larger society that has no sense of morally correct behavior. Although we must question Mr. Chui’s actions as an individual, the story also asks us to question the larger society that led to those actions.

Work Cited Jin, Ha. “Saboteur.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William

E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 280-86. Print.

Developing a Revision Strategy: Thesis, Ideas, Evidence, Organization, and Correctness

To guide your revision, think of the elements that make a successful paper, such as the creation of a thesis argument or the use of compelling evidence, and analyze your paper for those elements. One way of doing this is to use a checklist to guide your self-critique. We’ve created a checklist that outlines five basic revision steps. This list can be used to create a revision strategy, emphasizing the five elements of a paper that can be reviewed and strengthened: the thesis, idea development,

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evidence, organization, and correctness. We can apply this revision checklist to the rough draft of Owen’s paper, exploring if and how he engages with these five revi- sion steps as he moves toward a revised draft.

✔ R E v I S I o n C H E C K L I S T

Strengthen Your Thesis

Add focus and depth to your central argument.

Develop Your Ideas

Revisit your best responses to literary form and content, adding more thinking to those responses.

Integrate and Explain Your Evidence

Select and analyze rich, interesting quotations to provide evidence for your ideas.

Improve the Organization

Structure your ideas to follow a clear sequence.

Clarify Your Style and Edit for Correctness

Use a consistent, professional style to explain your ideas, correcting sentence structure, word usage, and grammar.

Let’s look at each of these revision goals in turn.

Strengthen Your Thesis. When you examine the draft of your paper, you should start with an essential question: “Does the draft present the main idea in the form of an argument or a thesis?” Reread the draft to see if its most important, overarching idea is captured in a thesis that (1) presents a focused argument or central claim, (2) is specific to the text under consideration, and (3) indicates some of the sophisticated thinking that will be developed in the paper. Although a thesis statement is typically one sentence in length, the paragraph that includes it should contain sentences that clarify and develop its ideas. The thesis argument will need to be concise, but the full explanation of that argument becomes the thesis paragraph.

When you examine Owen Monroe’s revised paper draft, note that he expands his thesis paragraph to include new ideas that he generates about the morality of Mr. Chui’s society. The paper’s thesis shifts from focusing on individual morality to the more complex idea that individual morality is connected to social morality. The revision process has allowed Owen to “re-see” his thesis and realize that he can make it much more interesting by adding a new argument about social morality.

Develop Your Ideas. Although you have completed a draft, you should not assume that you are done with brainstorming but, instead, view your draft as a means to continue the idea development process. The writing process itself will

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generate new ideas. While writing, new insights will pop into your head while you are trying to wrestle your thoughts down on paper. Although you might wish that you could predetermine all of your ideas before you start a paper, that wish ignores the fact that revision is needed precisely because it will help you generate new ideas. Once your paper is in draft form, you can see the gaps, missing pieces, and unclear ideas that need fixing—and the hints of new ideas that need developing.

Note that Owen’s revised draft has become much longer. He uses the revision process to expand his thinking, adding new arguments to his paper. In Owen’s first draft, ideas concerning Mr. Chui’s corrupt social context are mentioned in the last paragraph. Through the revision process, these ideas are expanded, generating several new paragraphs and a new thesis argument.

Integrate and Explain Your Evidence. The revision process also focuses on the textual evidence used to develop the paper’s ideas. In almost every paper, the use of quotations from the text can be improved. Are the ideas in the paper supported with carefully selected and explained quotations? Does the paper show how your opinions, thoughts, and arguments evolve out of the literary text? Have you “digested” the quotations, integrating them into your own writing?

As he rereads his draft, Owen marks any ideas that seem unsupported, that could be made richer by citing from the text, or that seem to refer to the literary text without quoting from it. For example, Owen notes that the second half of his paper contains no direct quotations, signaling a weak use of evidence. He adds additional quotations and uses them to support the new ideas that he has been developing in the drafting process. Crucially, never engage in plagiarism, which is the undocumented use of another person’s words or ideas. As shown in Appendix B the use of source materials must be documented through correct citation. Owen also checks his parenthetical citations and Works Cited list.

Improve the Organization. As you improve the ideas of your paper draft, the organization of the paper may need to change to capture those ideas. As part of the revision process, you may need to revisit the paper’s original outline and determine if the paper’s central arguments are changing, shifting, being empha- sized, or being erased.

As Owen revises his paper draft, he realizes that one of his best ideas—that Mr. Chui lives in an unjust society, making it difficult to question his morality—is buried in his last paragraph. He decides to make that idea his thesis, a central part of his paper’s overarching claim. Note how the topic and concluding sentences in his first draft’s last paragraph have been moved forward to the thesis paragraph in his revised draft. These ideas are then fully developed in his new body paragraphs. Also note how Owen’s first draft contains paragraphs of very uneven lengths: A very long body paragraph is followed by very short paragraphs, and one of his paragraphs is only one sentence long. In his revision, Owen creates a more bal- anced paragraph structure. He uses paragraph breaks to emphasize the introduc- tion of new subpoints, and he connects together paragraphs that are working on the same idea. In his final draft, Owen presents ideas that are more complex than those in his first draft, and he also presents them in a more organized and balanced fashion.

Clarify Your Style and Edit for Correctness. A final revision strategy asks you to analyze a paper for its writing style. Does the draft explain ideas in a precise way? Does the draft clarify ideas by defining key terms? Does the draft avoid generalizations? Does the draft avoid overly general references to outside ideas and, instead, use specific references to specific aspects of the text? As part of

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clarifying the paper’s style, you should revise a draft to avoid tentative-sounding “could be,” “might be,” or “perhaps” phrasing. You should strive to avoid the rep- etition of words or phrases. Finally, you should use academic language rather than casual expressions.

As part of his revision, Owen rereads his draft, looking for places where his ideas are hidden by very general sentences, tentative claims, or nonacademic phrasing. He continues to improve his ideas by polishing his language.

Student Analytical Essay: “Individual and Social Morals in Ha Jin’s ‘Saboteur’” (Final Draft)

As you read Owen’s final draft, refer back to his first draft. He has expanded his paper’s length, meeting the expectations of the assignment. Has this increased length allowed him to improve his ideas and argument?

Monroe 1

Owen Monroe

Professor Garcia

English 102

21 April 2016

Individual and Social Morals in Ha Jin’s “Saboteur”

Ha Jin’s short story “Saboteur” tells a story of revenge. The story ends

with a successful act of revenge, but the story questions if that revenge is

morally correct. The story details the unfair arrest and imprisonment of Mr.

Chui and, later, his lawyer-student, Fenjin. Mr. Chui confesses to the “crime”

of disrupting public order, and is then released. After being released from the

prison in Muji, Mr. Chui purposely eats at several food stands, infecting the

dishes with the hepatitis disease he is carrying. At the end of the story, his

revenge is complete: we learn that eight hundred people in Muji contracted

hepatitis, and “six died of the disease, including two children” (286). The

story asks its readers to judge Mr. Chui as an individual and to decide if his

revenge is morally right or wrong. However, if we remain focused only on

Mr. Chui as an individual, we lose sight of some of the story’s moral questions.

“Saboteur” shows us a society in which all sense of right and wrong has been

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Monroe 2

lost. Mr. Chui’s actions are part of a larger society that has no sense of

morally correct behavior. Although we must question Mr. Chui’s actions as

an individual, the story also asks us to question the larger society that led

to those actions.

“Saboteur” explores the individual, asking us to judge the

individual’s moral actions. The short story’s third-person narrator focuses

on Mr. Chui as the protagonist, keeping him at the center of the story and

making him a sympathetic character. He represents the idea of the

individual faced with a moral challenge. The story uses direct presentation

to describe his thoughts and feelings. We are explicitly told that, although

he is returning from his honeymoon, Mr. Chui is filled with “exhaustion,” is

feeling “worried,” and has just gotten over a serious hepatitis attack (280).

A restful lunch with his wife is interrupted when a policeman throws a bowl

of tea at their feet, wetting their sandals. The act is unfair to Mr. Chui.

Although the story’s two policemen are clearly provoking Mr. Chui, when he

questions their actions, he is arrested for disturbing the peace. The

policemen call him a “saboteur” and bring him to jail.

“Saboteur” develops the idea of the individual by showing that

Mr. Chui’s individual rights are abused. Mr. Chui’s is treated unfairly when he

is locked in jail and forced to sign a confession to his “crime” of disrupting

society, a crime he did not commit. The police chief demands that Mr. Chui

confess, saying, “Now you have to admit you are guilty. . . . Although it’s a

serious crime, we won’t punish you severely, provided you write out a

self-criticism and promise that you won’t disrupt the public order

again” (283). The story presents Mr. Chui as a person of integrity. At first, he

maintains his innocence and demands an apology. Then, he becomes

increasingly sick and feverish due to his hepatitis. However, even though he

is in this physical pain, he still defends his innocence. He decides, “Sooner

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Monroe 3

or later the police would have to release him, although they had no idea that

he might refuse to leave unless they wrote him an apology. Damn those

hoodlums, they had ordered more than they could eat!” (284).

The narrator presents a complex picture of the individual, showing

how Mr. Chui’s external actions must reveal his internal beliefs. Fenjin

comes to help Mr. Chui and is physically abused after being handcuffed to a

tree. Mr. Chui feels “Anger was flaming up in his chest; his throat was tight

and clogged” (285). The police manipulate Mr.Chui, telling him that they

will release Fenjin only if Mr. Chui signs a confession to the crime of

disturbing the peace. Mr. Chui decides to sign the confession, even though

it goes against everything he believes. The narrator describes Mr. Chui’s

internal struggle as he decides to go against his beliefs: “A voice started

screaming in Mr. Chui’s ears, “lie, lie!” But he shook his head and forced the

voice away. He asked the chief, ‘If I sign this, will you release both my lawyer

and me?’” (286). Here, Mr. Chui is presented as a sympathetic character full

of integrity. He is willing to go against his beliefs for the higher purpose of

saving his lawyer-student from physical abuse.

Although Mr. Chui has been mistreated and been forced to go against

his principles, our sympathy for Mr. Chui is soon tested by his act of revenge.

Immediately after signing the confession paper, Mr. Chui decides on

revenge, thinking, “If he were able to, he would have razed the entire police

station and eliminated all their families. Though he knew he could do

nothing like that, he made up his mind to do something” (286). We know

Mr. Chui has been wronged. We are so sympathetic to Mr. Chui as an

individual that we want him to have some sort of revenge against the police.

However, we are not fully aware that Mr. Chui has decided on a form of

revenge that will actually kill people. Because we want Mr. Chui to have

revenge, we might at first support him: he has used his hepatitis, which was

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triggered by the police, to seek revenge on the city. However, if we look at

his revenge from the victim’s perspective, we realize that his revenge is

morally wrong: his actions led to the deaths of six people. These innocent

people died as a result of one man being imprisoned for two days.

Because the story focuses on Mr. Chui, it is easy to see the story is

most concerned with the individual. The story shows an “individual vs.

society” theme: Mr. Chui has been mistreated by society and, as an

individual, he needs revenge or at least to find some justice. Because

Mr. Chui is presented in a sympathetic light, we want him to achieve

revenge. But, we need to think about the impact that revenge has on

innocent lives. If we look at the individual lives of the people who die of

hepatitis, it forces us to see Mr. Chui’s revenge as immoral. Examining the

story through the individual helps us to ask questions about the morality

and immorality of revenge.

To take this thinking even further, we can look at the story as

questioning society in addition to the individual. The moral questions raised

by Mr.Chui’s revenge become even more complex. Mr. Chui’s social setting

makes us question his actions on a deeper level. Is there such a thing as

morally right and wrong behavior in a society where no one, not even the

police, upholds right and wrong? Is Mr. Chui’s revenge wrong when he lives

in a society that does not seem to have any system of justice?

The story presents a society that has no sense of right and wrong. The

story opens with the dramatic external conflict of the policeman throwing

tea at Mr. Chui’s feet and arresting him. The policeman also manipulates

ideas and words. When Mr. Chui asks why the policeman threw the tea, the

policeman exclaims, “You’re lying. You wet your shoes yourself ” (281). The

policeman replaces truth with lies. He represents a society that does not

believe in truth. When Mr. Chui is arrested, the second policeman charges,

“You’re disrupting public order” (281). In reality, it is the police who are

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Monroe 5

disrupting public order. The police do not uphold public order, but create

disorder. The policemen have charged Mr. Chui with their own crime: they lie

and create chaos. Although they call Mr. Chui a “saboteur,” they are the

saboteurs (281). When Mr. Chui says that his story could appear in a

newspaper and get the police into trouble, the police say, “We are not afraid

of any story you make up. We call it fiction” (285). This statement is ironic

because the police are saying the exact opposite of what has really

happened. It is the police who are making up stories and who are presenting

fiction as truth.

When Mr. Chui is in jail, he confronts a corrupt police force that

manufactures false evidence and forces a false confession. The police

represent a society that has no sense of justice. In this society, just like

truth can be turned into lies, innocence can be turned into guilt. When

Mr. Chui maintains his innocence and argues, “I am telling the truth,” the

police argue back, “We can easily prove you are guilty. Here are some of the

statements given by eyewitnesses” (282). When Mr. Chui realizes that “in

just a matter of hours they had accumulated a small pile of writing about

him,” it becomes obvious that the police are making up materials for his

case. The police go as far as writing Mr. Chui’s confession and hand him a

confession that states, “I hereby admit that I disrupted public order at Muji

Train Station, and that I refuse to listen to reason when the railroad police

issued their warning. Thus I myself am responsible for my arrest” (286).

Each statement in this confession is false. Each of Mr. Chui’s innocent acts

has been turned against him and made into proof of his guilt.

Mr. Chui lives in a society that doesn’t believe in truth, order,

innocence, and justice. Because his society does not believe in these values,

does Mr. Chui have to live by those values? This story could be arguing that

Mr. Chui cannot be expected to uphold positive values if those values are not

part of his society. If truth, order, innocence, and justice are not used when

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Monroe 6

Mr. Chui is in jail, can society expect Mr. Chui to use those values? If

Mr. Chui’s society creates lies, disorder, guilt, and unfairness, then that

society should expect to have those values acted out. The story could be

making the point that this society needs to be punished. If this society

needs to be punished, then Mr. Chui’s revenge can be seen as correct.

“Saboteur” can be examined on the level of the individual and on the

level of society. Mr. Chui is presented as a very sympathetic character. We

know he has been mistreated as an individual, and can understand his desire

for revenge. Although we might want him to achieve revenge, we also can

see that innocent people died as a result of his spreading hepatitis. When we

think of those innocent individuals, we can see that Mr. Chui’s revenge is

wrong. However, when we focus on Mr. Chui’s society, we might come to a

different conclusion and argue that Mr. Chui’s revenge makes sense in a

society that encourages lying and disorder. Mr. Chui’s society punishes

positive values, and that society cannot expect to be treated with fairness

and kindness. Although this is a negative conclusion, “Saboteur” might be

asking the reader to think about when and why a society deserves to be

punished, even if that punishment hurts the individual.

[New page]

Monroe 7

Work Cited

Jin, Ha. “Saboteur.” Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto,

William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017.

280-86. Print.

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Eliot • The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock    297

Your Turn: Additional Poems and Story for Interpretation

Poems

T. s. elioT Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888–1965) was born into a New England family that had moved to St. Louis, Missouri. He attended a pri- vate school in Massachusetts, graduated from Harvard, and did further study in literature and philosophy in France, Germany, and England. In 1914, he began working for Lloyd’s Bank in London, and three years later, he published his first book of poems (it included “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”). In 1925, he joined a publishing firm, and in 1927, he became a British citi- zen and a member of the Church of England. Much of his later poetry, unlike “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” is highly religious. In 1948, Eliot received the Nobel Prize in Literature.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’ odo il vero, Senza tema d’infama ti rispondo.*

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question . . . Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

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*in Dante’s Inferno 27.61–66, a damned soul who had sought absolution before committing a crime addresses Dante, thinking that his words will never reach the Earth: “if i believed that my answer were to a person who could ever return to the world, this flame would no longer quiver. But because no one ever returned from this depth, if what i hear is true without fear of infamy, i answer you.”

