MINISTRY OF EDUCATION AND TRAINING TAY DO UNIVERSITY
Faculty of English Linguistics and Literature
AN INTRODUCTION TO LITEARATUE
Compiled by: Phan Thị Minh Uyên
2016
1 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to express my deepest appreciation to Dr. Tran Cong Luan, the Principle of Tay Do University and my vice dean, M.A Nguyen Thi Diem Thuy the faculty of of English Linguistics and Literature to give me the great opportunity to compose this material.
I especially thanks and gratitude to my committee for their continued support and encouragement: Dr. Nguyen Buu Huan, Dr. Thai Cong Dan, for their highly comments and advice.
I also wish to extend my heartfelt thanks to my teaching staff, especially M.A Dang Thi Bao Dung, M.A Huynh Thi My Duyen, who assisted me in this course preparation.
My completion of this project could not have been accomplished without the support of my dear students who studied the English courses III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII. Their encouragement inspired me to complete this course package.
2 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgement
Introduction to literature page
A. THEORY 6
Unit One: Kinds of literature 9 Unit Two: How to read a short story and a poem 14 Unit Three: How to analyze a literature work 18 Unit Four: The five basic elements of plot structure 20 Unit Five: Main theme and view point of a short story 25 Unit Six: Setting and characters 28 Unit Seven: Style, mood and tone 31 Unit Eight: Language and literature; diction; form and content 33 Unit Nine: Basic elements of poetry 35 Unit Ten: Poetry types 39 Unit Eleven: Literary devices in a poem 47 Unit Twelve: A movie review; a short story review and a book review 53
B. SELECTED WORKS AND DISCUSSION QUESTIONS 57
Part I: PROSE Cemetery path byLeonard Q. Ross 57 Point of view by A. Averchenko 58 The kiss by Kate Chopin’s 60 The story of an hour by Kate Chopin 63 Tết by Ly Lan 65 The blind man by Kate Chopin 68 The necklace byGuy De Maupassant 70 Let’s go home by Dang Minh Chau 77 The day always belongs to the sun by Tran Thanh Ha 81Yesterday’s love by Nguyen Thu Phuong 85 Only one word by Dau Viet Hung 89 A daughter-in-law by Hoang Tran To Phuong 93
3 Part II : VERSE A prayer in spring by Robert Frost 98 Success is counted sweetest by Emily Dickinson 99 Before sleep by Catherine Anderson 100 Love after love by Derek Walcott 100 To you by Walt Whitman 101 Petals by Amy Lowell 102 Daffodils by William Wordsworth 103 Lines written in early spring by William Wordsworth 104
Part III: FURTHER READING 104
A. LEGENDARY 106 My Chau and Trong Thuy (Unknown) 106 Thach Sanh and Ly Thong (Unknown) 108 Son Tinh and Thuy Tinh (Unknown) 110 Tam and Cam (Unknown) 112 Cinderella (Unknown) 118 B. ALLEGORY The ant and the grasshopper (Unknown) 120 The dog and the shadow (Unknown) 120 The miser and his gold (Unknown) 121 The fox and the stork (Unknown) 122 The wolf and the lamb (Unknown) 122 C. MODERN STORIES The gift of the magi by O’Henry 124 Teardrop leaves by Que Huong 129 Enchanting moment by Cao Tien Le 134 A thief by Nguyen Minh Chau 139 Death wish byLawrence Block 144 The cactus by O’Henry 150 The last leaf by O’Henry 153 Charles by Shirley Jackson 158 The bet by Anton Chekov 162 The snob by Morley Callaghan 168
4 All summer in a day by Ray Bradbury 172 Appendix 179 Common symbols in literature
REFERENCES 185
5 INTRODUCTION
When students read or write a short story or a novel. They need to the ability of interpretation; they create a text which has their own world. Thus, this material is for their interpretative text as well as applying to their reading strategies of the original text. To develop your understanding a text, you need to have strategies for reading and interpretation.
Some stories in this course may be easy to read, others may be hard. Some will immediately provoke a reaction; others will take more thought and discussion. This course is designed to help you develop effective strategies for reading a literary work.
Objective: Literature is the art of writing, it requires the creative readers with effective strategies for reading and interpreting and analyzing. Students leaning literature are expected to express their comprehension though literary analysis and interpretation. This material aims to second- year students with a general knowledge about basic techniques for literary comprehension related to four skill interactions.
What is literature? “When I read great literature, great drama, speeches, or sermons, I feel that the human mind has not achieved anything greater than the ability to share feelings and thoughts through language.” - James Earl Jones Literature is a term used to describe written or spoken material. Broadly speaking, “literature” is used to describe anything from creative writing to more technical or scientific works, but the term is most commonly used to refer to works of the creative imagination, including works of poetry, drama, fiction, and nonfiction.
Why do we read literature? Literature represents a language or a people: culture and tradition. But, literature is more important than just a historical or cultural artifact. Literature introduces us to new worlds of experience. We learn about books and literature; we enjoy the comedies and the tragedies of poems, stories, and plays; and we may even grow and evolve through our literary journey with books.Ultimately, we may discover meaning in literature by looking at what the author
6 says and how he/she says it. We may interpret the author’s message. In academic circles, this decoding of the text is often carried out through the use of literary theory, using a mythological, sociological, psychological, historical, or other approach.
Whatever critical paradigm we use to discuss and analyze literature, there is still an artistic quality to the works. Literature is important to us because it speaks to us, it is universal, and it affects us. Even when it is ugly, literature is beautiful. This course Introduction to literature is designed for third year student majoring in English of Literature and Linguistics Faculty at Tay Do University. It is expected that all the teachers feel free to select texts that are suitable for their teaching situation, reject other and supplement when necessary.
Aims of the course to introduce students to the art of short story writing; to foster an understanding of various subgenres of the short story, through guided reading and interpretive commentary; and to encourage and guide students’ own experiments with the form through practical writing exercises
Course content overview This course will begin with a consideration of what makes a short story - apart from its length - a distinct genre, introducing the elements which combine to produce the short story’s unique effect. Each week will focus on a particular short story (with reference to others) by one of the genre’s key exponents, to illustrate developments and variations in the genre. The story will also be used to demonstrate a technical aspect of short story writing. Students will discover how writers achieve certain effects and be encouraged to appropriate and experiment with these techniques in their own original writing. In this material, each unit contains a brief theory of the story’ structure. Many discussion questions from the selected works will be focused and analyzed. The information accompanying the text aims to help student to understand the text and can be used in a variety or circumstances such as individual preparation, group presentation or class discussion.
7 I hope you will take courage in your skills as a reader, realizing that the meaning of a text is not fixed in advance, but something that happens as you read, reflect, and discuss. Discussing what you read can be an adventure as you explore meanings.
8 A. THEORY Unit One: Kinds of literature Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to recognize what literature is, and how to distinguish between fictional literature and non-fictional literature.
A. Fictional literature
Drama: Drama is the theatrical dialogue performed on stage, it consists of 5 acts. Tragedy, comedy and melodrama are the sub types of drama. e.g William Shakespeare, an Elizabethan dramatist composed the plays Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, King Lear that are famous because of its combination of tragedy and comedy. Problem play, farce, fantasy, monologue and comedy of manners are some kinds of drama.
Tragedy: It is a story of the major character that faces bad luck. Tragedy, elements of horrors and struggle usually concludes with the death of a person. The Iliad and The Odyssey by Homer are the two famous Greek tragedies.
Comedy: The lead character overcomes the conflicts and overall look of the comedy is full of laughter and the issues are handled very lightly. The elements used in the comedy are romanticism, exaggeration, surprises and a comic view of life.
Melodrama: Melodrama is a blend of two nouns - ‘melody’ and ‘drama’. It is a musical play most popular by 1840. Uncle Tom’s Cabin is one of the most popular plays describing cruelty of labor life. It has happy ending like comedy.
Tragicomedy: The play that begins with serious mode but has a happy ending is tragicomedy.
Prose Literature: History, journalism, philosophy, fiction and fantasy writings, scientific writings, children’s literature authors and writers are included in Prose Literature.
Myth: Myths are the fairy tales with lots of adventure, magic and it lacks scientific proof. Nursery rhymes, songs and lullabies are forms of myths that strike the interest of children.
9 Creative and nature myth are stories of the stars and moon. Magic tales are wonderful tales of quests and fantasy. Hero myths are ideal heroes of adventure.
Short story: The small commercial fiction, true or imaginary, smaller than a novel is known as short story. Short stories are well grouped into easy beginning, concrete theme, some dialogs and ends with resolution. They are oral and short-lived which have gossip, joke, fable, myth, parable, hearsay and legend.
Novel: Novel can be based on comic, crime, detective, adventurous, romantic or political story divided into many parts. The major kinds of novels are:
Allegory: The symbolical story revolves around two meanings. What the writer says directly is totally different than the conveyed meanings at the end. Political and Historical allegory are two forms of Allegory.
Comedy: Satire is very common form in comedy novels and tries to focus on the facts of the society and their desires.
Epistolary: The collection of letters or mails is the epistolary novels.
Feminist: These types of novels are written by women writers around the world to describe the place of women in a male dominated society.
Gothic: Gothic fiction is the combination of both horror and romance. Melodrama and parody were grouped in the Gothic literature in its early stages.
Ironic: Ironical novels are known for excessive use of narrative technique. It is satire on the contemporary society about cultural, social and political issues.
Realism: The realistic novels are based on the truths of ordinary society and their problems. It focuses on the plot, structure and the characters of the novel.
Romance: Love and relationship topics are handled optimistically in the romantic novels. It originated in western countries; basically the story revolves around love affairs of main characters.
10 Narration: In narrative style, writer becomes the third person who narrates whole story around the characters.
Naturalism: Naturalism is based on the theory of Darwin.
Picaresque: It is opposite to romance novels as it involves ideals, themes and principles that refuse the so-called prejudices of the society.
Psychological: It’s the psychological prospective of mind with a resolution.
Satire: Satirical novels criticize the contemporary society.
Stream of Consciousness: It is the stream of consciousness is all about the thought coming up in the minds of the readers. A novel also constitutes categories on social and political aspects like proletarian, psychological, protest novel, government, didactic, materialist novel, allegorical novel, novel of engagement, naturalistic novel, Marxist novel and etc.
Folk Tale: Folk Tales are traditional stories that have been creating interest since ancient times. The children and old persons like religious story, magic and superstition as well.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings recollected in the tranquility. Greek poetry is found in free verse and we have rhymes in the Persian poem. Are you wondering how to write a poem, here are the followings forms of poem?
Sonnet: Sonnet is the short poem of 14 lines grouped into Shakespearean and Italian sonnets.
Ballad: The poems that are on the subject matter of love and sung by the poet or group of singers as telling readers a story.
Elegy: This type of poem is the lamenting of the death of a person or his near one. Elegy Written in Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray is one of the famous poems marked as sad poems of the ages.
Ode: Ode is the formal and long poem serious in nature.
11 Allegory: Allegory is the famous form of poetry and is loved by the readers because of its two symbolical meanings. One is the literal meaning and another is the deep meaning.
Epic and mock epic: Epics are the narrative poems that convey moral and culture of that period. The Odyssey and Iliad are one of the largest philosophical epics written by Samuel Butler. Rape of the Lock is the great mock epic focusing on the minor incident of cutting of a curl.
Lyric: It has Greek origin that gives a melody of imagery. It is the direct appeal of a poet to the readers about any incident or historical events. Lyrics are most of the times similar to ode or sonnets in the form.
B. Nonfiction literature
Nonfiction Literature is opposite to fiction as it is informative and comprises the interesting facts with analysis and illustrations. Main types of Non- fiction literature:
Autobiography and Biography: An autobiography is the story of the author’s own life. ‘Family Life at the White House’ by Bill Clinton is focused on his life and achievements.
Essay: Generally the authors’ point of view about any particular topic in a detailed way is an essay. Essay has simple way of narrating the main subject; therefore they are descriptive, lengthy, subject oriented and comparative.
Literary criticism: It is the critical study of a piece of literature. Here critics apply different theories, evaluation, discussion and explanation to the text or an essay to give total judgments.
Travel literature: It is the narration of any tour or foreign journey with the description of the events, dates, places, sights and author’s views.
Diary:Diaries are the incidents recorded by the author without any means of publishing them. It is the rough work of one’s daily routine, happenings, memorable days or events in their life.
12 Journal: Journal is one of types of diaries that records infinite information. They are of following types: Personal: It is for personal analysis. In this journal one can write his goal, daily thoughts, events and situations.
Academic: It is for students who do research or dissertation on particular subjects.
Creative: Creative journals are the imaginative writing of a story, poem or narrative.
Trade: Trade journals are used by industrial purposes where they dictate practical information.
Dialectical: This journal is use by students to write on double column notebook. They can write facts, experiments, and observation on the left side and right side can be a series of thoughts and response with an end.
Newspaper: It is a collection of daily or weekly news of politics, sports, leisure, fashion, movies and business.
Magazine: Magazines can be the current affairs or opinions well collected covering various content.
Frame Narrative: The psychoanalysis of human mind is present in a frame narrative. Here we find another story within the main story. Some of the popular narratives are Pegasus, Wuthering Heights, The Flying Horse, The Three Pigs, A Time to keep and the Tasha Tudor Book of Holidays.
Outdoor literature: Outdoor literature is the literature of adventure that gives whole exploration of an event. Exciting moments of life such as horse riding, fishing, trekking can be a part of literature.
13 Unit Two: How to read a short story and a poem Objectives After learning unit two, students will be able to how to read a short story and how to read a poem
A. HOW TO READ A SHORT STORY
Before you read - Look at the story’s title. What might this story be about? - Use and develop your background knowledge about this subject. If the title is “The Lesson,” (by Toni Cade Bambara) ask yourself what kind of lessons there are, what lessons you have learned, and so on. - Establish a purpose for reading this story. “Because my teacher told me to” is one obvious purpose, but not a very useful one. Try to come up with your own question, one based perhaps on the title or an idea your teacher recently discussed in class. How about, “Why do we always have to learn the hard way?” if the story is titled “The Lesson”? Of course, you should also be sure you know what your teacher expects you to do and learn from this story; this will help you determine what is important while you read the story. - Orient yourself. Flip through the story to see how long it is. Take a look at the opening sentences of different paragraphs, and skim through the opening paragraph; this will give you a sense of where the story is set, how difficult the language is, and how long you should need to read the story.