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The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days° of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall° Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

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29 works and days “Works and Days” is the title of a poem on farm life by Hesiod (eighth century BCE).

52 dying fall this line echoes Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night 1.1.4.

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And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

. . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald]

brought in upon a platter,°

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; And I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball° To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus,° come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.”

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Eliot • The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock    299

81–83 But . . . platter these lines allude to John the Baptist (see Matthew 14:1–11). 92 To have . . . ball this line echoes lines 41–42 of Marvell’s “to His Coy Mistress” (see page 351). 94 Lazarus See luke 16 and John 11.

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And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets. After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along

the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all, That is not what I meant at all.”

. . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence,° but a bit obtuse;° At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[1910–11]

117 full of high sentence see Chaucer’s description of the Clerk of oxford in the Canterbury Tales. 112–117 Am . . . obtuse these lines allude to Polonius and perhaps other figures in Hamlet.

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. How does the speaker’s name help to characterize him? What suggestions—of class, race, or personality—do you find in it? Does the title of this poem strike you as ironic? If so, how or why?

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harDy • The Man He Killed    301

2. What qualities of big-city life are suggested in the poem? How are these quali- ties linked to the speaker’s mood? What other details of the setting—the weather, the time of day—express or reflect his mood? What images do you find espe- cially striking?

3. The speaker’s thoughts are represented in a stream-of-consciousness mono- logue, that is, in what appears to be an unedited flow of thought. Nevertheless, they reveal a story. What is the story?

4. In a paragraph, characterize Prufrock as he might be characterized by one of the women in the poem, and then, in a paragraph or two, offer your own char- acterization of him.

5. Consider the possibility that the “you” whom Prufrock is addressing is not a listener but one aspect of Prufrock and that the “I” is another aspect of Prufrock. Given this possibility, in a paragraph characterize the “you,” and in another paragraph characterize the “I.”

6. Prufrock has gone to a therapist, a psychiatrist, or a member of the clergy for help. Write a five-hundred-word transcript of their session.

thoMas harDy Thomas Hardy (1840–1928) was born in Dorset, England, the son of a stonemason. Despite great obstacles, he studied the Classics and architecture, and in 1862 he moved to London to study and practice as an architect. Ill health forced him to return to Dorset, where he continued to work as an architect and to write. Best known for his novels, Hardy ceased writing fiction after the hostile reception of Jude the Obscure in 1896 and turned to writing lyric poetry.

The Man He Killed

“Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin!°

“But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place.

“I shot him dead because— Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That’s clear enough; although

“He thought he’d ’list, perhaps, Off-hand—just as I— Was out of work—had sold his traps°— No other reason why.

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4 nipperkin cup. 15 traps personal belongings.

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“Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You’d treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown.”

[1902]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What do we learn about the speaker’s life before he enlisted in the infantry? How does his diction characterize him?

2. What is the effect of the series of monosyllables in lines 7 and 8? 3. Consider the punctuation of the third and fourth stanzas. Why are the heavy,

frequent pauses appropriate? What question is the speaker trying to answer? 4. In the last stanza, what attitudes toward war does the speaker express? What,

from the evidence of this poem, would you infer Hardy’s attitude toward war to be? Cite evidence to support your argument.

anne braDstreet Born in England in 1612 and educated by her father, Anne Bradstreet emigrated to Massachusetts in 1630 and lived there until her death in 1672. She is considered the first female poet of the New World. As a Puritan writer, Bradstreet often explored her spiritual struggles and addressed themes of sin, death, and salvation. Her poetry also expressed her devotion to her husband and deep love for her eight children.

Before the Birth of One of Her Children

All things within this fading world hath end, Adversity doth still our joyes attend; No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet, But with death’s parting blow is sure to meet. The sentence past is most irrevocable, A common thing, yet oh inevitable. How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend, How soon’t may be thy Lot to lose thy friend, We are both ignorant, yet love bids me These farewell lines to recommend to thee, That when that knot’s untied that made us one, I may seem thine, who in effect am none. And if I see not half my dayes that’s due, What nature would, God grant to yours and you; The many faults that well you know I have Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave; If any worth or virtue were in me, Let that live freshly in thy memory And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms, Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms. And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains Look to my little babes, my dear remains.

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rossetti • After Death    303

And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me, These o protect from step Dames injury. And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse, With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse; And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake, Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

[1678]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In this poem, Bradstreet addresses her fear of dying in childbirth. How does she come to terms with this fear? Reread the poem, and then make a list of the dif- ferent ways in which she tries to prepare for death. For example, she starts by reminding herself that everyone must die. She then moves on to addressing her husband. What other rationalizations does she provide?

2. If she dies, what will Bradstreet leave behind? Find the lines that contain an explanation of her different legacies. Will these legacies help her to live beyond death?

3. Bradstreet writes many poems about her husband and children. Search the In- ternet for one of these poems. How would you describe Bradstreet’s emotional connection to her family?

4. Look ahead to the next poem, Christina Rossetti’s “After Death,” which also dis- cusses death. How would you compare these two different female narrators’ stance toward death? Do these narrators ultimately accept or reject death?

Christina rossetti Christina Rossetti was a poet who experienced success during her lifetime, and she continues to be recognized as one of the most important poets of Victorian Eng- land. Born in 1830, she was raised in a well-educated family that valued the study of poetry, art, history, and languages. Rossetti and her three siblings pursued artis- tic and intellectual careers; her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti is a famous Pre- Raphaelite painter. Christina suffered from ill health, and her poetry often features meditations on the body, death, and loss. Her poetry conveys these complex themes in a direct and powerful style. She is best known for her narrative poem, “Goblin Market,” published in 1862.

After Death

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, ‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

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He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold.

[1862]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Who is the speaker of this poem? Where is she located? What is her physical status?

2. What is the relationship between the speaker of the poem and the man who visits her? Reread the poem to understand the emotions that underlie its direct style. What rather harsh insights does the speaker have into the man and his emotions? How have his emotions changed or evolved?

3. What are the actions of the male visitor? Why does he say “Poor child, poor child”? What are the actions of the speaker of the poem?

4. What do you make of the last line of the poem? The speaker states, “very sweet it is / To know he still is warm though I am cold.” Why is this knowledge “very sweet”?

freD ChaPPell A novelist and poet, Fred Chappell was born in North Carolina in 1936 and continues to live there. He taught at the University of North Carolina–Greensboro and served as the state’s poet laureate from 1997 to 2002. Some of his most ambitious story and poem collections are autobiographical and take the form of linked multivolume works.

Narcissus and Echo

Shall the water not remember Ember my hand’s slow gesture, tracing above of its mirror my half-imaginary airy portrait? My only belonging longing; is my beauty, which I take ache away and then return, as love of of teasing playfully the one being unbeing. whose gratitude I treasure Is your moves me. I live apart heart from myself, yet cannot not live apart. In the water’s tone, stone? that brilliant silence, a flower Hour, whispers my name with such slight light: moment, it seems filament of air, fare the world become cloudswell. well.

[1983]

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Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. A unique element of this poem is the ending of each line. Examine the italicized words closely. How do those words relate to the words that immediately precede them? What is the meaning of this relationship? After you read horizon- tally and understand how each italicized word connects to its line, read vertically and read the italicized words as connecting to each other in order to create a new set of lines.

2. Read the poem aloud. Then, try to write a few new lines for the poem, imitating the sound effect of the end of each line. Can you make your new lines work with both a horizontal and vertical reading?

3. The title of the poem refers to an episode in Ovid’s Metamorphosis that retells the myth of Narcissus, the young man who is so beautiful that he falls in love with his own reflection when he gazes into a pool of water (he is memorialized with a narcissus flower, and we get the word narcissist from this myth). Do some Internet research on this story, learning Echo’s role in it and how she earns her name. Now, return to the poem with this new understanding of its inspiration. How does the poem relate to the Narcissus and Echo story?

4. Analyze the word choice of the poem. For example, notice how the words “I” and my” are repeated. How does this word repetition emphasize the theme of the poem? What other word patterns do you notice?

story

JoyCe Carol oates Joyce Carol oates was born in 1938 in Millerport, New York. She won a scholarship to Syracuse University, from which she graduated (Phi Beta Kappa and valedictorian) in 1960. She then did graduate work in English, first at the University of Wisconsin and then at Rice University, but she withdrew from Rice University in order to be able to devote more time to writing. Her first collection of stories, By the North Gate, was published in 1963; since then she has published many books— stories, poems, essays, and novels. She has received many awards, has been elected to the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and now teaches creative writing at Princeton University.

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

For Bob Dylan

Her name was Connie. She was fifteen and she had a quick nervous giggling habit of craning her neck to glance into mirrors or checking other people’s faces to make sure her own was all right. Her mother, who noticed everything and knew everything and who hadn’t much reason any longer to look at her own face, always scolded Connie about it. “Stop gawking at yourself, who are you? You think you’re so pretty?” she would say. Connie would raise her eyebrows at these familiar complaints and

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look right through her mother, into a shadowy vision of herself as she was right at that moment: she knew she was pretty and that was everything. Her mother had been pretty once too, if you could believe those old snapshots in the album, but now her looks were gone and that was why she was always after Connie.

“Why don’t you keep your room clean like your sister? How’ve you got your hair fixed—what the hell stinks? Hair spray? You don’t see your sister using that junk.”

Her sister June was twenty-four and still lived at home. She was a secretary in the high school Connie attended, and if that wasn’t bad enough—with her in the same building—she was so plain and chunky and steady that Connie had to hear her praised all the time by her mother and her mother’s sisters. June did this, June did that, she saved money and helped clean the house and cooked and Connie couldn’t do a thing, her mind was all filled with trashy daydreams. Their father was away at work most of the time and when he came home he wanted supper and he read the newspaper at supper and after supper he went to bed. He didn’t bother talking much to them, but around his bent head Connie’s mother kept picking at her until Connie wished her mother was dead and she herself was dead and it was all over. “She makes me want to throw up sometimes,” she complained to her friends. She had a high, breathless, amused voice which made everything she said sound a little forced, whether it was sincere or not.

There was one good thing: June went places with girlfriends of hers, girls who were just as plain and steady as she, and so when Connie wanted to do that her mother had no objections. The father of Connie’s best girlfriend drove the girls the three miles to town and left them off at a shopping plaza, so that they could walk through the stores or go to a movie, and when he came to pick them up again at eleven he never bothered to ask what they had done.

They must have been familiar sights, walking around that shopping plaza in their shorts and flat ballerina slippers that always scuffed the sidewalk, with charm bracelets jingling on their thin wrists; they would lean together to whisper and laugh secretly if someone passed by who amused or interested them. Connie had long dark blond hair that drew anyone’s eye to it, and she wore part of it pulled up on her head and puffed out and the rest of it she let fall down her back. She wore a pull-over jersey blouse that looked one way when she was at home and another way when she was away from home. Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home: her walk that could be childlike and bobbing, or languid enough to make anyone think she was hearing music in her head, her mouth which was pale and smirking most of the time, but bright and pink on these evenings out, her laugh which was cynical and drawling at home—“Ha, ha, very funny”—but high-pitched and nervous anywhere else, like the jingling of the charms on her bracelet.

Sometimes they did go shopping or to a movie, but sometimes they went across the highway, ducking fast across the busy road, to a drive-in restaurant where older kids hung out. The restaurant was shaped like a big bottle, though squatter than a real bottle, and on its cap was a revolving figure of a grinning boy who held a hamburger aloft. One night in midsummer they ran across, breathless with daring, and right away someone leaned out a car window and invited them over, but it was just a boy from high school they didn’t like. It made them feel good to be able to ignore him. They went up through the maze of parked and cruising cars to the bright-lit, fly-infested restaurant, their faces pleased and expectant as if they were entering a sacred building that loomed out of the night to give them what haven and what blessing they yearned for.

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They sat at the counter and crossed their legs at the ankles, their thin shoulders rigid with excitement, and listened to the music that made everything so good: the music was always in the background like music at a church service, it was something to depend upon.

A boy named Eddie came in to talk with them. He sat backward on his stool, turning himself jerkily around in semicircles and then stopping and turning again, and after a while he asked Connie if she would like something to eat. She said she did and so she tapped her friend’s arm on her way out—her friend pulled her face up into a brave droll look—and Connie said she would meet her at eleven, across the way. “I just hate to leave her like that,” Connie said earnestly, but the boy said that she wouldn’t be alone for long. So they went out to his car and on the way Connie couldn’t help but let her eyes wander over the windshields and faces all around her, her face gleaming with a joy that had nothing to do with Eddie or even this place; it might have been the music. She drew her shoulders up and sucked in her breath with the pure pleasure of being alive, and just at that moment she happened to glance at a face just a few feet from hers. It was a boy with shaggy black hair, in a convertible jalopy painted gold. He stared at her and then his lips widened into a grin. Connie slit her eyes at him and turned away, but she couldn’t help glancing back and there he was still watching her. He wagged a finger and laughed and said, “Gonna get you, baby,” and Connie turned away again without Eddie noticing anything.

She spent three hours with him, at the restaurant where they ate hamburgers and drank Cokes in wax cups that were always sweating, and then down an alley a mile or so away, and when he left her off at five to eleven only the movie house was still open at the plaza. Her girlfriend was there, talking with a boy. When Con- nie came up the two girls smiled at each other and Connie said, “How was the movie?” and the girl said, “You should know.” They rode off with the girl’s father, sleepy and pleased, and Connie couldn’t help but look at the darkened shopping plaza with its big empty parking lot and its signs that were faded and ghostly now, and over at the drive-in restaurant where cars were still circling tirelessly. She couldn’t hear the music at this distance.

Next morning June asked her how the movie was and Connie said, “So-so.” She and that girl and occasionally another girl went out several times a week

that way, and the rest of the time Connie spent around the house—it was summer vacation—getting in her mother’s way and thinking, dreaming, about the boys she met. But all the boys fell back and dissolved into a single face that was not even a face, but an idea, a feeling, mixed up with the urgent insistent pounding of the music and the humid night air of July. Connie’s mother kept dragging her back to the daylight by finding things for her to do or saying, suddenly, “What’s this about the Pettinger girl?”

And Connie would say nervously, “Oh, her. That dope.” She always drew thick clear lines between herself and such girls, and her mother was simple and kindly enough to believe her. Her mother was so simple, Connie thought, that it was maybe cruel to fool her so much. Her mother went scuffling around the house in old bedroom slippers and complained over the telephone to one sister about the other, then the other called up and the two of them complained about the third one. If June’s name was mentioned her mother’s tone was approving, and if Connie’s name was mentioned it was disapproving. This did not really mean she disliked Connie and actually Connie thought that her mother preferred her to June because she was prettier, but the two of them kept up a pretense of exasperation, a sense that they were tugging and struggling over something of little value to

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either of them. Sometimes, over coffee, they were almost friends, but something would come up—some vexation that was like a fly buzzing suddenly around their heads—and their faces went hard with contempt.

One Sunday Connie got up at eleven—none of them bothered with church— and washed her hair so that it could dry all day long, in the sun. Her parents and sister were going to a barbecue at an aunt’s house and Connie said no, she wasn’t interested, rolling her eyes to let her mother know just what she thought of it. “Stay home alone then,” her mother said sharply. Connie sat out back in a lawn chair and watched them drive away, her father quiet and bald, hunched around so that he could back the car out, her mother with a look that was still angry and not at all softened through the windshield, and in the back seat poor old June all dressed up as if she didn’t know what a barbecue was, with all the running yelling kids and the flies. Connie sat with her eyes closed in the sun, dreaming and dazed with the warmth about her as if this were a kind of love, the caresses of love, and her mind slipped over onto thoughts of the boy she had been with the night before and how nice he had been, how sweet it always was, not the way someone like June would suppose but sweet, gentle, the way it was in movies and prom- ised in songs; and when she opened her eyes she hardly knew where she was, the back yard ran off into weeds and a fence line of trees and behind it the sky was perfectly blue and still. The asbestos “ranch house” that was now three years old startled her—it looked small. She shook her head as if to get awake.