When you read - Identify the main characters. By “main” I mean those characters that make the story happen or to whom important things happen. Get to know what they are like by asking such questions as “What does this character want more than anything else-and why?” - Identify the plot or the situation. The plot is what happens: The sniper from one army tries to shoot the sniper from the other army (“The Sniper”). Some writers prefer to put their characters in a situation: a famous hunter is abandoned on an uncharted island where, it turns out, he will now be hunted (“The Most Dangerous Game”).
14 - Pay attention to the setting. Setting refers not only to where the story takes place, but when it happens. It also includes details like tone and mood. What does the story sound like: a sad violin playing all by itself or a whole band charging down the road? Does the story have a lonely feeling - or a scary feeling, as if any minute something will happen? - Consider the story’s point of view. Think about why the author chose to tell the story through this person’s point of view instead of a different character; why in the past instead of the present; in the first instead of the third person. - Pay attention to the author’s use of time. Some short story writers will make ten years pass by simply beginning the next paragraph, “Ten years later....” Look for any words that signal time passed. Sometimes writers will also use extra space between paragraphs to signal the passing of time. - Find the crucial moment. Every short story has some conflict, some tension or element of suspense in it. Eventually something has to give. This is the moment when the character or the story suddenly changes direction. A character, for example, feels or acts differently than before. - Remember why you are reading this story. Go back to the question you asked when you began reading this story. Double check your teacher’s assignment, too. These will help you to read more closely and better evaluate which details are important when you read. You might also find your original purpose is no longer a good one; what is the question you are now trying to answer as you read the story?
After you read - Read first to understand...then to analyze. When you finish the story, check to be sure you understand what happened. Ask: WHO did WHAT to WHOM? If you can answer these questions correctly, move on to the next level: WHY? Why, for example, did the character in the story lie? - Return to the title. Go back to the title and think about how it relates to the story now that you have read it. What does the title refer to? Does the title have more than one possible meaning?
B. HOW TO READ A POEM
Poems can be read many ways. The following steps describe one approach. Of course not all poems require close study and all should be read first for pleasure.
15 Before you read - Look at the poem’s title: What might this poem be about? - Read the poem straight through without stopping to analyze it (aloud, if possible). - This will help you get a sense of how it sounds, how it works, what it might be about. - Start with what you know. If the poem is difficult, distinguish between what you do and do not understand. If permissible, underline the parts you do not immediately understand. - Check for understanding: Write a quick “first-impression” of the poem by answering the questions, “What do you notice about this poem so far?”
When you read - “What is this poem about?” - Look for patterns. Watch for repeated, interesting, or even unfamiliar use of language, imagery, sound, color, or arrangement. Ask, “What is the poet trying to show through this pattern?” - Look for changes in tone, focus, narrator, structure, voice, patterns. Ask: “What has changed and what does the change mean?” - Identify the narrator. Ask: Who is speaking in the poem? What do you know about them? - Check for new understanding. Re-read the poem (aloud, if you can) from start to finish, underlining (again) those portions you do not yet understand. Explain the poem to yourself or someone else. - Find the crucial moments. The pivotal moment might be as small as the word but or yet. Such words often act like hinges within a poem to swing the poem in a whole new direction. Also pay attention to breaks between stanzas or between lines. - Consider form and function. Now is a good time to look at some of the poet’s more critical choices. Did the poet use a specific form, such as the sonnet? - How did this particular form---e.g., a sonnet---allow them to express their ideas? Did the poet use other specific poetic devices which you should learn so you can better understand the poem? Examples might include: enjambment, assonance, alliteration, symbols, metaphors, or allusions. Other examples might include unusual use of capitalization, punctuation (or lack of any), or typography. Ask. “How is the poet using punctuation in the poem?”
16 After you read - Check for improved understanding. Read the poem through again, aloud if possible. Return to the title and ask yourself what the poem is about and how the poem relates to the title. - What is the main message of this poem?
17 Unit Three: How to analyze a literature work Objectives After learning unit three, students will be able to how to read a short story and how to read a poem in a different way, to know the work more clearly in order to analyze a literature work
It is through literature that a student learns to examine thought and action compassionately. When a reader is able to identify with a character and his conflict or problem in a story and see life through the eyes of this character that reader has begun to share an author’s insight and has thus begun to read with appreciation. Reading in this way is to respond both emotionally and intellectually.
The way the readers approach reading a novel is very important. While reading you must be able to see relationships, perceive the development of character, theme, symbols, and be able to detect multiple meanings. You can reject or accept, like or dislike the literary work, depending on the effect it has on you. It is okay to do so. You shouldn’t jump to a final judgment too soon, whether it is about the character, the theme, or other elements. Remember: People and situations are not always as they appear at first. Be objective because your emotional reaction can sometimes cause unsound perception and interpretation. Keep this question in mind - “Can I justify my judgments based on evidence from the work itself?”
A. The world of the writer When someone writes something, he or she does so in a context. This context includes the writer’s feelings, beliefs, past experiences, goals, needs, and physical environment. Of course, knowledge of the author’s world and intentions, and of the responses of other readers, can help one read a text better—with more insight and satisfaction.
18 B. The world of the text (the world of the characters) The text develops its own context-call it a world. The characters often have their own perspectives to support their ideas. The meaning which the text has for the reader emerges from the interaction of the reader’s world with the world of the text. However, the meaning does not reside in the text or in the author’s intentions. The meaning happens as the text is read and reflected upon.
C. The world of the reader When one reads, one reads in the context of his or her own world. What the reader encounters is not the world of the author; the reader encounters the world of the text.
19 Unit Four: Five basic elements of plot structure Objectives After learning unit four, students will be able to how a short story structure, and the basic parts of a short story that make up it.
Basic elements of plot structure There are five basic elements of plot structure that make up a novel. A successful novel must contain all of these elements in the right order
Climax/Crisis
Rising action/ Complication Falling action
ExpositionDenouement/ Resolution
There are five essential parts of plot: A. Plot and types of plot
The plot is how the author arranges events to develop his basic idea; It is the sequence of events in a story or play. The plot is a planned, logical series of events having a beginning, middle, and end. The short story usually has one plot so it can be read in one sitting. A literary term, a plot is all the events in a story particularly rendered toward the achievement of some particular artistic or emotional effect or general theme. An intricate, complicated plot is known as an imbroglio, but even the simplest statements of plot can have multiple inferences, such as with songs the ballad tradition. Basically a plot is the story line or the way a story is written.
PROGRESSIVE PLOTS: have a central climax followed by denouement. Charlotte’s Web and A Wrinkle in Time are examples. EPISODICALLY PLOTS: have one incident or short episode linked to another by a common character or unifying theme (maybe through chapters). Used by authors to explore character personalities, the nature of their existence, and the flavor of a certain time period.
20 B. Plot structure 1. Exposition: the beginning Every novel must have a beginning. The start, or exposition, is where the characters and setting are established. During this part of the novel, the conflict or main problem is also introduced. This usually takes place within the first three chapters of a novel. Exposition is the beginning of the plot that concerned with introducing characters and setting. The beginning of the story where the characters and the setting is revealed, it can be the setting of the story. Exposition is the beginning of the plot that concerned with introducing characters and setting. These elements may be largely presented at the beginning of the story, or may occur as a sort of incidental description throughout. Moreover, exposition may be handled in a variety of ways - perhaps a character or a set of characters explain the elements of the plot through dialogue or thought, media such as newspaper clippings, and diaries. In the case of film, an analogous usage of television, discovered video tape, or documentary may be used.
2. Rising Action(s) This is where the events in the story become complicated and the conflict in the story is revealed (events between the introduction and climax). After the characters and main problem have been established, the main problem or conflict is dealt with by some kind of action. In this part of the book, the main character is in crisis. This is the place for tension and excitement. The complication can arise through a character’s conflict with society, nature, fate, or a number of themes. In this part of the novel the main character is aware a conflict has arisen and takes some kind of step to battle this crisis. The awareness and initial encounter with the conflict or main problem takes place in the first third of the novel. Rising Action is the central part of a story during which various problems arise, leading up to the climax.
2.1 Conflict is the “problem” in a story which triggers the action. Conflict is essential to plot. Without conflict there is no plot. It is the opposition of forces which ties one incident to another and makes the plot move. Conflict is not merely limited to open arguments, rather it is any form of opposition that faces the main character. Within a short story there may be only one central struggle, or there may be one dominant struggle with many minor ones.
21 There are two types of conflict: a) External - A struggle with a force outside one’s self. b) Internal - A struggle within one’s self; a person must make some decision, overcome pain, quiet their temper, resist an urge, etc. There are five kinds of conflict: - Man vs. Man (physical) The leading character struggles with his physical strength against other men, forces of nature, or animals. - Man vs. Circumstances (classical) The leading character struggles against fate, or the circumstances of life facing him/her. - Man vs. Society (social) The leading character struggles against ideas, practices, or customs of other people. - Man vs Himself/Herself (psychological). The leading character struggles with himself/herself; with his/her own soul, ideas of right or wrong, physical limitations, choices, etc. - Man vs. God or (unknown force that is beyond human understanding.), The leading character struggles with ironic fate, nature of death.
3. Climax: the highest point The climax is the high point of the story, where a culmination of events creates the peak of the conflict. The climax usually features the most conflict and struggle, and usually reveals any secrets or missing points in the story. Alternatively, an anti-climax may occur, in which an expectedly difficult event is revealed to be incredibly easy or of paltry importance. Critics may also label the falling action as an anti-climax, or anti-climactic. Moreover, the climax is the highest point of the story. It is the main event or danger that the hero faces. This is the darkest moment, the worst challenge the hero must oppose. At this point it looks as if the hero will fail, and will never get what he wants. The turning point may be either physical or emotional. In a romance, the girl may turn the hopeful lover down, in an action novel; the hero may be surrounded by enemies with no chance of escape. The reader wonders what will happen next; will the conflict be resolved or not? The climax is the highest point of the story, where a culmination of events creates the peak of the conflict. The climax usually features the most conflict and struggle, and usually reveals any secrets or missing points in the story. Alternatively, an anti-climax may occur, in which an expectedly
22 difficult event is revealed to be incredibly easy or of paltry importance. Critics may also label the falling action as an anti-climax, or anti-climactic. However, the climax isn’t always the most important scene in a story. In many stories, it is the last sentence, with no successive falling action or resolution.
4. Falling action: winding down Following the climax, the novel begins to slowly wind down. Falling action, one of the two final story elements, shows the result of the actions or decisions the hero has made. This eventually leads to the final part of the novel, the crisis resolution. The falling action is the part of a story following the climax. This part of the story shows the result of the climax, and its effects on the characters, setting, and proceeding events. The events and complications begin to resolve themselves. The reader knows what has happened next and if the conflict was resolved or not (events between climax and denouement). The falling action is the part of a story following the climax. This part of the story shows the result of the climax, and its effects on the characters, setting, and proceeding events.
5. Resolution: the end (dénouement) The resolution, also often called denouement, which is French for “to untie” or “unraveling”, is the conclusion of the story. Here, the conflicts are resolve, all loose ends are tied up, and the story concludes with either a happy or sad ending. Structure” includes all the elements in a story. The final objective is to see the story as a whole and to become aware of how the parts are put together to produce a unified effect. Denouement- This is the final outcome or untangling of events in the story. Be aware that not all stories have a resolution. It is helpful to consider climax as a three-fold phenomenon: 1) the main character receives new information 2) accepts this information (realizes it but does not necessarily agree with it) 3) acts on this information (makes a choice that will determine whether or not he/she gains his objective).
At the beginning of the story…
23 In the middle of the story…
At the end of the story…
24 Unit Five: Main theme and point of view Objectives After learning unit five, students will be able to realize a short story’s main theme and its point of view.
A. Main theme Theme is the main message in the story. It is closely related to main idea, but theme usually is more global in scope. Virtually all fiction, and some non-fiction, including novels, short stories, fables, drama, poems, speeches, and essays have themes. Theme contributes an expectation that the reader will learn from the trials and tribulations related through characterization, plot, setting, and point of view. The theme in a piece of fiction is its controlling idea or its central insight. It is the author’s underlying meaning or main idea that he is trying to convey. The theme may be the author’s thoughts about a topic or view of human nature. The title of the short story usually points to what the writer is saying and he may use various figures of speech to emphasize his theme, such as: symbol, allusion, simile, metaphor, hyperbole, or irony. Some simple examples of common themes from literature, TV, and film are: - Things are not always as they appear to be - Love is blind - Believe in yourself - People are afraid of change - Don’t judge a book by its cover - One good turn deserves another - Diamond cuts diamond So, the theme is the backbone of the story, and should form an unbroken link from the beginning to the end or it is the main idea that weaves the story together, the why, the underlying ideas of what happens in the piece of literature, often a statement about society or human nature.
An event in a person’s life The most important thing about a short story plot is that it should be about and event in a person’s life. The reader is drawn into a story by identifying with the central character, and it is this identification which should hold his attention all the way through. A finished story
25 may well have a general meaning, such as: ‘love will find a way’ or: ‘appearances can be deceptive’, but it is not practical to set out with the intention of creating a story to illustrate such a message. If you are developing a story, and not sure where it should be going, a consideration of the opening, or the proposed ending should reveal the theme and help you pull it together.
A unifying theme But it is also important that a plot should have a unifying theme - a purpose, to hold it together.If the plot is what happens in the story, the theme is what it means, what it is about; not in a general sense, but in terms of the specific struggle in which the central character is engaged. Without a theme a plot becomes episodic - A happens, then B happens, then C happens, etc. without a sense of purpose or direction.
The opening paragraphs of the story should establish a situation which is unstable, which contains within it the necessity for change, and the ending should show the results of that change, and the achievement of some form of stability. The nature of the initial instability should be mirrored in the finally achieved stability, and the connection between them is your theme. So you should be able to see the opening of your story reflected in its ending, and the ending reflected in the opening. If you cannot then the story hasn’t yet gelled, and won’t yet work.In some cases you may not be able to define your theme in words, it may be just a feeling, and the story may well be an attempt to capture that feeling. There is nothing wrong with this, in fact it may be the way the best stories are conceived, but even if you can’t define the theme you must have a sense of what it is. It must be there as the raison d’être of the story, giving it direction and holding it together.