It was too hot. She went inside the house and turned on the radio to drown out the quiet. She sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot, and listened for an hour and a half to a program called XYZ Sunday Jamboree, record after record of hard, fast, shrieking songs she sang along with, interspersed by exclamations from “Bobby King”: “An’ look here you girls at Napoleon’s—Son and Charley want you to pay real close attention to this song coming up!”

And Connie paid close attention herself, bathed in a glow of slow-pulsed joy that seemed to rise mysteriously out of the music itself and lay languidly about the airless little room, breathed in and breathed out with each gentle rise and fall of her chest.

After a while she heard a car coming up the drive. She sat up at once, startled, because it couldn’t be her father so soon. The gravel kept crunching all the way in from the road—the driveway was long—and Connie ran to the window. It was a car she didn’t know. It was an open jalopy, painted a bright gold that caught the sunlight opaquely. Her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it, and she whispered “Christ, Christ,” wondering how bad she looked. The car came to a stop at the side door and the horn sounded four short taps as if this were a signal Connie knew.

She went into the kitchen and approached the door slowly, then hung out the screen door, her bare toes curling down off the step. There were two boys in the car and now she recognized the driver: he had shaggy, shabby black hair that looked crazy as a wig and he was grinning at her.

“I ain’t late, am I?” he said. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Connie said. “Toldja I’d be out, didn’t I?” “I don’t even know who you are.” She spoke sullenly, careful to show no interest or pleasure, and he spoke in a

fast bright monotone. Connie looked past him to the other boy, taking her time. He had fair brown hair, with a lock that fell onto his forehead. His sideburns gave him a fierce, embarrassed look, but so far he hadn’t even bothered to glance at her.

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Both boys wore sunglasses. The driver’s glasses were metallic and mirrored every- thing in miniature.

“You wanta come for a ride?” he said. Connie smirked and let her hair fall loose over one shoulder. “Don’tcha like my car? New paint job,” he said. “Hey.” “What?” “You’re cute.” She pretended to fidget, chasing flies away from the door. “Don’tcha believe me, or what?” he said. “Look, I don’t even know who you are,” Connie said in disgust. “Hey, Ellie’s got a radio, see. Mine’s broke down.” He lifted his friend’s arm and

showed her the little transistor the boy was holding, and now Connie began to hear the music. It was the same program that was playing inside the house.

“Bobby King?” she said. “I listen to him all the time. I think he’s great.” “He’s kind of great.” Connie said reluctantly. “Listen, that guy’s great. He knows where the action is.” Connie blushed a little, because the glasses made it impossible for her to see

just what this boy was looking at. She couldn’t decide if she liked him or if he was just a jerk, and so she dawdled in the doorway and wouldn’t come down or go back inside. She said, “What’s all that stuff painted on your car?”

“Can’tcha read it?” He opened the door very carefully, as if he was afraid it might fall off. He slid out just as carefully, planting his feet firmly on the ground, the tiny metallic world in his glasses slowing down like gelatine hardening and in the midst of it Connie’s bright green blouse. “This here is my name, to begin with,” he said. ARNOLD FRIEND was written in tarlike black letters on the side, with a drawing of a round grinning face that reminded Connie of a pumpkin, except it wore sunglasses. “I wanta introduce myself, I’m Arnold Friend and that’s my real name and I’m gonna be your friend, honey, and inside the car’s Ellie Oscar, he’s kinda shy.” Ellie brought his transistor radio up to his shoulder and balanced it there. “Now these numbers are a secret code, honey,” Arnold Friend explained. He read off the numbers 33, 19, 17 and raised his eyebrows at her to see what she thought of that, but she didn’t think much of it. The left rear fender had been smashed and around it was written, on the gleaming gold background: DONE BY CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER. Connie had to laugh at that. Arnold Friend was pleased at her laughter and looked up at her. “Around the other side’s a lot more—you wanta come and see them?”

“No.” “Why not?” “Why should I?” “Don’tcha wanta see what’s on the car? Don’tcha wanta go for a ride?” “I don’t know.” “Why not?” “I got things to do.” “Like what?” “Things.” He laughed as if she had said something funny. He slapped his thighs. He was

standing in a strange way, leaning back against the car as if he were balancing himself. He wasn’t tall, only an inch or so taller than she would be if she came down to him. Connie liked the way he was dressed, which was the way all of them dressed: tight faded jeans stuffed into black, scuffed boots, a belt that pulled his

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waist in and showed how lean he was, and a white pullover shirt that was a little soiled and showed the hard small muscles of his arms and shoulders. He looked as if he probably did hard work, lifting and carrying things. Even his neck looked muscular. And his face was a familiar face, somehow: the jaw and chin and cheeks slightly darkened, because he hadn’t shaved for a day or two, and the nose long and hawklike, sniffing as if she were a treat he was going to gobble up and it was all a joke.

“Connie, you ain’t telling the truth. This is your day set aside for a ride with me and you know it,” he said, still laughing. The way he straightened and recovered from his fit of laughing showed that it had been all fake.

“How do you know what my name is?” she said suspiciously. “It’s Connie.” “Maybe and maybe not.” “I know my Connie,” he said, wagging his finger. Now she remembered him

even better, back at the restaurant, and her cheeks warmed at the thought of how she sucked in her breath just at the moment she passed him—how she must have looked to him. And he had remembered her. “Ellie and I come out here especially for you,” he said. “Ellie can sit in back. How about it?”

“Where?” “Where what?” “Where’re we going?” He looked at her. He took off the sunglasses and she saw how pale the skin

around his eyes was, like holes that were not in shadow but instead in light. His eyes were like chips of broken glass that catch the light in an amiable way. He smiled. It was as if the idea of going for a ride somewhere, to some place, was a new idea to him.

“Just for a ride, Connie sweetheart.” “I never said my name was Connie,” she said. “But I know what it is. I know your name and all about you, lots of things,”

Arnold Friend said. He had not moved yet but stood still leaning back against the side of his jalopy. “I took a special interest in you, such a pretty girl, and found out all about you like I know your parents and sister are gone somewheres and I know where and how long they’re going to be gone, and I know who you were with last night, and your best girlfriend’s name is Betty. Right?”

He spoke in a simple lilting voice, exactly as if he were reciting the words to a song. His smile assured her that everything was fine. In the car Ellie turned up the volume on his radio and did not bother to look around at them.

“Ellie can sit in the back seat,” Arnold Friend said. He indicated his friend with a casual jerk of his chin, as if Ellie did not count and she should not bother with him.

“How’d you find out all that stuff ?” Connie said. “Listen: Betty Schultz and Tony Fitch and Jimmy Pettinger and Nancy Pettinger,”

he said, in a chant. “Raymond Stanley and Bob Hutter—” “Do you know all those kids?” “I know everybody.” “Look, you’re kidding. You’re not from around here.” “Sure.” “But—how come we never saw you before?” “Sure you saw me before,” he said. He looked down at his boots, as if he were

a little offended. “You just don’t remember.” “I guess I’d remember you,” Connie said.

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“Yeah?” He looked up at this, beaming. He was pleased. He began to mark time with the music from Ellie’s radio, tapping his fists lightly together. Connie looked away from his smile to the car, which was painted so bright it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. She looked at that name, ARNOLD FRIEND. And up at the front fender was an expression that was familiar—MAN THE FLYING SAUCERS. It was an expression kids had used the year before, but didn’t use this year. She looked at it for a while as if the words meant something to her that she did not yet know.

“What’re you thinking about? Huh?” Arnold Friend demanded. “Not worried about your hair blowing around in the car, are you?”

“No.” “Think I maybe can’t drive good?” “How do I know?” “You’re a hard girl to handle. How come?” he said. “Don’t you know I’m your

friend? Didn’t you see me put my sign in the air when you walked by?” “What sign?” “My sign.” And he drew an X in the air, leaning out toward her. They were

maybe ten feet apart. After his hand fell back to his side the X was still in the air, almost visible. Connie let the screen door close and stood perfectly still inside it, listening to the music from her radio and the boy’s blend together. She stared at Arnold Friend. He stood there so stiffly relaxed, pretending to be relaxed, with one hand idly on the door handle as if he were keeping himself up that way and had no intention of ever moving again. She recognized most things about him, the tight jeans that showed his thighs and buttocks and the greasy leather boots and the tight shirt, and even that slippery friendly smile of his, that sleepy dreamy smile that all the boys used to get across ideas they didn’t want to put into words. She recog- nized all this and also the singsong way he talked, slightly mocking, kidding, but serious and a little melancholy, and she recognized the way he tapped one fist against the other in homage to the perpetual music behind him. But all these things did not come together.

She said suddenly, “Hey, how old are you?” His smile faded. She could see then that he wasn’t a kid, he was much older—

thirty, maybe more. At this knowledge her heart began to pound faster. “That’s a crazy thing to ask. Can’tcha see I’m your own age?” “Like hell you are.” “Or maybe a coupla years older, I’m eighteen.” “Eighteen?” she said doubtfully. He grinned to reassure her and lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. His

teeth were big and white. He grinned so broadly his eyes became slits and she saw how thick the lashes were, thick and black as if painted with a black tarlike mate- rial. Then he seemed to become embarrassed, abruptly, and looked over his shoulder at Ellie. “Him, he’s crazy,” he said. “Ain’t he a riot, he’s a nut, a real char- acter.” Ellie was still listening to the music. His sunglasses told nothing about what he was thinking. He wore a bright orange shirt unbuttoned halfway to show his chest, which was a pale, bluish chest and not muscular like Arnold Friend’s. His shirt collar was turned up all around and the very tips of the collar pointed out past his chin as if they were protecting him. He was pressing the transistor radio up against his ear and sat there in a kind of daze, right in the sun.

“He’s kinda strange,” Connie said. “Hey, she says you’re kinda strange! Kinda strange!” Arnold Friend cried. He

pounded on the car to get Ellie’s attention. Ellie turned for the first time and Connie

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saw with shock that he wasn’t a kid either—he had a fair, hairless face, cheeks reddened slightly as if the veins grew too close to the surface of his skin, the face of a forty-year-old baby. Connie felt a wave of dizziness rise in her at this sight and she stared at him as if waiting for something to change the shock of the moment, make it all right again. Ellie’s lips kept shaping words, mumbling along, with the words blasting in his ear.

“Maybe you two better go away,” Connie said faintly. “What? How come?” Arnold Friend cried. “We come out here to take you for a

ride. It’s Sunday.” He had the voice of the man on the radio now. It was the same voice, Connie thought. “Don’tcha know it’s Sunday all day and honey, no matter who you were with last night today you’re with Arnold Friend and don’t you forget it!—Maybe you better step out here,” he said, and this last was in a different voice. It was a little flatter, as if the heat was finally getting to him.

“No. I got things to do.” “Hey.” “You two better leave.” “We ain’t leaving until you come with us.” “Like hell I am—” “Connie, don’t fool around with me. I mean, I mean, don’t fool around,” he

said, shaking his head. He laughed incredulously. He placed his sunglasses on top of his head, carefully, as if he were indeed wearing a wig, and brought the stems down behind his ears. Connie stared at him, another wave of dizziness and fear rising in her so that for a moment he wasn’t even in focus but was just a blur, stand- ing there against his gold car, and she had the idea that he had driven up the driveway all right but had come from nowhere before that and belonged nowhere and that everything about him and even about the music that was so familiar to her was only half real.

“If my father comes and sees you—” “He ain’t coming. He’s at a barbecue.” “How do you know that?” “Aunt Tillie’s. Right now they’re—uh—they’re drinking. Sitting around,” he said

vaguely, squinting as if he were staring all the way to town and over to Aunt Tillie’s back yard. Then the vision seemed to get clear and he nodded energetically. “Yeah. Sitting around. There’s your sister in a blue dress, huh? And high heels, the poor sad bitch—nothing like you, sweetheart! And your mother’s helping some fat wom- an with the corn, they’re cleaning the corn—husking the corn—”

“What fat woman?” Connie cried. “How do I know what fat woman. I don’t know every goddam fat woman in

the world!” Arnold Friend laughed. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Hornby. . . . Who invited her?” Connie said. She felt a little

light-headed. Her breath was coming quickly. “She’s too fat. I don’t like them fat. I like them the way you are, honey,” he

said, smiling sleepily at her. They stared at each other for a while, through the screen door. He said softly, “Now what you’re going to do is this: you’re going to come out that door. You’re going to sit up front with me and Ellie’s going to sit in the back, the hell with Ellie, right? This isn’t Ellie’s date. You’re my date. I’m your lover, honey.”

“What? You’re crazy—” “Yes, I’m your lover. You don’t know what that is but you will,” he said. “I

know that too. I know all about you. But look: it’s real nice and you couldn’t ask for nobody better than me, or more polite. I always keep my word. I’ll tell you how

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it is, I’m always nice at first, the first time. I’ll hold you so tight you won’t think you have to try to get away or pretend anything because you’ll know you can’t. And I’ll come inside you where it’s all secret and you’ll give in to me and you’ll love me—”

“Shut up! You’re crazy!” Connie said. She backed away from the door. She put her hands against her ears as if she’d heard something terrible, something not meant for her. “People don’t talk like that, you’re crazy,” she muttered. Her heart was almost too big now for her chest and its pumping made sweat break out all over her. She looked out to see Arnold Friend pause and then take a step toward the porch lurching. He almost fell. But, like a clever drunken man, he managed to catch his balance. He wobbled in his high boots and grabbed hold of one of the porch posts.

“Honey?” he said. “You still listening?” “Get the hell out of here!” “Be nice, honey. Listen.” “I’m going to call the police—” He wobbled again and out of the side of his mouth came a fast spat curse, an

aside not meant for her to hear. But even this “Christ!” sounded forced. Then he began to smile again. She watched this smile come, awkward as if he were smiling from inside a mask. His whole face was a mask, she thought wildly, tanned down onto his throat but then running out as if he had plastered makeup on his face but had forgotten about his throat.

“Honey—? Listen, here’s how it is. I always tell the truth and I promise you this: I ain’t coming in that house after you.”

“You better not! I’m going to call the police if you—if you don’t—” “Honey,” he said, talking right through her voice, “honey, I’m not coming in

there but you are coming out here. You know why?” She was panting. The kitchen looked like a place she had never seen before,

some room she had run inside but which wasn’t good enough, wasn’t going to help her. The kitchen window had never had a curtain, after three years, and there were dishes in the sink for her to do—probably—and if you ran your hand across the table you’d probably feel something sticky there.

“You listening, honey? Hey?” “—going to call the police—” “Soon as you touch the phone I don’t need to keep my promise and can come

inside. You won’t want that.” She rushed forward and tried to lock the door. Her fingers were shaking. “But

why lock it,” Arnold Friend said gently, talking right into her face. “It’s just a screen door. It’s just nothing.” One of his boots was at a strange angle, as if his foot wasn’t in it. It pointed out to the left, bent at the ankle. “I mean, anybody can break through a screen door and glass and wood and iron or anything else if he needs to, anybody at all and specially Arnold Friend. If the place got lit up with a fire honey you’d come runnin’ out into my arms, right into my arms an’ safe at home— like you knew I was your lover and’d stopped fooling around. I don’t mind a nice shy girl but I don’t like no fooling around.” Part of those words were spoken with a slight rhythmic lilt, and Connie somehow recognized them—the echo of a song from last year, about a girl rushing into her boyfriend’s arms and coming home again—

Connie stood barefoot on the linoleum floor, staring at him. “What do you want?” she whispered.

“I want you,” he said.