- Explicit theme is when the writer states the theme openly and clearly. - Implicit themes are implied themes. Best friends can do no wrong. Friendship is reciprocal. - Multiple and secondary themes: Since a story speaks to us on our own individual level of varying experiences, many individual themes will be obtained from a good piece of literature. B. Point of view Point of view, or P.O.V., is defined as the angle from which the story is told. - First Person (I Am)
26 If the narrator refers to him or herself as I or me, you’ll know the story is being told from a first person POV. First person narrators are characters inside the story, and will provide most of the narrative. First person is the most intimate point of view, because you experience the story from only one person’s point of view. This has its advantages and disadvantages. Since you are hearing the story through only one person’s point of view, you will not know about any events this character does not know of and you will not experience anything this character does not personally experience.
Example: My heart pounded as the growling dog, saliva dripping from it black tongue, viciously stalked towards me. You are subject to the world view of this character. If he or she is self-centered, mentally unstable, scared to death of dogs or thinks everyone is out to get him, you will experience the story the way he experiences it. This is great for mysteries or thrillers where you don’t want the reader to know everything. In this way the reader is kept in suspense. The author cannot include anything not witnessed or heard by the narrator. Everything is seen and understood from their view of the way things are. “I felt like I was getting drowned with shame and disgrace.”
- Second Person (You Are) If the narrator speaks directly to the reader as you, the story is in the second person POV. Second person POV is used more rarely in literature. Second person is told from the perspective of “you”. This is not commonly used, except in instructional writings. Example: Your heart pounded as the growling dog, saliva dripping from its black tongue, stalked towards you. When you give someone directions, you normally use second person. “Sometimes you cannot clearly discern between anger and frustration.”
- Third Person (She/He Is) If the narrator refers to all characters in the story as he or she, and knows their thoughts and sees their actions even when they’re alone, the story is in the third person POV. Variations on third person POV are below.
“Mr. Stewart is a principled man. He acts by the book and never lets you deceive him easily.”
27 Unit Six: Setting & characters Objectives After learning unit six, students will be able to know a short story’s setting and the characters in a short story that make up it.
A. Setting
Every story takes place at same point or points in space and in time. It is incumbent upon the writer of fiction to “place” his story in space and time, as early as possible in his narrative, so that you will begin making the proper associations with the setting. The setting also presents a share of technical difficulties, but most novelists embrace them gladly. The time and location in which a story takes place is called the setting. For some stories the setting is very important, while for others it is not. There are several aspects of a story’s setting to consider when examining how setting contributes to a story (some, or all, may be present in a story): - place - geographical location. Where is the action of the story taking place? - time - When is the story taking place? (historical period, time of day, year, etc.) - weather conditions - Is it rainy, sunny, stormy, etc? - social conditions - What is the daily life of the characters like? Does the story contain local colour (writing that focuses on the speech, dress, mannerisms, customs, etc. of a particular place)? - mood or atmosphere - What feeling is created at the beginning of the story? Is it bright and cheerful or dark and frightening?
B. Characters There are two meanings for the word character: - The person in a work of fiction. - The characteristics of a person. Most simply a character is one of the persons who appear in the play. In another sense of the term, the treatment of the character is the basic part of the playwright’s work. Conventions of the period and the author’s personal vision will affect the treatment of character. Most plays contain major characters and minor characters.
28 a) Persons in a work of fiction - Antagonist and Protagonist - The protagonist is the main character of the story. He or she may be good, bad, or a combination of both. In any case, s/he is the character at the story’s heart and is typically (though not always) the character who changes the most from the beginning to the end of the story or novel. - The antagonist is any character in conflict with the protagonist. He or she may be a villain, but may also be a good, kind, loving, caring individual. It is not the character’s goodness or lack of it that defines the antagonist: it is his or her relationship to and interaction with the protagonist. - A round character is a major character (main character) in a work of fiction that encounters conflict and is changed by it. Round characters tend to be more fully developed and described than flat, or static, characters. If you think of the characters you most love in fiction, they probably seem as real to you as people you know in real life. This is a good sign that they are round characters. A writer employs a number of tools or elements to develop a character, making him or her round, including description and dialogue. A character’s responses to conflict and his or her internal dialogue are also revelatory. - A flat character is a minor character in a work of fiction that does not undergo substantial change or growth in the course of a story. Also referred to as “two- dimensional characters” or “static characters,” flat characters play a supporting role to the main character that as a rule should be round. Though we don’t generally strive to write flat characters, they are often necessary in a story, along with round characters.
Example, Mr. Collins in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice. A flat character, he serves a vital role in the story of how Elizabeth and Darcy get together, and he provides comedy, but his character stays essentially unchanged. (In fact, that’s part of what makes him funny.) They pretty much just appear to allow definition for the main characters. There can be as many rounded characters as you feel comfortable. Hamlet has Claudius, Gertrude, Polonius, Ofelia, Hamlet, Laertes, Horatio and plenty more. They all think they are the main characters, they all think the story’s about them.
b) The Characteristics of a Person - In order for a story to seem real to the reader its characters must seem real. Characterization is the information the author gives the reader about the characters themselves. The author may reveal a character in several ways: - his/her physical appearance
29 - what he/she says, thinks, feels and dreams - what he/she does or does not do - what others say about him/her and how others react to him/her
Characters are convincing if they are: consistent, motivated, and life-like (resemble real people. Character is the mental, emotional, and social qualities to distinguish one entity from another (people, animals, spirits, automatons, pieces of furniture, and other animated objects).
- Individual - round, many sided and complex personalities. - Developing - dynamic, many sided personalities that change, for better or worse, by the end of the story. - Static - Stereotype, have one or two characteristics that never change and are emphasized e.g. brilliant detective, drunk, scrooge, cruel stepmother, etc.
30 Unit Seven: Style, mood & tone Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to know a short story’s style, mood and tone
A. Style Style is a means by which a human being gains contact with, it is personality clothed in words, character embodied in speech. If handwriting reveals character, style reveals it still more – unless it is so colorless and lifeless as not really to be a style at all. Every author has their own style. The fundamental thing, therefore, is not technique, useful though that may be; If a writer’s personality repels, it will not avail him to eschew split infinitives, to master the difference between “that” and ‘which’, top have fowler’s modern English Usage by heart. Soul is more than syntax. If your readers dislike you, they will dislike what you say. Indeed, such is human nature; unless they like you they will mostly deny you even justice.
Any literary written is concerned with (a) statements, (B) feelings (A). He makes his statement in a certain way. (B) (1) He arouses certain feelings I his audience about his statement (A) intentionally, (B) unintentionally. (2) He reveals certain feelings of his own (A) intentionally (unless he is deliberately impersonal), (B) unintentionally. (3) He arouses certain feelings in his audience about himself and his feelings (A) intentionally, (B) unintentionally. In short, a writer may be doing seven different things at once; four of them, consciously. Literature is complicated.
B. Mood The atmosphere or emotional condition created by within the setting. Mood refers to the general sense or feeling which the reader is supposed to get from the text and is not necessarily referring to the characters’ state of mind.