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“What?” “Seen you that night and thought, that’s the one, yes sir. I never needed to look

any more.” “But my father’s coming back. He’s coming to get me. I had to wash my hair

first—” She spoke in a dry, rapid voice, hardly raising it for him to hear. “No, your Daddy is not coming and yes, you had to wash your hair and you

washed it for me. It’s nice and shining and all for me, I thank you, sweetheart,” he said, with a mock bow, but again he almost lost his balance. He had to bend and adjust his boots. Evidently his feet did not go all the way down; the boots must have been stuffed with something so that he would seem taller. Connie stared out at him and behind him Ellie in the car, who seemed to be looking off toward Connie’s right into nothing. This Ellie said, pulling the words out of the air one after another as if he were just discovering them, “You want me to pull out the phone?”

“Shut your mouth and keep it shut,” Arnold Friend said, his face red from bending over or maybe from embarrassment because Connie had seen his boots. “This ain’t none of your business.”

“What—what are you doing? What do you want?” Connie said. “If I call the police they’ll get you, they’ll arrest you—”

“Promise was not to come in unless you touch that phone, and I’ll keep that promise,” he said. He resumed his erect position and tried to force his shoulders back. He sounded like a hero in a movie, declaring something important. He spoke too loudly and it was as if he were speaking to someone behind Connie. “I ain’t made plans for coming in that house where I don’t belong but just for you to come out to me, the way you should. Don’t you know who I am?”

“You’re crazy,” she whispered. She backed away from the door but did not want to go into another part of the house, as if this would give him permission to come through the door. “What do you . . . You’re crazy, you . . .”

“Huh? What’re you saying, honey?” Her eyes darted everywhere in the kitchen. She could not remember what it

was, this room. “This is how it is, honey: you come out and we’ll drive away, have a nice ride.

But if you don’t come out we’re gonna wait till your people come home and then they’re all going to get it.”

“You want that telephone pulled out?” Ellie said. He held the radio away from his ear and grimaced, as if without the radio the air was too much for him.

“I toldja shut up, Ellie,” Arnold Friend said, “you’re deaf, get a hearing aid, right? Fix yourself up. This little girl’s no trouble and’s gonna be nice to me, so Ellie keep to yourself, this ain’t your date—right? Don’t hem in on me. Don’t hog. Don’t crush. Don’t bird dog. Don’t trail me,” he said in a rapid meaningless voice, as if he were running through all the expressions he’d learned but was no longer sure which one of them was in style, then rushing on to new ones, making them up with his eyes closed, “Don’t crawl under my fence, don’t squeeze in my chipmunk hole, don’t sniff my glue, suck my popsicle, keep your own greasy fingers on your- self!” He shaded his eyes and peered in at Connie, who was backed against the kitchen table. “Don’t mind him honey he’s just a creep. He’s a dope. Right? I’m the boy for you and like I said you come out here nice like a lady and give me your hand, and nobody else gets hurt, I mean, your nice old bald-headed daddy and your mummy and your sister in her high heels. Because listen: why bring them in this?”

“Leave me alone,” Connie whispered.

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“Hey, you know that old woman down the road, the one with the chickens and stuff—you know her?”

“She’s dead!” “Dead? What? You know her?” Arnold Friend said. “She’s dead—” “Don’t you like her?” “She’s dead—she’s—she isn’t here any more—” “But don’t you like her, I mean, you got something against her? Some grudge

or something?” Then his voice dipped as if he were conscious of a rudeness. He touched the sunglasses perched on top of his head as if to make sure they were still there. “Now you be a good girl.”

“What are you going to do?” “Just two things, or maybe three,” Arnold Friend said. “But I promise it won’t

last long and you’ll like me the way you get to like people you’re close to. You will. It’s all over for you here, so come on out. You don’t want your people in any trouble, do you?”

She turned and bumped against a chair or something, hurting her leg, but she ran into the back room and picked up the telephone. Something roared in her ear, a tiny roaring, and she was so sick with fear that she could do nothing but listen to it—the telephone was clammy and very heavy and her fingers groped down to the dial but were too weak to touch it. She began to scream into the phone, into the roaring. She cried out, she cried for her mother, she felt her breath start jerking back and forth in her lungs as if it were something Arnold Friend were stabbing her with again and again with no tenderness. A noisy sorrowful wailing rose all about her and she was locked inside it the way she was locked inside the house.

After a while she could hear again. She was sitting on the floor with her wet back against the wall.

Arnold Friend was saying from the door, “That’s a good girl. Put the phone back.”

She kicked the phone away from her. “No, honey. Pick it up. Put it back right.” She picked it up and put it back. The dial tone stopped. “That’s a good girl. Now come outside.” She was hollow with what had been fear, but what was now just an emptiness.

All that screaming had blasted it out of her. She sat, one leg cramped under her, and deep inside her brain was something like a pinpoint of light that kept going and would not let her relax. She thought, I’m not going to see my mother again. She thought, I’m not going to sleep in my bed again. Her bright green blouse was all wet.

Arnold Friend said, in a gentle-loud voice that was like a stage voice, “The place where you came from ain’t there any more, and where you had in mind to go is canceled out. This place you are now—inside your daddy’s house—is noth- ing but a cardboard box I can knock down any time. You know that and always did know it. You hear me?”

She thought, I have got to think. I have to know what to do. “We’ll go out to a nice field, out in the country here where it smells so nice

and it’s sunny,” Arnold Friend said. “I’ll have my arms tight around you so you won’t need to try to get away and I’ll show you what love is like, what it does. The hell with this house! It looks solid all right,” he said. He ran a fingernail down the screen and the noise did not make Connie shiver, as it would have the day before. “Now put your hand on your heart, honey. Feel that? That feels solid too but we

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know better, be nice to me, be sweet like you can because what else is there for a girl like you but to be sweet and pretty and give in?—and get away before her people come back?”

She felt her pounding heart. Her hand seemed to enclose it. She thought for the first time in her life that it was nothing that was hers, that belonged to her, but just a pounding, living thing inside this body that wasn’t really hers either.

“You don’t want them to get hurt,” Arnold Friend went on. “Now get up, honey. Get up all by yourself.”

She stood up. “Now turn this way. That’s right. Come over here to me—Ellie, put that away,

didn’t I tell you? You dope. You miserable creepy dope,” Arnold Friend said. His words were not angry but only part of an incantation. The incantation was kindly. “Now come out through the kitchen to me honey, and let’s see a smile, try it, you’re a brave sweet little girl and now they’re eating corn and hot dogs cooked to burst- ing over an outdoor fire, and they don’t know one thing about you and never did and honey you’re better than them because not a one of them would have done this for you.”

Connie felt the linoleum under her feet; it was cool. She brushed her hair back out of her eyes. Arnold Friend let go of the post tentatively and opened his arms for her, his elbows pointing in toward each other and his wrists limp, to show that this was an embarrassed embrace and a little mocking, he didn’t want to make her self-conscious.

She put out her hand against the screen. She watched herself push the door slowly open as if she were safe back somewhere in the other doorway, watching this body and this head of long hair moving out into the sunlight where Arnold Friend waited.

“My sweet little blue-eyed girl,” he said, in a half-sung sigh that had nothing to do with her brown eyes but was taken up just the same by the vast sunlit reaches of the land behind him and on all sides of him, so much land that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was going to it.

[1966]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Characterize Connie. Do you think the early characterization of Connie prepares us for her later behavior?

2. Construct an argument in response to the question, “Is Arnold Friend clairvoyant—definitely, definitely not, maybe?”

3. Evaluate the view that Arnold Friend is both Satan and the incarnation of Connie’s erotic desires.

4. What do you make of the fact that Oates dedicated the story to Bob Dylan? Is she perhaps contrasting Dylan’s music with the escapist (or in some other way unwholesome) music of other popular singers?

5. If you have read Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” (page 498), compare and contrast Arnold Friend and the Misfit.

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C h a p t e r 9

Comparison and Synthesis

Chapter Preview

After reading this chapter, you will be able to

• Define comparison and describe the process for comparing literary texts

• Evaluate a student interpretation

• Define synthesis and describe the process for analyzing and connecting literary texts

• Analyze and evaluate four student interpretations

Comparison and Critical Thinking We synthesize texts when we create connections between them. Comparison is an effective tool for generating synthesis. An advanced critical thinking skill, synthesis builds on analysis by developing relationships among texts in order to illuminate a larger idea, issue, or theme. Synthesis is the process of bringing together separate literary texts and their analyses, locating points of meaningful connection between them, and creating interpretations and arguments that rely on and deepen those connections. Synthesis enacts the idea that new, often better, ideas come from seeing how two texts can work together rather than from seeing each text in isolation.

When we compare, we examine things for their resemblances to, and differ- ences from, other things. Strictly speaking, if we emphasize the differences rather than the similarities, we are contrasting rather than comparing, but we need not preserve this distinction: We can call both processes comparing.

Although your instructor may ask you to write a comparison of two works of literature, the subject of the essay remains the two literary works; comparison is simply an effective analytical technique for showing the qualities in the works. We’ve examined a student paper that compares Chopin’s exploration of women who are unfulfilled by marriage in “The Story of an Hour” (page 65) and “The Storm” (page 87). This paper created a meaningful comparison by locating a topic that connected the stories while revealing the subtle differences between them. A comparison of works that are utterly unlike each other can hardly tell the reader or the writer anything. One of the first steps in a successful comparison is selection: You will want to locate two or more literary texts that can work together to gener- ate meaningful ideas.

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A helpful way to think about synthesis is that you are aligning or juxtaposing two texts, positioning them against each other so that their overlapping ideas and interests can be revealed and analyzed. As its name implies, a comparison paper compares two texts, finding similarities between the two, while also finding reveal- ing differences or contrasts between the two. Rather than simply locating points of comparison, followed by points of contrast, think of yourself as taking two multi- faceted pieces of art and locating meaningful points of connection. As the texts are brought together, new insights are generated into each individual text and into the larger concepts that they explore together.

Organizing a Comparison Essay Something should be said about organizing a comparison essay, say between the settings in two stories, between two characters in a novel (or even between a char- acter at the end of a novel and the same character at the beginning of that novel), or between the symbolism in two poems. Probably, a student’s first thought after making some jottings is to discuss one half of the comparison and then the second half. Instructors and textbooks (though not this one) usually condemn such an organization, arguing that such an essay breaks into two parts and that the second part involves a good deal of repetition of the categories set up in the first part. Often they recommend that students organize their thoughts along these lines:

1. First similarity a. First work (or character, or characteristic) b. Second work 2. Second similarity a. First work b. Second work 3. First difference a. First work b. Second work 4. Second difference a. First work b. Second work

You continue in this way, for as many additional differences as seem relevant. If you wish to compare Adventures of Huckleberry Finn with The Catcher in the Rye, you might organize the material thus:

1. First similarity: the narrator and his quest a. Huck b. Holden 2. Second similarity: the corrupt world surrounding the narrator a. Society in Huck b. Society in Catcher 3. First difference: degree to which the narrator fulfills his quest and escapes

from society a. Huck’s plan to “light out” to the frontier b. Holden’s breakdown

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Organizing a Comparison Essay    319

Here is another way to organize a comparison and contrast:

1. First point: the narrator and his quest a. Similarities between Huck and Holden b. Differences between Huck and Holden 2. Second point: the corrupt world a. Similarities between the worlds in Huck and Catcher b. Differences between the worlds in Huck and Catcher 3. Third point: degree of success a. Similarities between Huck and Holden b. Differences between Huck and Holden

These outlines provide strong models of organization for a comparison essay, but a comparison need not employ either of them. There is even the danger that an essay employing either may not come into focus until the writer stands back from the seven-layer cake that he or she has created and announces in the con- cluding paragraph that the odd layers taste better. In your preparatory thinking, you may want to make comparisons in pairs:

• good-natured humor: the clown in Othello, the clownish grave-digger in Hamlet

• social satire: the clown in Othello, the grave-digger in Hamlet • relevance of each character to theme X • length of role and centrality of each character to each play

Before writing the final version, you must come to some conclusions about what your comparisons add up to.

The final version should not duplicate your thought processes; rather, it should be organized so as to make your point—the thesis—clearly and effectively. After reflection, you may believe that

• although there are superficial similarities between the clown in Othello and the clownish grave-digger in Hamlet,

• there are essential differences in the aims of their social satire, leading you to make an argument about how theme X is developed differently by each character.

In the finished essay, you will not want to obscure your main argument by jumping back and forth from play to play, working through all of the similarities and differ- ences you’ve located. It may be better to discuss the clown in Othello and then to point out that, although the grave-digger in Hamlet resembles him in A, B, and C, the grave-digger also has other functions (D, E, and F) and is of greater conse- quence to Hamlet than the clown is to Othello. Some repetition in the second half of the essay (“The grave-digger’s puns come even faster than the clown’s . . .”) will bind the two halves into a meaningful whole, making clear the degree of similarity or difference. The point of the essay will not be to list pairs of similarities or differ- ences but to illuminate a work or works by making thoughtful comparisons in support of a larger argument.

In a long essay, the writer cannot postpone until, for example, page thirty a discussion of the second half of the comparison. In an essay of fewer than ten pages, the writer can set forth one half of the comparison and then, in light of it, the second half. The essay will break into two unrelated parts if the second half makes no use of the first half or if it fails to modify the first half. The second half of the paper must look back to the first half and call attention to differences that

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the new material reveals. As a student, you need to learn how to write an essay with interwoven comparisons, but you ought to know also that a comparison should be written in a simple and clear way.

Finally, a reminder: The purpose of a comparison is to call attention to the unique features of something by holding it up against something simi- lar but significantly different. You can compare Macbeth with Banquo (two men who hear a prophecy but who respond differently), or Macbeth with Lady Macbeth (a husband and wife, both eager to be monarchs but differing in their sense of the consequences), or Hamlet with Holden Caulfield (two people who see themselves as surrounded by a corrupt world), but you can hardly compare Holden with Macbeth or with Lady Macbeth—there simply aren’t enough points of resem- blance to make it worth your effort to call attention to the subtle differences.

When the differences are great and apparent, a comparison is a waste of effort; you will be arguing about something that is not really arguable. (“Blueberries are different from elephants. Blueberries do not have trunks. And elephants do not grow on bushes.”) Indeed, a comparison between essentially and evidently unlike things can only obscure your thesis, for by making the comparison, you imply that significant similarities do exist, and readers can only wonder why they do not see them. The essays that do break into two halves are essays that make uninstructive comparisons: For example, the first half tells the reader about five qualities in Alice Walker, and the second half tells the reader about five different qualities in Toni Morrison.

Comparison and Close Reading Let’s practice comparison by reminding ourselves that it is a natural analytical proc- ess that we engage in every day as we try to make sense of the texts that surround us. Our task is to use writing to make this process of comparison more rigorous and more generative of new insights. Let’s examine a photograph, a visual “text” that we can examine closely and analyze for the ideas it conveys. We can apply a process of close reading, inquiry, interpretation, and argumentation to this photo- graph, just as we would to a written text. At first, the photograph seems to be a straightforward image of two people, but when we look at it more closely, we see that it contains several strange elements. The photograph becomes more interest- ing—and more enjoyable—the more we look at it. It invites close reading and inquiry.

An examination of this photograph demonstrates that comparison can take place within one text. Let’s start the process of comparison by examining the two figures in the photograph and then move outward from the photograph, compar- ing it to a literary work. Later in the chapter, we will explore how to synthesize multiple literary works. In the next chapter, we will examine how research enacts a process of synthesizing primary sources (the literary work) and secondary sources (the critical article).

At a first glance, this photograph appears to be merely an old-fashioned image capturing a cowboy and an Indian standing side by side. But, almost instantly, the setup or premise of the photograph raises questions: Why would a cowboy and an Indian be standing side by side? If they fit into the stories we tell about the American West, aren’t they supposed to be sworn enemies? As we look more carefully at the photograph, it becomes even more interesting. Are the cowboy and the Indian

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Comparison and Close Reading    321

shaking hands? Are they clasping hands on top of a gun? Also, why are they dressed in such fancy clothes? Are they trying to impress each other—or impress us? As our curiosity about the photograph grows, these initial impressions and questions start to lead to an understanding of the text. For example, although the cowboy and the Indian seem to be just standing together, a close examination reveals that they are carefully posed, with the feathers on the headdress carefully spread out and their feet carefully arranged. Perhaps they are staging some sort of agreement or reconciliation?

William Notman, Foes in ’76, Friends in ’85. Photograph. The Sioux chief Sitting Bull appeared for one season in William F. Cody’s show, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. Souvenir cards with this picture were sold.

Some basic information about the photograph can help us to come to under- stand it more fully. Rather than answer all of our questions, however, this informa- tion triggers more questions, encouraging us to become even more curious about the photograph’s meaning.

The photograph that we are focusing on here, of Sitting Bull and Buffalo Bill, was taken by a Canadian photographer, William Notman (1826–91). Buffalo Bill— William F. Cody—got his name from his activities as a supplier of buffalo meat for workers on the Kansas Pacific Railway, but his fame came chiefly from his exploits as an army scout and a fighter against the Sioux Indians, and later from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West was a show (though he never used this word because he insisted that the exhibition re-created recent Western history)

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consisting of mock battles with Indians, an attack on a stagecoach, and feats of horsemanship and sharpshooting. Sitting Bull, a Sioux chief, had defeated General George Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn ten years before this picture was taken, but he had fled to Canada soon after the battle. In 1879, he was granted amnesty and returned to the United States, and, in 1885, he appeared in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. The photograph, titled Foes in ’76, Friends in ’85, was used to publicize the show.

With this information in mind, let’s look at the photograph even more closely and inquire even more deeply about its meaning.

Comparison and Asking Questions The writer Howard Nemerov once said, “If you really want to see something, look at something else.” He was talking about the power of comparison to illuminate. We compare X and Y, not for the sake of making lists of similarities and differ- ences, but for the sake of seeing X (or Y) more clearly. This book offers many writings for you to read with pleasure, and one source of pleasure is understand- ing. Your understanding of one work may be heightened by thinking about it in comparison with another work.

Suppose we want to think about the photograph of Sitting Bull and Buffalo Bill in order to deepen our understanding of it and to share our understanding with others. To say that the photograph’s dimensions are such and such or even to say that it shows two people is merely to describe it, not to think about it. But, if we look more closely and compare the two figures in the photograph, our mind is energized. Comparing greatly stimulates the mind; by comparing X with Y, we notice things that we might otherwise pass over. Comparison leads to questions that deepen our understanding of the text:

• What resemblances and what differences do we see in the clothes of the two figures?

• What about their facial expressions? • How do their poses compare? • How are the two figures interacting? • Is the setting significant?

As we try to answer these and other questions that come to mind, we may find ourselves jotting down phrases and sentences along the following lines:

Buffalo Bill is in fancy clothing (shiny boots, a mammoth buckle, a decorated jacket) BB is striking a pose—very theatrical, his right hand on his heart, his head tilted slightly back, his eyes looking off as though he is gazing into the future. He seems to be working hard to present a grand image of himself. Sitting Bull simply stands there, apparently looking downward. One feels that he is going along with what is expected of him—after all, he had joined the show—but he refuses to make a fool of himself. Sitting Bull lets BB have upper hand (literally—on gun) BB in effect surrounds SB (Bill’s right shoulder is behind Sitting Bull and Bill’s left leg is in front of him).

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Comparison and Arguing with Yourself    323

Comparison and Analyzing Evidence If we continue to look closely, we will probably notice that the landscape is fake— not the great outdoors but a set, with a painted backdrop and probably a fake grass mat. If we see these things, we may formulate the thesis that Buffalo Bill is all show biz and that Sitting Bull retains his dignity. If, in our essay, we support these asser- tions by pointing to evidence—specific details from the visual text that provide justification for our interpretation—we are demonstrating critical thinking. Let’s look at some sample student interpretations of this photograph that rely on evidence-based comparison.

Student Work: Comparison Arguments

Here is the final paragraph from an informal essay that a student, Patricia Flynn, wrote on this photograph for her composition course.

Buffalo Bill is obviously the dominant figure in this photograph, but he is not the outstanding one. His efforts to appear great only serve to make him appear small. His attempt to outshine Sitting Bull strikes us as faintly ridiculous. We do not need nor want to know any more about Buffalo Bill’s personality; it is spread before us in the picture. Sitting Bull’s inwardness and dignity make him more interesting than Buffalo Bill, and make us wish to prove our intuition and to ascertain that this proud Sioux was a great chief.

We think this analysis is excellent, but we also can see a student emphasizing different elements of the photograph and coming to different conclusions. If we reacted positively to the energetic pose of Buffalo Bill, we might come to the con- clusion that he was a positive force for change in addition to being a showman. We can create an argument that advances this conclusion, as long as we have convinc- ing evidence to support our ideas.

Here is the final paragraph from an informal essay written by Luis Torres, a student in the same composition course:

The photograph conveys the positive energy that surrounds Buffalo Bill. By looking upward and out of the photo, Buffalo Bill seems to be welcoming the future and encouraging us to look forward to that future with him. Because he leans into and touches Sitting Bull, his future seems to be one of cooperation and working together. Sitting Bull is a solid presence, filled with dignity. But, it is Buffalo Bill’s energy that might create a new future of connection between the white Americans and Native Americans.

Which interpretation of the photograph seems best to you? Can you create an interpretation that comes up with a new opinion or one that combines these two opinions? What details from the photograph do you feel are the most important to emphasize, and how do they shape your interpretation?

Comparison and Arguing with Yourself Having compared the two figures in the photograph, we can extend the idea of textual comparison and interpretation further to connect the photograph to a poem. Let’s look now at a short poem by E. E. Cummings, which was probably written in 1917, the year Buffalo Bill died, but was not published until 1920.

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Cummings did not give it a title, but he included it in a group of poems called “Portraits.” (In line 6, “pigeons” are clay targets used in skeet shooting or in exhibi- tions of marksmanship.)

E. E. Cummings For biographical information on e.e. cummings, see page 811.

Buffalo Bill ’s

Buffalo Bill ’s defunct who used to ride a water smooth-silver stallion and break one two three four five pigeons just like that Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blue eyed boy Mister Death

Read the poem, preferably aloud, at least two or three times and with as open a mind as possible. Don’t assume that, because the photograph shows us a man who seems to be all show biz, this poem necessarily conveys the same attitude. After we generate an understanding of the poem, we can start to make comparisons to the photograph, noting similarities and differences.

Critical thinking requires that we keep asking questions as we formulate an interpretation. One way to generate questions that develop your ideas is to imagine arguing with yourself. How would you question your own assumptions, your use of evidence, or your original opinions? You will want to ask your own questions about the E. E. Cummings poem and arrive at your own responses, but for a start you may find it useful to consider the following inquiry questions and jot down tentative answers. We say “tentative” answers because, when you think about them, you will almost surely begin to question them and thus improve your responses. Notice how each question leads to more questions that can be used to deepen your thinking.

1. What is the speaker’s attitude toward Buffalo Bill? (How do you know? What evidence can you point to?)

2. In line 6, why do you suppose Cummings ran the words together? Does this new word create a new image or sound in your mind?

3. Why do you think Cummings spaced the poem as he did? One student sug- gested that the lines form an arrowhead pointing to the right. Do you find merit in this suggestion? If not, what better explanation(s) can you offer?

4. What do you make of the address to “Mister Death”? Why “Mister Death” rather than “Mr. Death” or “Death”? If Mister Death could speak, what answer do you think he might give to the speaker’s question?

5. What do you make of the use of “defunct” (as opposed to “dead”) in line 2? Imagine creating the argument that “defunct” is a word that adds depth to the poem, making us think about how a person might no longer be

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Cummings • Buffalo Bill’s    325

functional or might have outlived his use. Now, imagine arguing with your- self and creating an opposing argument. Imagine arguing that “defunct” is a confusing word that starts the poem in an unclear fashion, making its description of Buffalo Bill difficult to understand. What word would you use in the second line to replace “defunct”?

6. What do you make of “Jesus” in line 7? What is the effect of placing the word on a line by itself? Is Cummings being blasphemous? Is he inviting us to compare Buffalo Bill with Jesus? Support your response with evidence.

Manuscript of the draft of E. E. Cummings’s poem (the final version appears on page 324).

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7. After you’ve developed an understanding of the poem, return to the photo- graph. What is the image of Buffalo Bill created in the poem and how does that compare to the visual image of Buffalo Bill in the photograph? Do both texts present a “handsome” man? If Buffalo Bill is being presented as a skilled rifle shooter in the poem, is there a representation of that skill in the photograph? If, as the poem describes, Buffalo Bill rides a “watersmooth” stallion, is there a trace of that smooth and suave self-presentation in the photograph? Do the poem and the photograph encourage you to explore how and why Buffalo Bill is an alluring figure? Does he come across as attractive in both? Why or why not? Use your inquiry notes to continue to ask questions and develop answers that compare the poem and photograph.

Modern transcription of the draft reproduced on page 325.

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8. Let’s make another comparison. Compare the published poem with the manuscript draft. In the manuscript (see page 325); for a scholar’s transcrip- tion of it, see page 326), you will notice that Cummings wrote, near the start, “with his long hair like reindeer moss streaming from the old stone of his face.” These words do not appear in the final version. Do you think Cum- mings showed good judgment in deleting the line? Explain your answer.

9. Some readers say that Cummings is satirizing Buffalo Bill, and others say that he is satirizing death. Do you agree with either of these views? Why? (In a sentence or two, define satire—feel free to consult a dictionary—and perhaps give an example of it. By the way, it’s possible to satirize the com- mon human fear of death, but can death be satirized? How might that be done? And what would be the point?)

You may want to discuss some or all of these questions, as well as others that you generate for yourself, with classmates and with your instructor. It will be interesting to see whether differences of opinion can be resolved in discussion by pointing to evidence.

Finally, after you have thought about these questions, and any others that you may initiate, consider two opinions from published discussions of the poem:

1. Buffalo Bill, in the poem, functions as a destroyer, an agent of death. 2. The poem’s image of Buffalo Bill on his “water smooth-silver stallion,” rid-

ing to the center of the tent to accept the adulation of the crowd before his demonstration of crack marksmanship is acidly ironic.

Compare your own interpretations to these arguments. Do you agree with either statement, or with both? What evidence in the poem can you point to in order to support or rebut these assertions?

Buffalo Bill on a favorite horse.

Cummings • Buffalo Bill’s    327

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Synthesis through Close Reading: Analyzing a Revised Short Story

Let’s continue to work on using synthesis to create relationships between texts, mov- ing on to a comparison of two literary works. As we explore the activity of synthesiz- ing texts, we will examine several students’ note-taking techniques and explore how they develop new ideas through synthesis. These students’ notes take innovative forms, demonstrating that synthesis is a creative process that generates exciting ideas.

Here, we start developing the skill of synthesis by selecting two texts defined by a clear relationship: One story is a revision of an earlier version. Consider these two versions of a very short story by Raymond Carver. In 1977, Carver published the first version, “Mine.” In 1981, he published a revised version with a new title, “Popular Mechanics,” and in 1986, he published the same revised version under yet another title, “Little Things.” After the two stories, we present an innovative note-taking technique that uses a table to capture the close reading and interpretation process.

Read “Mine,” and then read “Little Things.” Then go back and reread both stories, marking differences and jotting down your own responses. What changes were made? Why do you think the changes were made? Do different ideas emerge in each story due to revision? What words were added or subtracted in the revision, and what ideas are emphasized, added, modified, or taken away in the revision? You may want to jot down your responses to the titles: Do you think the new title is better, or not? Why?

✔ C H E C K L I S T : Developing a Comparison

Have you selected appropriate works for comparison? Does it make sense to compare these texts?

Will your comparison lead to meaningful analysis and synthesis? What question will the comparison help to answer? What do you hope your reader will learn?

Have you located a key bridge concept that you can use to compare the literary works?

Does a close reading of the two works reveal unexpected connections between them? Can you create connections between the works on the level of theme? Can you create connections between the works on the level of form and structure?

What evidence can you select from each work to strengthen your comparison? Can you locate specific words that appear in each work? Can you locate specific phrases that resonate across both works?

As you develop your comparison, have you moved back and forth between the two texts? Did you interweave the texts, rather than allow each text’s analysis to stand alone?

As you developed your comparison, did you argue with yourself, considering alternative interpretations? Did you consider counterarguments?

Does your comparison achieve synthesis, creating a relationship between the two works that allows a larger idea to be explored—and explored in a more sophisticated way than if it were addressed through only one work?

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Carver • Mine    329

Raymond CaRvER Raymond Carver (1938–1988) was born in Clatskanie, Oregon. In 1963, he gradu- ated from Humboldt State College in northern California and then did further study at the University of Iowa.

As a young man, Carver wrote poetry while working at odd jobs; later he turned to fiction, though he continued to write poetry. Most of Carver’s fiction narrates stories about bewildered and sometimes exhausted men and women.

Mine

During the day the sun had come out and the snow melted into dirty water. Streaks of water ran down from the little, shoulder-high window that faced the back yard. Cars slushed by on the street outside. It was getting dark, outside and inside.

He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.

I’m glad you’re leaving. I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear? He kept on putting his things into the suitcase and didn’t look up. Sonofabitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me

in the face, can you? Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up. He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and

going back to the living room. Bring that back. Just get your things and get out, she said. He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, and looked at the

bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room. She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.

I want the baby, he said. Are you crazy? No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come by for his things. You can go to hell! You’re not touching this baby. The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around its

head. Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby. He moved towards her. For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen. I want the baby. Get out of here! She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove as he

came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby. Let go of him, he said. Get away, get away! she cried. The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a

little flower pot that hung behind the stove. He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip, holding onto the

baby and pushing his weight against her arm. Let go of him, he said. Don’t, she said, you’re hurting him! He didn’t talk again. The kitchen window gave no light. In the near dark he

worked on her fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.

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She felt her fingers being forced open and the baby going from her. No, she said, just as her hands came loose. She would have it, this baby whose chubby face gazed up at them from the picture on the table. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around the wrist and leaned back.

He would not give. He felt the baby going out of his hands and he pulled back hard. He pulled back very hard. In this manner they decided the issue.

[1977]

Little Things

Early that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. Streaks of it ran down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the back- yard. Cars slushed by on the street outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.

He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.

I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear? He kept on putting his things into the suitcase. Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even

look me in the face, can you? Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up. He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and

going back to the living room. Bring that back, he said. Just get your things and get out, she said. He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around

the bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room. She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby. I want the baby, he said. Are you crazy? No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come by for his things. You’re not touching this baby, she said. The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around his

head. Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby. He moved toward her. For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen. I want the baby. Get out of here! She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove. But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the

baby. Let go of him, he said. Get away, get away! she cried. The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a

flowerpot that hung behind the stove. He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He held on to the

baby and pushed with all his weight. Let go of him, he said. Don’t, she said. You’re hurting the baby, she said. I’m not hurting the baby, he said.

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The kitchen window gave no light. In the near-dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.

She felt her fingers being forced open. She felt the baby going from her. No! she screamed just as her hands came loose. She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught

the baby around the wrist and leaned back. But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he

pulled back very hard. In this manner, the issue was decided.

[1981]

Student Work: Innovative Listing

Let’s examine how a student, Felix Tran, outlines the differences that he finds between the two stories. Felix uses a table format to list the changes that Carver made in the revision of the original story; he then adds a column to that table to capture his new ideas—his interpretation. In this way, his note taking encourages and captures both close reading and interpretation.

“Mine” “Little Things” My Interpretation

Line 1: melted was melting Revision: things are still under development, still in action

Line 3: Getting dark, outside and inside

But it was getting dark on the inside too

Revision: Emphasizes “inside”—makes you think more about that word

Line 4: and didn’t look up

deleted Revision: Makes sentence shorter? The reader has to figure out that he didn’t look up.