C. Tone Tone tells us the author feels about his or her subject. Words express the writer’s attitude toward his or her work, subject, and readers. Without vocal inflection to help convey tone,
31 the writer must choose words with great care. We often describe a writer’s tone but are not aware of how we discovered the tone. It sort of creeps into our consciousness, tone can be serious, humorous, satirical, passionate, sensitive, zealous, indifferent, caring, caustic... - Humor is an important tone in children’s literature. Types of humor include: exaggeration, incongruent, surprise, absurd, parody, ridicule, slapstick, situational, defiant, violent, verbal - Unexpected humor: The cow jumping over the moon, the dish running away with the spoon, the barber shaving a pig. - Parody is a device that retains the original form but changes the words and the tone for humorous effect. “An hour of freedom is worth a barrel of slops, is a parody for “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” This device is usually for older readers, since readers must have previous knowledge of the original writing. - Variety of tone: even though tone should relate to the story it needs to vary according to the situation. Tone varies from person to person to create people as individuals and group to group to create different social groups. Tone also changes to change the pace, create character-conflict, fit the theme, add pleasure... - Condescending tone is when the author looks down upon the reader or treats them as though they are unintelligent or immature. A retelling of what seems to be obvious or explanation that steals the opportunity for the reader to be awed, or to gain admiration from self-discovery. Can be moralizing, didactic, sentimental, or cynical none of which are appropriate for children.
32 Unit Eight: Language & literature; diction; form & content Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to know some features in a short story such as langue and literature.
A. Language and literature Language and literature are inextricably connected, in the sense that language is the basic raw material or medium, through which literature is produced, whether they are novels or poems, plays or folktales, etc. Language has been defined as a system of communication by spoken or written words, which is used by the people of a particular country or area. It is a system for the expression of thoughts, feelings, etc., by the use of spoken words or conventional symbols. Literature, whether oral or written, expresses people’s thoughts, feelings, views, culture, etc. Thus, literature cannot exist outside language, since language is the medium of expression; people can only use language to construct poems, stories, plays, etc.
In other words, literature involves the manipulation of language for creative purposes. Another way of looking at the relationship between language and literature is this: while language is a method of communication, literature is the content being communicated. Language has been described as a set of gestures and words and phrases with meaning behind them; literature is the manipulation and use of those gestures and words and phrases for creative purposes. It is pertinent to say that language enables literature. In literature, language is meticulously crafted. Broadly speaking, ‘literature’ is used to describe anything from creative writing to more technical or scientific works, but the term is most commonly used to refer to works of the creative imagination, including works of poetry, drama, fiction, and nonfiction. Literature, in all its forms, cannot exist outside language.
While it is undeniable that literature is the manipulation of language for creative purposes, it must be noted that the usefulness or otherwise of literature to the human society depends largely on how the writer uses language. Like a house whose structure and value depend on the quality of materials used by the builder as well as his or her expertise in the use of these materials, the value of a work of literature also depends on the writer’s choice of language as well as his or her ability to use language creatively and in a manner that is beneficial to the human society.
33 What can be deduced from the above paragraphs is that every work of literature is the product of a given language and that the aesthetic and moral value of a work of literature certainly depends on the use of language. To produce a good work of literature, the writer must be able to manipulate language for the purpose of conveying a message that is both meaningful and useful to the audience.
B. Diction Diction is the author’s choice of words, taking into account correctness, clearness, and effectiveness. There are typically recognized to be four levels of diction: formal, informal, colloquial, and slang. Diction will be effective only when the words you choose are appropriate for the audience and purpose, when they convey your message accurately and comfortably. The idea of comfort may seem out of place in connection with diction, but, in fact, words can sometimes cause the reader to feel uncomfortable. Diction refers to both the choice and the order of words. It has typically been split into vocabulary and syntax. The basic question to ask about vocabulary is “Is it simple or complex?” The basic question to ask about syntax is “Is it ordinary or unusual?” Taken together, these two elements make up diction. When we speak of a “level of diction,” we might be misleading, because it’s certainly possible to use “plain” language in a complicated way, especially in poetry, and it’s equally possible to use complicated language in a simple way. It might help to think of diction as a web rather than a level: There’s typically something deeper than a surface meaning to consider, so poetic diction is, by definition, complex.
C. Form & content Form can refer to both broad and specific types of literature. For example, form could refer to whether or not you are writing a novel, poetry, play, etc. It can also refer to things within these categories. Within poetry, for example, you have the haiku, the sonnet, free verse, blank verse, etc. Even within sonnets you have Shakespearian and Petrarchan. Content is simply what is actually written. At times, form can dictate content. The sonnet form, for example, usually contains idealized romance or a deep non-romantic affection.
34 Unit Nine: Basic elements of poetry Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to know the basic elements of a poem to read it easier.
Some basic elements of poetry Poetry has always been one of the best means of expressing thoughts and feelings. The sweetness, melody and smoothness that we feel while going through poetry, cannot be found in any other form of literature. It exhibits a special kind of empathy that directly touches the heart and soul of people, mainly those who can understand the deep thought veiled behind simple lines. A good poem always comprises of certain basic elements, which help it in achieving higher degrees of perfection in expression. In case you are interested in reading or writing poetry, familiarity with these basic elements will help you develop a better understanding of this melodious form of literature. There are several elements which make up a good poem. In brief, they are described below.
- Purpose: why was this poem written? - Tone of voice: how does the language used create a certain mood or atmosphere when reading it and what mood / emotion does it reflect of the narrative? The tone of a poem is roughly equivalent to the mood it creates in the reader. Think of an actor reading a line such as “I could kill you.” He can read it in a few different ways: If he thinks the proper tone is murderous anger, he might scream the line and cause the veins to bulge in his neck. He might assume the tone of cool power and murmur the line in a low, even voice. Perhaps he does not mean the words at all and laughs as he says them. Much depends on interpretation, of course, but the play will give the actor clues about the tone just as a poem gives its readers clues about how to feel about it. The tone may be based on a number of other conventions that the poem uses, such as meter or repetition. If you find a poem exhilarating, maybe it’s because the meter mimics galloping. If you find a poem depressing, that may be because it contains shadowy imagery. Tone is not in any way divorced from the other elements of poetry; it is directly dependent on them. - Structure: is it one stanza? 2? 3? Why is it like that? Is it showing different stages of life, day or an event?
35 - Context: history of the poem, when written, during when...how does this reflect what the poem is about? - Content: analyze the poem from title to poet’s name at the bottom. Is there any literary devices used such as the title is a metaphor, etc. - Themes: is it about love, romance, racism, murder...? Can you identify in the poem where the themes are more explicit? - Language (figure of speeches) : is there use of similes, metaphors, personification, caesura, colloquialisms, repetition, and use of three? - Denotation is when you mean what you say, literally. - Connotation is created when you mean something else, something that might be initially hidden. The connotative meaning of a word is based on implication, or shared emotional association with a word. - Rhythm: This is the music made by the statements of the poem, which includes the syllables in the lines. The best method of understanding this is to read the poem aloud. Listen for the sounds and the music made when we hear the lines spoken aloud. How do the words resonate with each other? How do the words flow when they are linked with one another? Does sound right? Do the words fit with each other? These are the things you consider while studying the rhythm of the poem. Rhythm: is a musical quality produced by the repetition of stressed and unstressed syllables. Rhythm occurs in all forms of language, both written and spoken, but is particularly important in poetry. The most obvious king of rhythm is the regular repetition of stressed and unstressed syllables found in some poetry. This rhythm is often described as a pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables. The rhythmic unit is often described as a foot; patterns of feet can be identified and labeled. A foot may be iambic, which follows a pattern of unstressed/stressed syllables. - Meter: This is the basic structural make-up of the poem. Do the syllables match with each other? Every line in the poem must adhere to this structure. A poem is made up of blocks of lines, which convey a single strand of thought. Within those blocks, a structure of syllables which follow the rhythm has to be included. This is the meter or the metrical form of poetry. Meter is the rhythm established by a poem, and it is usually dependent not only on the number of syllables in a line but also on the way those syllables are accented. For example, read aloud: “The DOG went WALKing DOWN the ROAD and BARKED.” Because there are five iambs, or feet, this line follows the conventions of iambic pentameter (pent = five), the common form in Shakespeare’s time. Stressed
36 syllables are conventionally labeled with a “/” mark and unstressed syllables with a “U” mark. - Rhyme: A poem may or may not have a rhyme. When you write poetry that has rhyme, it means that the last words of the lines match with each other in some form. Either the last words of the first and second lines would rhyme with each other or the first and the third, second and the fourth and so on. Rhyme is basically similar sounding words like ‘cat’ and ‘hat’, ‘close’ and ‘shows’, ‘house’ and ‘mouse’ etc. Free verse poetry, though, does not follow this system. Rhyme is also the basic definition of rhyme is two words that sound alike. The vowel sound of two words is the same, but the initial consonant sound is different. Rhyme is perhaps the most recognizable convention of poetry, but its function is often overlooked. Rhyme helps to unify a poem; it also repeats a sound that links one concept to another, thus helping to determine the structure of a poem. When two subsequent lines rhyme, it is likely that they are thematically linked, or that the next set of rhymed lines signifies a slight departure. - Symbolism: Often poems will convey ideas and thoughts using symbols. A symbol can stand for many things at one time and leads the reader out of a systematic and structured method of looking at things. Often a symbol used in the poem will be used to create such an effect. A symbol works two ways: It is something itself, and it also suggests something deeper. It is crucial to distinguish a symbol from a metaphor: Metaphors are comparisons between two seemingly dissimilar things; symbols associate two things, but their meaning is both literal and figurative. A metaphor might read, “His life was an oak tree that had just lost its leaves”; a symbol might be the oak tree itself, which would evoke the cycle of death and rebirth through the loss and growth of leaves. Some symbols have widespread, commonly accepted values that most readers should recognize: Apple pie suggests innocence or homespun values; ravens signify death; fruit is associated with sensuality. Yet none of these associations is absolute, and all of them are really determined by individual cultures and time (would a Chinese reader recognize that apple pie suggests innocence?). - Image: Think of an image as a picture or a sculpture, something concrete and representational within a work of art. Literal images appeal to our sense of realistic perception, like a nineteenth-century landscape painting that looks “just like a photograph.” There are also figurative images that appeal to our imagination, like a twentieth-century modernist portrait that looks only vaguely like a person but that implies a certain mood. Most figures of speech cast up a picture in your mind. These pictures created or suggested by the poet are called ‘images’. To participate fully in the world of
37 poem, we must understand how the poet uses image to convey more than what is actually said or literally meant. Visual image and sound image - Auditory imagery represents a sound. - Kinesthetic imagery represents movement - Olfactory imagery represents a smell. - Gustatory imagery represents a taste. - Tactile imagery represents touch. - Imagery can be showcased in many forms, such as metaphors and similes.
Discussion questions: 1. Is it written in the point of view of someone else? Or is the point of view of the poet? 2. What is the poet’s point of view? Why? What effect does this point of view have on the reader?
38 Unit Ten: Poetry types Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to distinguish some poetry types.
The list starts with easiest types that can be used for almost any reading age and goes on to those appropriate for older students only. Most examples have non space themes so children are free to start their poems using only their imagination. Simple, four line rhyme scheme rhyming a,b,c,b: rhyming a,a,b,b: Mary had a little lamb Twinkle, twinkle little star Its fleece was white as snow How I wonder what you are And everywhere that Mary went Up above the world so high The lamb was sure to go. Like a diamond in the sky.
rhyming a,b,a,b: rhyming a,a,a,a: The rain was like a little mouse, Rain, rain, go away quiet, small and gray. Come again another day It pattered all around the house Little children want to play and then it went away. So rain, rain, go away. 1. CINQUAIN A short poem consisting of five, usually unrhymed lines containing respectively two, four, six, eight and two syllables: A cinquain has five lines.
Line 1 is one word (the title) Line 2 is two words that describe the title. Line 3 is three words that tell the action Line 4 is four words that express the feeling Line 5 is one word that recalls the title
Popcorn Jumpy, bouncy White, yellow and bumpy Jumbly, rumbly, hot and mushy Popcorn.
39 2. HAIKU Japanese poem of 17 syllables arranged in three lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables: The pond I used to Swim in has hardened now, but It is mine year round. --Andrea Baccigalupi (age 9)
3. FREE VERSE Like the name suggests, free verse is poetry that is irregular. This type of poetry has content which is free from the traditional rules of using verse. Rhymed or unrhymed verse made free of conventional and traditional limitations and restrictions in regard to metrical structure. Cadence, especially that of common speech, is often substituted for regular metrical pattern: Bring me all of your dreams, You dreamers, Bring me all of your Heart melodies That I may wrap them In a blue cloud-cloth Away from the too-rough fingers Of the world. By Langston Hughes
MESSY ROOM by Shel Silverstein
Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater’s been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door. His books are all jammed in the closet, His vest has been left in the hall.
40 A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed, And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Donald or Robert or Willie or-- Huh? You say it’s mine? Oh, dear, I knew it looked familiar!
FOG by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
4. BLANK VERSE A blank verse is written in unrhymed iambic pentameter. This form is a little like the rhythms of speech. Poetry: that is written in unrhymed iambic pentameter. Blank verse is often unobtrusive and the iambic pentameter form often resembles the rhythms of ordinary speech. Shakespeare wrote most of his plays in blank verse.
Example: THE BALL by John Berryman What is the boy now, who has lost his ball, What, what is he to do? I saw it go Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then Merrily over-there it is in the water!
41 TOMORROW, AND TOMORROW, AND TOMORROW excerpt from MACBETH By William Shakespeare
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. 5. EPIC This type of poem is long and narrative in nature. It talks about the adventures of a hero. Epics usually deal with the history and traditions of a nation. An Epic is a long narrative poem celebrating the adventures and achievements of a hero...epics deal with the traditions, mythical or historical, of a nation.