Line 6: Then she noticed the baby’s picture

New paragraph breaks Revision: Makes writing more choppy? Captures stressful, broken relationship

Line 20: and he came up Line 23: New paragraph break: but he came up

Revision: “But” emphasizes that he does things anyway. Makes writing choppy.

Line 28: He didn’t talk again

Line 30: I’m not hurting the baby, he said.

Revision: Emphasizes idea of hurting baby. Do we believe the man? Is he protesting even though he knows he is hurting baby? Seems to make him even more argumentative and mean.

Line 28: This baby whose chubby face gazed up at them from the picture on the table.

Deleted Revision: No image of happy child? Makes the revision even more depressing? I like the contrast set up between present and past in the first version.

Line 30: They decided the issue

The issue was decided Revision: “They” connects the wife and husband. They = they are together. Revision deletes this idea, making them more separate. Revision makes it unclear who is to blame. (What happens—what is decided?)

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332    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

After you annotate the two stories and think about your annotations, write a short essay arguing that, on balance, one version is superior to the other. You do not have to believe that every change was an improvement (or a worsening); in fact, you may want to argue that, in some ways, the earlier version is better and in some ways the later version is better. In any case, formulate a thesis sentence—a sentence that tells the reader the gist of your point—and then in 250–500 words support the thesis.

Synthesis through Building a Concept Bridge: Connecting Two Poems

By using synthesis, you often generate new ideas by comparing two literary works that are quite different. As you work to develop your skills of synthesis, remember that synthesis rests on the creation of relationships and that you need to select works that can generate meaningful connections. Then, as in any analytical writing, by means of synthesis, you will work to develop a thesis argument. In a compari- son paper, the argument must find a meaningful point of connection between the two works and create an argument that highlights that connection. Comparison is a popular paper format because observation about what aspects two texts share and don’t share, and why they are similar and different, can be used to create a strong argument.

As you prepare to write a comparison paper, reread your selected texts, and work to build bridges between them. Find literary concepts, structures, and devices that they have in common. At the same time, work to differentiate the two texts, showing how each contains unique elements. Make sure that your paper develops a larger understanding of each text through comparison: How does your thinking about a text become both clearer and more complex when you connect it to another text? How does your thinking about the concepts presented in each text become both clearer and more complex when you compare the texts?

Think of your writing as building a concept bridge between the two texts. For example, if two texts describe the same scenario of a pair of lovers on a beach, a juxtaposition may reveal how one creates a happy image by emphasizing the sun- light sparkling on the waves while the other creates an image of desperation by emphasizing the empty repetition of the waves. By bringing the two texts together, you can more clearly see how each is developing its ideas about love by using different images of the waves.

Let’s turn to two poems that both feature the topic of tornadoes. This creates an obvious bridge between the two poems. Is there also a more conceptual bridge? After we read each poem, we can look at sample student notes, seeing the innova- tive responses inspired by these poems.

Thylias moss A poet, playwright, filmmaker, and sound artist, Thylias Moss has won a MacArthur Fellowship and Guggenheim Fellowship, recognizing her experimental work in cre- ating new forms of art that combine writing, visual work, audio work, and technol- ogy. She explains the goals and processes of this interdisciplinary work on her Limited Fork Theory website. Moss was born in Ohio in 1954, attended Oberlin College and the University of New Hampshire, and works as a professor at the University of Michigan.

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Dawes • Tornado Child    333

Tornados

Truth is, I envy them not because they dance; I out jitterbug them as I’m shuttled through and through legs strong as looms, weaving time. They do black more justice than I, frenzy of conductor of philharmonic and electricity, hair on end, result of the charge when horns and strings release the pent up Beethoven and Mozart. Ions played

instead of notes. The movement is not wrath, not hormone swarm because I saw my first forming above the church a surrogate steeple. The morning of my first baptism and salvation already tangible, funnel for the spirit coming into me without losing a drop, my black guardian angel come to rescue me before all the words

get out, I looked over Jordan and what did I see coming for? to carry me home. Regardez it all comes back, even the first grade French, when the tornado stirs up the past, bewitched spoon lost in its own spin, like a roulette wheel that won’t be steered like the world. They drove me underground, tornado watches and warnings, atomic bomb drills. Adult storms so I had to leave the room. Truth is

the tornado is a perfect nappy curl, tightly wound, spinning wildly when I try to tamper with its nature, shunning the hot comb and pressing oil even though if absolutely straight I’d have the longest hair in the world. Bouffant tornadic crown taking the royal path on a trip to town, stroll down Tornado Alley where it intersects Memory Lane. Smoky spirit- clouds, shadows searching for what cast them.

[1991]

KwamE dawEs Born in 1962 in Ghana, Kwame Dawes grew up in Jamaica and is currently the Chancellor’s Professor of English at the University of Nebraska. He also serves as the Glenna Luschie Editor-in-Chief of Prairie Schooner, an important literary maga- zine that features both a traditional book format and innovative online series. His publications include sixteen books of poetry, two novels, two collections of nonfic- tion writing, and several edited anthologies. His work is often inspired by the sights, sounds, and rhythms of Jamaica, and he has written an important study of the lyrics of the reggae musician Bob Marley.

Tornado Child

For Rosalie Richardson

I am a tornado child. I come like a swirl of black and darken up your day; I whip it all into my womb, lift you and your things,

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334    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

carry you to where you’ve never been, and maybe, if I feel good, I might bring you back, all warm and scared, heart humming wild like a bird after early sudden flight.

I am a tornado child. I tremble at the elements. When thunder rolls my womb trembles, remembering the tweak of contractions that tightened to a wail when my mother pushed me out into the black of a tornado night.

I am a tornado child, you can tell us from far, by the crazy of our hair; couldn’t tame it if we tried. Even now I tie a bandanna to silence the din of anarchy in these coir-thick plaits.

I am a tornado child born in the whirl of clouds; the center crumbled, then I came. My lovers know the blast of my chaotic giving; they tremble at the whip of my supple thighs; you cross me at your peril, I swallow light when the warm of anger lashes me into a spin, the pine trees bend to me swept in my gyrations.

I am a tornado child. When the spirit takes my head, I hurtle into the vacuum of white sheets billowing and paint a swirl of color, streaked with my many songs.

[2001]

Student Work: Innovative Journal Writing

Let’s examine how a student, Esther St. Pierre, uses a personalized form of journal writing to build a concept bridge between the two poems. Esther creates a form of note taking that feels right for the critical thinking task before her: She creates synthesis by locating bridge concepts, noting key quotes, and then writing out her ideas about each concept. Notice that the emphasis is on the generation of ideas.

RACE & GENDER = HAIR

“Tornados” “Tornado Child” “funneled through . . . legs” “swirl of black and darken” “do black justice” “my womb” “black guardian angel” “contractions” “nappy curl” “mother pushed me out” “hot comb . . . pressing oil” “black of a tornado night” “longest hair in the world” “crazy of our hair” “Smoky spirit” “coir–thick plaits”

These poems connect tornadoes to black women. Race is central to both poems—right in the first stanza of each poem, we get the word “black.” Then, each poem connects the idea of a tornado to a black woman’s hair. The whole

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last stanza of “Tornados” is about hair. The poem’s speaker describes the tornado as a “perfect nappy curl” and describes trying to tame her hair with a comb and oil. Her hair is a “bouffant tornadic crown”—at first I didn’t get this image, but now I can see that her hair is like a tornado over her head, creating a crown. In “Tornado Child” the third stanza is all about hair. It explains “the crazy of our hair, / couldn’t tame it if we tried.” In the next line I think the hair is being put in a bandana because it is “anarchy.” Again, the hair is out of control, like a tornado. I’d like to try to connect these two poems through these images of hair: the African-American woman’s hair is wild, out of control— almost like it has a mind of its own.

POWER—STRENGTH

“Tornados” “Tornado Child” “frenzy” “swirl of black” “electricity” “whip it” “release /the pent up” “scared,/heart humming” “lost in its own spin” “tremble . . . thunder” “won’t/be steered” “din of anarchy” “atomic bomb” “whirl of cloud” “spinning wildly” “blast of my chaotic giving”

“anger lashes me into a spin”

I think another key concept raised by both poems is the idea of power. The tornado is an incredibly powerful force of nature, able to cause fear and destruction. Both of the poems emphasize the tornado’s power and especially that the power is out of control or almost out of control: “won’t be steered” “anarchy.” This is not a normal power, but a chaotic power full of energy. The use of words in each poem is great: frenzy, whip, whirl, release, spinning, wild, whirl—all of these capture the feel of the tornado. In addition, both poems use words that warn that the tornado might be on the verge of exploding: “atomic bomb,” “blast of my chaotic giving.” Threatens even more damage?

BAPTISM/BIRTH

“Tornados” “Tornado Child” “church . . . surrogate steeple” “thunder rolls my womb” “first baptism” “contractions” “salvation” “mother pushed me out . . . tornado night” “funnel for the spirit” “born in the whirl of clouds” “guardian angle” “Jordan” “tornado watches and warnings”

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336    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

Both poems focus on a key event that involves tornadoes. “Tornados” describes a tornado that visits the speaker’s church on the day of her first baptism. The tornado becomes the church’s steeple. The poem’s speaker was saying words at the baptism—but then she has to run underground to take shelter from the tornado. In “Tornado Child,” the speaker describes being born, and it seems like the mother gave birth during a storm (or maybe the birth felt like a storm). The narrator keeps repeating “I am a tornado child” and says she is born in the “tornado night.” In “Tornados,” the poem connects the tornado to feelings of religion (like the idea of “funnel for the spirit”), but in “Tornado Child,” the idea of birth is connected to sexuality (like the idea that “lovers know the blast of my chaotic giving”). Maybe the idea of baptism as rebirth can be connected to the idea of birth? In both poems, tornadoes seem to symbolize the female narrator, being connected to her sense of religion or sexuality (something deeper than her appearance/hair).

Now that you’ve read a student’s attempt to create a concept bridge that con- nects the two poems, write a short essay that puts one or more of these connec- tions into essay form. Can you create a thesis argument out of one of these con- cepts? Can you develop one of these concepts further? Can you find more evidence to support one of these concepts? Can you combine the concepts? You can, of course, develop your own concept bridge, locating evidence that supports an ana- lytical response to the two poems. Write an essay of 250–500 words, remembering that the goal is synthesis—a connecting of the two texts to explore an important idea presented by both.

Synthesis Using Theme As we’ve been exploring, with synthesis, you are developing relationships between texts, using those relationships to generate new insights into concepts that bridge the texts. Comparison offers a strategy for performing synthesis: It asks you to develop your ideas by locating similarities and differences among literary texts or parts of texts. Synthesis tests your critical thinking skills: How can you position texts alongside each other, using that relationship to reveal new ideas in each text?

When we turn to fiction, one of the first ways in which we might think about creating synthesis, then, is though theme. Theme is a central concept, idea, or issue explored by a story—a larger meaning or insight that the story reveals. A story will have one or more unifying or overarching concepts that it explores; theme is the presentation and development of those ideas. When we synthesize stories, we will often turn to their themes as a source of comparison.

Let’s make the task of synthesis even more interesting by bringing together three pieces of microfiction. Let’s see what themes emerge from these stories. As you read these very short stories by Sandra Cisneros, Maryanne O’Hara, and Jayne Anne Phillips, consider what themes might provide productive connections among all three.

sandRa CisnERos Best known for The House on Mango Street (1984), a coming-of-age novel told through short chapters filled with poem-like lines, Sandra Cisneros has written poetry,

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Cisneros • Barbie-Q    337

novels, short stories, a children’s book, and a picture book for adults. Born in Chicago in 1954, Cisneros received a BA in English from Loyola University of Chicago (1976) and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Iowa (1978). Raised in a fam- ily that repeatedly migrated between Mexico and the United States, she is an advocate for Latina writing and has created foundations that support socially conscious writ- ers and writers connected to Texas. The importance of her writing has been recog- nized by a MacArthur Fellowship, National Endowment for the Arts awards, and the American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation.

Barbie-Q

Yours is the one with mean eyes and a ponytail. Striped swimsuit, stilettos, sun- glasses, and gold hoop earrings. Mine is the one with bubble hair. Red swimsuit, stilettos, pearl earrings, and a wire stand. But that’s all we can afford, besides one extra outfit apiece. Yours, “Red Flair,” sophisticated A-line coatdress with a Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat, white gloves, handbag, and heels included. Mine, “solo in the Spotlight,” evening elegance in black glitter strapless gown with a puffy skirt at the bottom like a mermaid tail, formal-length gloves, pink chiffon scarf, and mike included. From so much dressing and undressing, the black glitter wears off where her titties stick out. This and a dress invented from an old sock when we cut holes here and here and here, the cuff rolled over for the glamorous, fancy-free, off-the- shoulder look.

Every time the same story. Your Barbie is roommates with my Barbie, and my Barbie’s boyfriend comes over and your Barbie steals him, okay? Kiss kiss kiss. Then the two Barbies fight. You dumbbell! He’s mine. Oh no he’s not, you stinky! Only Ken’s invisible, right? Because we don’t have money for a stupid-looking boy doll when we’d both rather ask for a new Barbie outfit next Christmas. We have to make do with your mean-eyed Barbie and my bubble head Barbie and our one outfit apiece not including the sock dress.

Until next Sunday when we are walking through the flea market on Maxwell Street and there! Lying on the street next to some tool bits, and platform shoes with the heels all squashed, and a fluorescent green wicker wastebasket, and aluminum foil, and hubcaps, and a pink shag rug, and windshield wiper blades, and dusty mason jars, and a coffee can full of rusty nails. There! Where? Two Mattel boxes. One with the “Career Gal” ensemble, snappy black-and-white business suit, three- quarter-length sleeve jacket with kick-pleated skirt, red sleeveless shell, gloves, pumps, and matching hat included. The other, “Sweet Dreams,” dreamy pink-and- white plaid nightgown and matching robe, lace-trimmed slippers, hair-brush and hand mirror included. How much? Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, until they say okay.

On the outside you and me skipping and humming but inside we are doing loopity-loops and pirouetting. Until at the next vendor’s stand, next to boxed pies, and bright orange toilet brushes, and rubber gloves, and wrench sets, and bou- quets of feather flowers, and glass towel racks, and steel wool, and Alvin and the Chipmunks records, there! And there! And there! And there! and there! and there! and there! Bendable Legs Barbie with her new page-boy hairdo, Midge, Barbie’s best friend. Ken, Barbie’s boyfriend. Skipper, Barbie’s little sister. Tutti and Todd, Barbie and Skipper’s tiny twin sister and brother. Skipper’s friends, Scooter and Ricky. Alan, Ken’s buddy. And Francie, Barbie’s MOD’ern cousin.

Everybody today selling toys, all of them damaged with water and smelling of smoke. Because a big toy warehouse on Halsted Street burned down yesterday—see

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338    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

there?—the smoke still rising and drifting across the Dan Ryan expressway. And now there is a big fire sale at Maxwell Street, today only. So what if we didn’t get our new Bendable Legs Barbie and Midge and Ken and Skipper and Tutti and Todd and Scooter and Ricky and Alan and Francie in nice clean boxes and had to buy them on Maxwell Street, all water-soaked and sooty. So what if our Barbies smell like smoke when you hold them up to your nose even after you wash and wash and wash them. And if the prettiest doll, Barbie’s MOD’ern cousin Francie with real eyelashes, eyelash brush included, has a left foot that’s melted a little—so? If you dress her in her new “Prom Pinks” outfit, satin splendor with matching coat, gold belt, clutch, and hair bow included, so long as you don’t lift her dress, right?— who’s to know.

[1991]

maRyannE o’haRa A novelist and short-story writer who lives in Massachusetts, Maryanne O’Hara earned an MFA from Emerson College and served as associate fiction editor for Boston’s literary magazine, Ploughshares. She often takes her inspiration from local landscapes, and her novel Cascade (2012) fictionalizes the real events of the flood- ing of central Massachusetts towns to create the Quabbin Reservoir.

Diverging Paths and All That

In Dollar Saver, the aisles are empty, customers crowding Electronics watching Nixon resign on twenty TV sets. Dad dropped us off with three bucks to buy burg- ers but we’ve already spent it on fireballs and fudge.

While Nixon keeps the manager occupied, Billy demonstrates the “heads-up technique,” the nonchalant gaze, his left hand filching Hershey bars and Bic pens while his right hand jingles pocket change. Billy grins, “I really save my dollars here.”

Solo time. I head for Cosmetics, the wall of Peeper Sticks—blue and green and lavender eye crayons that’ve always cost dollars I don’t have. My hand closes around Seafoam Green, hesitates, but what the hell, even the President’s a crook, so I slip it up my sleeve. I try to sneak away natural as Billy, but my legs move too quick and stiff.

Billy meets me in Electronics, where Nixon’s keeping his head up, not admit- ting a damn thing. Saying he’d be able to clear his name if he fought long enough, but he’ll sacrifice his honor for the country. When he says he’ll resign as of noon the next day, I check out all these adults who yelled, “Impeach the crook.” Nobody cheers. The faces are solemn as gravestones. Billy’s motioning, Come on on let’s go, but I suddenly feel like I ate too much candy. I shake my sleeve, dropping the Peeper Stick onto a shelf, and follow Billy out the automatic doors. Dad’s picking us up in two minutes, but Billy’s headed someplace else.

[1996]

JaynE annE PhilliPs Born in 1952 in West Virginia, Jayne Anne Phillips earned a BA from West Virginia University and an MFA from the University of Iowa. She is currently a professor of English and the founding director of the Rutgers University–Newark MFA in Cre- ative Writing Program. Her work wrestles with the American experiences of coming

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PhilliPs • Sweethearts    339

of age, maintaining family relationships, and struggling with the legacy of war, and includes the short story collection Fast Lanes (1984) and the novels Machine Dreams (1984) and Lark and Termite (2008).

Sweethearts

We went to the movies every Friday and Sunday. On Friday nights the Colonial filled with an oily fragrance of teenagers while we hid in the back row of the balcony. An aura of light from the projection booth curved across our shoulders, round under cotton sweaters. Sacred grunts rose in back corners. The screen was far away and spilling color—big men sweating on horses and women with pow- dered breasts floating under satin. Near the end the film smelled hot and twisted as boys shuddered and girls sank down in their seats. We ran to the lobby before the lights came up to stand by the big ash can and watch them walk slowly down- stairs. Mouths swollen and ripe, they drifted down like a sign of steam. The boys held their arms tense and shuffled from one foot to the other while the girls sniffed and combed their hair in the big mirror. Outside the neon lights on Main Street flashed stripes across the asphalt in the rain. They tossed their heads and shivered like ponies.

On Sunday afternoons the theater was deserted, a church that smelled of something frying. Mrs. Causton stood at the door to tear tickets with her fat buttered fingers. During the movie she stood watching the traffic light change in the empty street, pushing her glasses up over her nose and squeezing a damp kleenex. Mr. Penny was her skinny yellow father. He stood by the office door with his big push broom, smoking cigarettes and coughing.

Walking down the slanted floor to our seats we heard the swish of her thighs behind the candy counter and our shoes sliding on the worn carpet. The heavy velvet curtain moved its folds. We waited, and a cavernous dark pressed close around us, its breath pulling at our faces.

After the last blast of sound, it was Sunday afternoon, and Mr. Penny stood jingling his keys by the office door while we asked to use the phone. Before he turned the key he bent over and pulled us close with his bony arms. Stained finders kneading our chests, he wrapped us in old tobacco and called us his girls. I felt his wrinkled heart wheeze like a dog on a leash. Sweethearts, he whispered.

[1976]

Student Work: Innovative Mapping

As you read these three stories, you probably formulated ideas about how they might be connected. With three stories to compare, rather than just two, the relationships among ideas become more complex. How can you keep your ideas straight as you interweave and develop them?

Sample writing by a student offers an example of mapping ideas in a graphic, free-flowing fashion. Mapping allows connections between ideas to emerge through brainstorming and then allows those connections to be developed further. Mapping frees brainstorming from the linear thinking that an outline, list, or table supports. As you look at the mapping below, see if you think it generates interest- ing ideas that could lead to your writing a paper.

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340    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

–play with Barbies –wants candy and eye-liner –Sunday movie

Young girls

–how to get doll clothes can’t afford –stealing –escaping Mr. Penny

Coming of Age Theme #1 = Theme of Facing Moral Dilemmas

–Barbies–Barbie clothes –Cosmetics –Movie –**becoming more adult?

Coming of Age Theme #2 = Theme of Expressing Desires/Wants

–sexuality: dolls kissing –cosmetics–make-up like adult –movie: teenagers on dates

Desires not yet adult

–sexuality, growing up – the “consumer good” and activities of growing up

On verge of being adult –knows adult world –not part of adult world

Desires very female:

–poverty –stealing –sexuality **issues push them closer to coming of age and to adult world

Larger Moral Issues

Coming of Age

–fire at toy factory –Nixon, resignation –gender-stereotyped movies – Consumer goods part of this world

Theme of Adult World? Larger Context

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Mapping creates a web of ideas across all three texts. This student’s mapping seems to be leading toward a thesis that emphasizes the theme of young girls coming of age, focusing on young girls facing a moral dilemma or an issue that pushes them closer to the adult world. This theme becomes more specific if, fol- lowing the mapping, it emphasizes how girlish desires become more adult desires or how girlish desires are expressed through consumer goods. Using this map- ping as a starting point for further synthesis, see if you can continue to make notes in a mapping format. Then, write an informal essay of 250–500 words that explains the ideas discovered by the sample mapping provided here and your own mapping.

Synthesis Using Form Having emphasized theme, let’s now turn to form—the arrangement, shape, and structure of the text—as a source of comparison and synthesis-based thinking. Form emphasizes how ideas are expressed by literature, not just what the ideas are. All good literary analysis and literary synthesis will include a discussion of form.

Let’s read two poems that take specific formal shapes and thus encourage the reader to analyze form in addition to theme. Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” takes the form of a sonnet, a fourteen-line poem that consists of three quatrains (a set of four rhymed lines) and a final couplet (a set of two rhymed lines), and uses iambic pentameter (a ten-syllable line, in which an unstressed syllable is followed by a stressed syllable). This son- net rhyme scheme is noted as abab, cdcd, efef, gg. The sonnet structure orga- nizes the flow of ideas though the poem and is thus important to recognize and analyze. Howard Moss’s “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” provides a modern translation of the poem into contemporary English. Although it reworks Shakespeare’s lines, the poem does not follow the sonnet form. It contains only thirteen lines and modifies the rhyme scheme. We can ask why Moss’s poem references Shakepeare’s sonnet form but ultimately does not use it. For example, Moss’s poem quite literally “falls short” of Shakespeare’s sonnet, containing one less line.

After reading these two poems, we can examine a sample student essay that uses form to connect the poems.

william shaKEsPEaRE William Shakespeare (1564–1616), born in Stratford-upon-Avon in England, is chiefly known as a dramatic poet, but he also wrote nondramatic poetry. In 1609, a volume of 154 of his sonnets was published, apparently without his permission. Probably he chose to keep his sonnets unpublished, not because he thought that they were of little value, but because it was more prestigious to be an amateur (unpub- lished) poet than a professional (published) poet. Although the sonnets were pub- lished in 1609, they were probably written in the mid-1590s, when there was a vogue for sonneteering. A contemporary writer in 1598 said that Shakespeare’s “sugared Sonnets [circulate] among his private friends.”

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Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

[1609]

howaRd moss Howard Moss is best known for serving as the poetry editor at the New Yorker maga- zine for over thirty-five years, an influential position that allowed him to publish many of the most important poets of the twentieth century. His editorial work nurtured the careers of writers that included Theodore Roethke, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath. His own poetry earned him acclaim, with his Selected Poems being awarded a 1972 National Book Award. Known for their wit and intelligence, his poems show an evolu- tion toward darker themes and a more fluid style over the course of his career.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?

Who says you’re like one of the dog days? You’re nicer. And better. Even in May, the weather can be gray, And a summer sub-let doesn’t last forever. Sometimes the sun’s too hot; Sometimes it is not. Who can stay young forever? People break their necks or just drop dead! But you? Never! If there’s just one condensed reader left Who can figure out the abridged alphabet, After you’re dead and gone, In this poem you’ll live on.

[1976]

Student Comparison Essay: “Condensing Shakespeare: A Comic Re-writing of a Shakespeare Sonnet”

Kathryn Werner, a student taking a composition course, wrote the following syn- thesis paper. Her paper compares the two poems by exploring issues of form and theme. In fact, concerns about form, such as the activity of abridging a literary text, becomes the main theme of the paper. Let’s explore this paper and how it address- es issues of form, including language, structure, rhyme, and writing style.

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Comparison Essay    343

Werner 1

Kathryn Werner

Professor Jones

English 102

23 October 2016

Condensing Shakespeare: A Comic Re-writing of a Shakespeare Sonnet

Howard Moss’s “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day” is a comic

re-writing of Shakespeare’s “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day.”

A comparison of Shakespeare’s sonnet to Moss’s updating of it reveals just

how much Moss has removed from Shakespeare’s poem while still retaining

much of its meaning. The humor of Moss’s poem comes from this activity of

making the original much shorter and more concise. In addition, Moss has

also substituted comic words for Shakespeare’s lofty language, translating

Shakespeare’s language into common, direct, and even crude phrases.

Moss’s poem also copies Shakespeare’s themes and simplifies them while

adding to them. Shakespeare’s poem is about love and Moss gives us a comic

version of that theme of love. However, Moss’s poem is also a comic analysis

of writing, specifically the act of shortening—or “abridging” or “condensing”

(to use his words)—a text (10–11). Moss’s poem is less about love and more

about the activity of editing. Moss forces us to think about the act of

abridging literature, and to question what can and cannot be changed in a

poem before it loses its connection to the original.

Moss’s first ten lines follow Shakespeare’s sonnet, offering a

line-by-line rewriting of the poem in short, modern English. If we focus on

that rewriting, the theme of love remains crucial. However, lines 10–11 are

key and reveal that Moss is exploring a second theme in his poem. Lines

10–11 read: “If there’s just one condensed reader left / Who can figure out

the abridged alphabet,” and the poem continues to explain that if there is

just this one reader left, the beloved will live on in the poem. These lines

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completely rewrite Shakespeare’s poem. They are some of the longest lines in

the poem and contain the poem’s most complex language, forcing the reader

to slow down and contemplate their meaning. These lines focus on the idea

of “condensing” and “abridging.” They highlight what this poem is doing:

condensing and abridging Shakespeare. These lines ask us to focus on those

activities and think about how they work.

In addition, these lines emphasize the reader and hint at the idea

that readers want condensed, shortened writing. Readers don’t have the

energy or knowledge needed to figure out the complex language of

Shakespeare’s sonnet. Today’s readers, even more than when Moss was

writing his poem in 1976, want condensed language. In today’s world of

texting and tweeting, who will find the time to read a complex poem like

Shakespeare’s? Moss seems to be playing around with this idea, asking us to

think about the reader who will be able to figure out this poem. Will readers

prefer the condensed version? Will there always be readers who will know

that Moss’s poem is not the original and re-writes a Shakespeare poem? Or, is

that knowledge in danger of being lost?

With these ideas of annotation, condensing, and the reader’s activity

in mind, we must go back to read the rest of the poem. The poem achieves

comedy by translating Shakespeare’s evocative language into everyday

slang. Shakespeare’s imagery is also reduced to a series of common images of

everyday life. Moss’s poem seems to be making the point that simplifying

poetry makes it more common and everyday.

Line-for-line, Moss follows and abridges Shakespeare’s writing.

Shakespeare’s poem opens with the line “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s

day?” (1), which Moss re-writes as “Who says you’re like one of the dog days?”

(1). Moss’s first line makes it clear that he is writing an over-the-top comic

version of the original. The phrasing of “dog days” leaps off the page and

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Werner 3

emphasizes the idea of comparing a lover to the hottest days of summer.

But, because the phrase also contains the word “dog,” it hints at comparing

the lover to a dog. Instead of creating the simile “my lover is like the

summer,” Moss creates the simile “my lover is like the summer” AND “my

lover is like a dog”—an insulting idea! The first quatrain in Shakespeare’s

poem expands on this famous comparison between the beloved and a

summer’s day, proclaiming that the beloved is “more lovely and more

temperate” (2). Moss translates this into the common phrasing “You’re nicer.

And better” (2). The downgrading of poetic language is exactly what makes

Moss’s poem humorous.

Shakespeare’s second quatrain describes the failings of the natural

world, failings which his lover does not have. When describing the sun, he

writes that the “eye of heaven” can be “too hot” or can have its “gold

complexion dimmed” (5–6). Moss condenses this into a straightforward line

“Sometimes the sun’s too hot;/Sometimes it is not” (5–6). The imagery of

the “eye of heaven” and a “gold complexion” has been completely erased in

favor of a straightforward statement. This condensed statement is true—of

course, sometimes the sun is too hot and sometimes not—but it lacks

beauty. When Shakespeare continues to explain that everyone’s life must

decline, Moss takes the idea of death and makes it comic, “People break

their necks or just drop dead!” (8). Moss’s poem removes beauty from a poem

about a beautiful lover. Moss calls attention to the importance of poetic

language by writing a poem that deletes it.

The third quatrain in each poem proclaims that the beloved will remain

beautiful. Shakespeare writes, “thy eternal summer shall not fade” (9), while

Moss exclaims, “But you? “Never!” (9). In Moss’s abridgement, the line has

become so short as to become almost meaningless. Not only is this line

lacking poetic imagery, it also lacks a clear verb! The punctuation gives the

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line life, rather than the language. Each poem then explains that the

beloved person will escape death by being written into the poem itself. The

poem will preserve the beauty of the beloved, making it clear and accessible

to future readers. While Shakespeare explains that his beloved “growest” in

his “eternal lines” (12), Moss exclaims that he needs a “condensed reader”

who can read the “abridged alphabet” of his poem (11). Moss has

transformed “growing” into “condensing.”

The form of Moss’s sonnet calls attention to the act of condensing a

text. While a typical Shakespearean sonnet has three quatrains totaling

12 lines, Moss’s poem cuts the length of the sonnet short and gives the three

quatrains only 11 lines. Immediately after he has stated that he needs a

reader who can “figure out the abridged alphabet” (11). Moss makes an

extreme abridgement to Shakespeare’s sonnet: he cuts out an entire line.

Moss calls attention to his “abridging” theme by acting out that theme in his

sonnet’s form.

Moss has not only abridged the sonnet, but has completely

re-structured its form. Although he follows the “abab” rhyme scheme of the

poem in the first couplet, throughout the rest of the sonnet he departs from

that expected rhyme scheme. Perhaps he is making the point that if you

abridge a sonnet enough, it stops being a sonnet. At what point does a poem

stop being a poem?

The final couplet in Shakespeare’s sonnet emphasizes that the

beloved will live “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,” because his

poem will “give life to thee” (13–14). Moss simplifies this idea into the lines

“After you’re dead and gone, In this poem you’ll live on” (13). This captures

the literal meaning of the poem, but it seems to miss what poetry is really

about: capturing an image, creating a rich comparison, or evoking an

emotion that will inspire future readers.

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Werner 5

Moss calls attention to the act of abridging by condensing the

sonnet’s language, themes, and form. He questions that abridging by

showing how much it can change a poem and how much it can even

undermine the idea of poetry itself. In order for Moss’s poem to be

understood, he needs a reader who understands the original Shakespeare

poem. The fun of Moss’s poem is understanding the original and seeing how

he has manipulated it. As a result, Moss really does need “one condensed

reader” (10) who knows Shakespeare and knows how condensing works—he

needs one reader who can “figure out” abridging in order for his poem to be

understood. In this way, Moss’s poem is about the reader and how the reader

allows a poem to “live on.” Moss’s ideal reader would not be interested in just

the beauty of a lover, but would be interested in thinking about what makes

a sonnet a sonnet and what makes a sonnet, like Shakespeare’s, live on

throughout time. In this way, Moss offers a meaningful exploration of

Shakespeare’s ideas about the reader, and Moss makes them come alive in an

unexpectedly fun and comic way.

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Works Cited

Moss, Howard. “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” Literature for Composition.

Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L. Nixon. 11th

ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 342. Print.

Shakespeare, William. “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” Literature for

Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain, and Cheryl L.

Nixon. 11th ed. Boston: Pearson, 2017. 342. Print.

[New page]

Comparison Essay    347

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348    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

Your Turn: Additional Poems and Stories for Comparison and Synthesis

CaRPE diEm (“sEizE ThE day”) PoEms

RobERT hERRiCK Robert Herrick (1591–1674) was born in London, the son of a goldsmith. After taking a master’s degree at Cambridge, he was ordained in the Church of England, and later he was sent to the country parish of Dean Prior in Devonshire, where he wrote most of his poetry. A loyal supporter of the king, he was expelled in 1647 from his parish by the Puritans, though in 1662 he was restored to Dean Prior.

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer;

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✔ C H E C K L I S T : Revising a Comparison

Is the comparison meaningful? Does this synthesis of two or more texts lead to the development of interesting conceptual ideas?

Is the point of the comparison—the reason for making it—clear? Is the point stated in a thesis sentence?

Does the comparison cover all significant similarities and differences? Is the comparison readable; that is, is it clear and yet not tediously mechanical? Is the organization used—perhaps treating one text first and then the other,

or perhaps shifting back and forth between texts—the best way to make the comparison?

Does the comparison feature specific evidence? Do you break down the evidence into short quotations? Do you explain your analysis of the evidence and use it to synthesize the texts?

If the comparison offers a value judgment, is that judgment fair? Does the com- parison offer enough evidence to bring a reader into at least partial agreement?

Has the comparison been edited for correctness, using correct sentence structure, word choice, and grammar?

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marlowe • The Passionate Shepherd to His Love    349

But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

[1648]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Why did the poet write “rosebuds” rather than roses in the first line? 2. What sort of person seems to be speaking? Young or old? How do you know? 3. Doubtless this advice has something to commend it, but it is not the whole

truth. Does the value of this poem depend on the soundness of its advice? Explain your answer.

4. Does the poem offer an argument? If so, how is the argument supported? Is it convincing? Explain your answer.

ChRisToPhER maRlowE Christopher Marlowe (1564–93), English poet and playwright, was born in the same year as Shakespeare. An early death, in a tavern brawl, cut short what might have been a brilliant career.

Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love” is a pastoral poem; it depicts shepherds and shepherdesses in an idyllic, timeless setting. This poem engendered many imitations and replies, three of which we reprint after Marlowe’s poem.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love.

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350    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

[1599–1600]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

Read the poem two or three times, preferably aloud. Marlowe’s poem is not to be taken seriously as a picture of the pastoral (shepherd) life, but if you have enjoyed the poem, exactly what have you enjoyed?

siR walTER RalEigh Walter Raleigh (1552–1618) is known chiefly as a soldier and a colonizer—he was the founder of the settlement in Virginia, and he introduced tobacco into Europe— but, in his own day, he was known also as a poet.

The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel˚ becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move, To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move, To live with thee and be thy love.

[c. 1600]

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7 Philomel in greek mythology, Philomela was a beautiful woman who was raped and later transformed into a chattering sparrow, but, in most roman versions, she is transformed into the nightingale, noted for its beautiful song.

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marvell • To His Coy Mistress    351

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is the season in Marlowe’s poem? What season(s) does Raleigh envision? 2. Some readers find puns in line 12, in “fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.” How do

you paraphrase and interpret the line? 3. How would you describe the tone of the final stanza? 4. Now that you have read Raleigh’s poem, reread Marlowe’s poem. Do you now,

in the context of Raleigh’s poem, enjoy Marlowe’s poem more than before, or less? Why? (You might think of it this way: Does Raleigh’s refutation cause you to lose interest in Marlowe’s poem?)

andREw maRvEll Born in 1621 near Hull in England, Andrew Marvell attended Trinity College, Cam- bridge, and graduated in 1638. During the English Civil War (1642–1651), he was tutor to the daughter of Sir Thomas Fairfax in Yorkshire at Nun Appleton House, where most of his best-known poems were written. In 1657, he was appointed assistant to John Milton, the Latin Secretary for the Commonwealth. After the Resto- ration of the monarchy in 1659 until his death, Marvell represented Hull as a mem- ber of Parliament. Most of his poems were not published until after his death in 1678.

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time. This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day. Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Should’st rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber˚ would complain.˚ I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.˚ My vegetable˚ love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze: Two hundred to adore each breast: But thirty thousand to the rest. An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate, But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie

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7 Humber river in england; complain write love poems. 10 conversion of the Jews it was believed by Christians that the conversion of the Jews would occur just before the last Judgment. 11 vegetable slowly growing.

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Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor in thy marble vault shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am’rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapt˚ power, Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough˚ the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

[1641]

40 slow-chapt slowly devouring. 44 Thorough through.

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What does “coy” mean in the title, and “coyness” in line 2? 2. Do you think that the speaker’s claims in lines 1–20 are so inflated that we

detect behind them a playfully ironic tone? Explain. Why does the speaker say in line 8 that he would love “ten years before the Flood,” rather than merely “since the Flood”?

3. What do you make of lines 21–24? Why is time behind the speaker, and eternity in front of him? Is this “eternity” the same as the period discussed in lines 1–20? Discuss the change in the speaker’s tone after line 20.

John donnE John Donne (1572–1631) was born into a Roman Catholic family in England, but in the 1590s he abandoned that faith. In 1615 he became an Anglican priest and soon was known as a great preacher. One hundred sixty of his sermons survive, including one with the famous line “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less . . . and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” From 1621 until his death Donne was dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in

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Donne • The Bait    353

London. His love poems (often bawdy and cynical) are said to be his early work, and his “Holy Sonnets” (among the greatest religious poems written in English) his later work.

The Bait

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.

There will the river whispering run Warmed by thy eyes, more than the Sun. And there th’enamored fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amorously to thee swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, beest loath, By Sun, or Moon, thou darknest both, And if my self have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs, with shells and weeds, Or treacherously poor fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowy net:

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks out-wrest, Or curious traitors, sleavesilk flies Bewitch poor fishes’ wandring eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit, For thou thy self art thine own bait; That fish, that is not catched thereby, Alas, is wiser far than I.

[1633]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In Donne’s first stanza, which words especially indicate that we are (as in Marlowe’s poem) in an idealized world?

2. Which words later in Donne’s poem indicate what (for Donne) the real world of fishing is?

3. Paraphrase the last stanza, making it as clear as possible.

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PoEms abouT blaCKbERRiEs

galway KinnEll Pulitzer Prize–winning poet Galway Kinnell (1927–2014) is known for his explora- tions of how personal philosophy and spirituality is rooted in the physical and social world. His poetry often examines nature, and many of his most famous poems, such as “The Bear,” feature animals. His political poetry reflects his involvement in the civil rights movement and his protests against the Vietnam War. Born in Provi- dence, Rhode Island, Kinnell served in U.S. Navy, earned a BA from Princeton University, and lived much of his adult life in Vermont.

Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries to eat blackberries for breakfast, the stalks very prickly, a penalty they earn for knowing the black art of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries fall almost unbidden to my tongue, as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words like strengths and squinched, many-lettered, on-syllabled lumps, which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well in the silent, startled, icy, black language of blackberry-eating in late September.

[1980]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Central to this poem is the comparison between blackberry eating and the inspiration of finding specific words when writing. How does the poem make this comparison? What specifically is being compared to blackberries? How is the physical body involved in both blackberry eating and locating words?

2. Examine the language used by the poem. Annotate the poem, noting how cer- tain words are repeated. For example, how are the words “ripe,” “icy,” “squinch,” and “black” repeated? How does the poem capture the taste of blackberries? How does it capture the action in writing?

3. The poem contains the interesting phrases “black art” and “blank language.” What do these phrases mean within the context of the poem?

4. Before moving on to other poems about blackberries, write a short response to this poem. What is the emotional content of the poem? What are the thematic issues central to the poem? After your understanding of Kinnell’s poem is in place, turn to other poems in this section and work toward making meaningful comparisons among them, using the questions that follow each poem.

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Plath • Blackberrying    355

sylvia PlaTh Sylvia Plath (1932–63) was born in Boston, the daughter of German immigrants. While still an undergraduate at Smith College, she published in Seventeen and Mademoiselle magazines, but her years at college, like her later years, were marked by manic-depressive periods. She details these difficulties in her semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar (1963). After graduating from college, she went to England to study at Cambridge University, where she met the English poet Ted Hughes, whom she married in 1956. The marriage was unsuccessful, and they separated after having two children. She committed suicide at the age of thirty while living in London.

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers. I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me. They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their

sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks— Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky. Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting. I do not think the sea will appear at all. The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within. I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a

Chinese screen. The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in

heaven. One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea. From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me, Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.˚ These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt. I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

[1960]

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21 Note: the third line of the third stanza has been corrected to read “slapping its phantom laundry in my face” instead of “grapping its phantom laundry in my face.” [2/23/11].

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356    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Plath’s poem describes a walk along a lane filled with blackberries. Take notes on that walk, asking inquiry questions of each stanza. For example, how does the first stanza describe her interaction with the blackberries? What does she do with them? In the second stanza, what is up in the sky? What new sense does she introduce? In the third stanza, what is Plath’s destination? What does she ultimately see, and how does she describe it? For each stanza, add to these inquiry questions and form answers for your questions.

2. What lines leap out at you that contain interesting words, phrases, images, or emotions? For example, consider the image of the wind “slapping its phantom laundry in my face.” What lines catch your eye and ear? Why?

3. How would you characterize the speaker’s motivations? Is the poem about the enjoyment of nature, or is it about the desire to reach a destination? What ideas or emotions motivate the speaker?

4. Compare this poem to Galway Kinnell’s “Blackberry Eating.” How does each poet describe picking blackberries? In each poem, do the blackberries seem excessive, such as being “overripe” in Kinnell’s poem and a “honey-feast” in Plath’s poem? How do blackberries connect the poems’ speakers to nature? How do the black- berries connect to a larger quest or purpose on the part of the speaker?

sEamus hEanEy Seamus Heaney (1939–2013) was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He grew up on a farm and then went to Queens University in Belfast. Heaney lectured widely in Ireland, England, and the United States. He taught at Harvard (1985–2006) and was Regius Professor of Poetry at Oxford, a post that was held by Matthew Arnold and W. H. Auden. In addition to writing poetry, he wrote essays about poetry. In 1995, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. “Digging,” the first poem in his first book, reveals his concern with getting to the bottom of things.

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur,

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komunyakaa • Blackberries    357

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

[1966]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. In the first stanza, how does Heaney capture the physical pleasures of black- berry picking? How does Heaney’s language compare to Kinnell’s and his description of “fat, overripe, icy” berries that fall onto his tongue? How does Heaney’s language compare to Plath’s description of berries that are “fat/with blue-red juices” and are part of a “blood sisterhood”? What sensory images does each poet use? What colors does each poet use? Are there any words or images that create a concept bridge between two or more of these poems?

2. In the first stanza, how does Heaney explain the “lust for picking”? Annotate the poem, making sure to highlight the phrases that convey that lust. What triggers that lust? How is that lust expressed in the collecting of berries, such as the types of cans used or the places visited to collect the berries?

3. What happens in the second stanza? Where are the berries hidden? What happens to them? What is the “fur” that the speaker finds?

4. With the outcome described in the second stanza, is Heaney encouraging us to think about human motivations, hopes, dreams, or failures? Is Heaney trying to impart a larger lesson?

5. How does this poem’s ending compare to the ending of Kinnell’s, Plath’s, and (as the next poem in the series) Komunyakka’s poems? Write a short analytical essay that compares the ending of two (or more) of these poems, creating an argument about how each ending explores a conceptual issue represented by the blackberries rather than the blackberries themselves.

yusEf KomunyaKaa Yusef Komunyakaa was born in 1947 in Bogalusa, Louisiana. After graduating from high school, he entered the army and served in Vietnam, where he was awarded the Bronze Star. On his return to the United States, he earned a BA at the University of Colorado and then an MA at Colorado State University and an MFA in creative writing at the University of California, Irvine. The author of several books of poetry, Komunyakaa teaches at New York University.

Blackberries

They left my hands like a printer’s Or thief’s before a police blotter & pulled me into early morning’s Terrestrial sweetness, so thick The damp ground was consecrated Where they fell among a garland of thorns.

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358    Chapter 9 Comparison and Synthesis

Although I could smell old lime-covered History, at ten I’d still hold out my hands & berries fell into them. Eating from one & filling a half gallon with the other, I ate the mythology & dreamt Of pies & cobbler, almost

Needful as forgiveness. My bird dog Spot Eyed blue jays & thrashers. The mud frogs In rich blackness, hid from daylight. An hour later, beside City Limits Road I balanced a gleaming can in each hand, Limboed between worlds, repeating one dollar.

The big blue car made me sweat. Wintertime crawled out of the windows. When I leaned closer I saw the boy & girl my age, in the wide back seat Smirking, & it was then I remembered my fingers Burning with thorns among berries too ripe to touch.

[1992]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. Like the poems by Kinnell, Plath, and Heaney, Komunyakaa’s poem conveys the excitement of finding and eating berries. Annotate Komunyakaa’s poem, circling and underlining key words and exploring how he uses language to describe the berries. How are his images similar to, or different from, the images used by the three other poets? What images can you use to create a concept bridge that connects these poems?

2. How does Komunyakaa describe the sweetness of the berries and the painful sting of their thorns? Why is something that is both sweet and painful a perfect object for exploring the speaker’s maturation or coming of age? Do Kinnell, Plath, and Heaney also describe the undesirable thorns of the desirable berries? Compare and contrast each poem’s exploration of the blackberries’ thorns.

3. What does the speaker hope to do with his can of berries? Why is the speaker “repeating one dollar”? Why is the speaker “limboed between worlds”?

4. Read and reread the last stanza, and then write an explication of these final lines. Work your way through each line of the poem, explaining its meaning and noting how the poem’s formal elements create that meaning. What event takes place? What ideas and emotions does this event trigger in the speaker? Why is this moment meaningful to the speaker?

PoEms abouT amERiCa

walT whiTman Walt Whitman (1819–92) was born on Long Island, New York, the son of a farmer. The young Whitman taught school and worked as a carpenter, a printer, a newspaper editor, and, during the Civil War, as a volunteer nurse on the Union side. After the

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HugHes • I, Too [Sing America]    359

war, he supported himself by doing secretarial jobs. In Whitman’s own day, his poetry was highly controversial because of its unusual form (formlessness, many people said) and its often erotic implications.

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe

and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off

work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the

deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter

singing as he stands, The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the

morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at

work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young

fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

[1860; rev. 1867]

Joining the Conversation: Critical Thinking and Writing

1. What is Whitman doing in this poem? 2. How are the workers to whom Whitman refers similar to one another? How are

they different? 3. Does Whitman’s poem speak to us today? Explain why it does or does not. 4. Please write your own version of Whitman’s poem, with your own choice of

representative workers.

Langston HugHes Langston Hughes (1902–67) was born in Joplin, Missouri. He lived part of his youth in Mexico, spent a year at Columbia University, served as a merchant seaman, and worked in a Paris nightclub, where he showed some of his poems to Alain Locke, a strong advocate of African American literature. After returning to the United States, Hughes went on to publish poetry, fiction, plays, essays, and biographies.

I, Too [Sing America]

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen

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