Examples: Beowulf, The Iliad and the Odyssey, and Aeneid
6. SONNET A poem of 14 lines, usually in iambic pentameter (stress is on the 2nd, 4th, 6th, 8th and 10th syllables of each line), restricted to a definite rhyme scheme. Italian, or Petarchan, sonnet is composed of an octave and a sestet (rhyming abbaabba cdecde) Elizabethan, or Shakespearean, sonnet is composed of three quatrains and a couplet (rhyming abab cdcd efef gg) Example of a modern day Shakespearean sonnetused as a holiday card):
Perhaps you light eight candles burning bright, Or you may celebrate in Jesus’ birth, Or think the Maharashi sends you light Or just enjoy the fact you’re here on Earth
42 The year’s been packed with news both glad and sad. We find strength through our laughter and our tears. Ring in the good, eliminate the bad And hope the nineties will be peaceful years.
I hope this poem will find you of good cheer; That you and yours are prospering and sound And on the stroke of midnight this new year My toast will be to you on the first round.
Just one last word before this card I send: My thanks for having you as a good friend
Sonnet Characteristics A sonnet is simply a poem written in a certain format. You can identify a sonnet if the poem has the following characteristics: 14 lines. All sonnets have 14 lines which can be broken down into four sections called quatrains. A strict rhyme scheme. The rhyme scheme of a Shakespearean sonnet is ABAB / CDCD / EFEF / GG (note the four distinct sections in the rhyme scheme). Written in iambic Pentameter. Sonnets are written in iambic pentameter, a poetic meter with 10 beats per line made up of alternating unstressed and stressed syllables. A sonnet can be broken down into four sections called quatrains. The first three quatrains contain four lines each and use an alternating rhyme scheme. The final quatrain consists of just two lines which both rhyme. Each quatrain should progress the poem as follows: A. First quatrain: This should establish the subject of the sonnet. Number of lines: 4. Rhyme Scheme: ABAB B. Second quatrain: This should develop the sonnet’s theme. Number of lines: 4. Rhyme Scheme: CDCD C. Third quatrain: This should round off the sonnet’s theme. Number of lines: 4. Rhyme Scheme: EFEF D. Fourth quatrain: This should act as a conclusion to the sonnet. Number of lines: 2. Rhyme Scheme: GG
43 TO MY MOTHER By George Barker
Most near, most dear, most loved and most far, Under the window where I often found her Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter, Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand, Irresistible as Rebelais, but most tender for The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,— She is a procession no one can follow after But be like a little dog following a brass band. She will not glance up at the bomber, or condescend To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar, But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain Whom only faith can move, and so I send O all my faith, and all my love to tell her That she will move from mourning into morning.
7. ODE A good starting point, but neglects a basic requirement: the function of the ode as a meditation on a particular subject. A poem that is written in praise of a place, thing or person, is known as an ode. Example:
AN ODE TO DREAMERS (Unknown)
When dreamers dream And lovers love Do they receive their visions From heaven above? Or do they originate Where all things start Within our minds Within our hearts?
44 I know not all But what I do know is this You cannot build a Kingdom Upon a flimsy wish So believe in your dreams Follow them blind Lest you loose them all, To the hands of time.
8. BALLAD A poem that tells a story similar to a folk tale or legend and often has a repeated refrain.
AS YOU CAME FROM THE HOLY LAND By Sir Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618) “As you came from the holy land Of Walsinghame, Met you not with my true love By the way as you came?” “How shall I know your true love, That have met many one As I went to the holy land, That have come, that have gone?” “She is neither white nor brown, But as the heavens fair, There is none hath a form so divine In the earth or in the air.” “Such an one did I meet, good Sir, Such an angelic face. Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear By her gait, by her grace.” “She hath left me all alone,
45 All alone as unknown. Who sometimes did lead me with herself, And me loved as her own.” “What’s the cause that she leaves you alone And a new way doth take, Who loved you once as her own And her joy did make?” “I have loved her all my youth, But now old as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit From the withered tree.”
9. LYRIC A poem, such as a sonnet or an ode, that expresses the thoughts and feelings of the poet. The term lyric is now generally referred to as the words to a song.
10. PASTORAL A poem that depicts rural life in a peaceful, idealized way for example of shepherds or country life.
11. QUATRAIN A stanza or poem of four lines. Lines 2 and 4 must rhyme. Lines 1 and 3 may or may not rhyme. Rhyming lines should have a similar number of syllables.
12. ABC POEM An ABC poem has 5 lines that create a mood, picture, or feeling. Lines 1 through 4 are made up of words, phrases or clauses - and the first word of each line is in alphabetical order from the first word. Line 5 is one sentence, beginning with any letter.
46 Unit Eleven: Literary devices in a poem Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to know literary devices in a poem
Literary devices are a way to improve the effectiveness, clarity, and enjoyment of writing. Authors of nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and drama use a variety of tools to create emotional mood, an attitude, a setting, and characterization. Literary devices are one of the most effective implements that an author possesses to draw a mood more artfully or to persuade more eloquently.
When looking at literature, we are not only looking at what is going on in the story or poem, or how we are feeling about it, but we are also looking at HOW the author is conveying the story or theme. Literary devices and terms give us definitions for the techniques used in any piece of literature. When writing a critical analysis, identify the literary devices used in the piece (images, metaphors, analogies, etc.). Then, make a connection between those devices and the themes of the text. How does the method that the author employs help to create the meaning?
A figure of speech is a use of a word that diverges from its normal meaning, or a phrase with a specialized meaning not based on the literal meaning of the words in it such as a metaphor, simile, or personification. Figures of speech often provide emphasis, freshness of expression, or clarity. However, clarity may also suffer from their use, as any figure of speech introduces an ambiguity between literal and figurative interpretation. A figure of speech is sometimes called a rhetoric or a locution.
A. SOUND DEVICES Sound devices, also known as musical devices, are elements of literature and poetry that emphasize sound. The most common sound devices are assonance, consonance, alliteration, rhyme and onomatopoeia.
1. Assonance Assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds in nearby words. The following stanza from Poe’s “Eldorado” contains an example of assonance: But he grew old-This knight so bold-And o’er his heart a shadow
47 Fell as he found- No spot of ground. That looked like Eldorado. Example of assonance: Eldorado, shadow, old, over, bold, no. There is the repetition of the “o” sound.
2. Consonance Consonance is the repetition of consonant sounds at the end or in the middle of words. The following stanza from Lord Alfred Tennyson’s “The Eagle” contains consonance. It is labeled after each line here: He clasps the crag with crooked hands (the repetition of the “c” sound) Close to the sun in lonely lands (repetition of the “l” sound) Ringed with the azure world he stands (the repetition of the “r” sound)
3. Alliteration Alliteration is the repetition of the initial consonant sounds in nearby words. The purpose of alliteration is to draw attention to specific words. The same sound is repeated noticeably at the beginning of words placed close together. Alliteration makes for very catchy phrases and is frequently used in modern news headlines, corporate names, literary titles, advertising, buzzwords, and nursery rhymes. The first line of Poe’s “The Raven” contains alliteration: “Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary.” In this line, there is the repetition of the “w” sound in the words “while,”“weak” and “weary.”Big Ben , boom or bust, Coca-Cola, Donald Duck ,making magic, Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Monday morning, pay the price, peer-to-peer , it takes two to tango, “World Wide Web, Find four furry foxes. NOTE: Use alliteration sparingly. Too much can wear on the reader.
4. Rhyme Rhyme is the repetition of the same sound at the end of a word. For example, the following words all end in the “at” sound: cat, bat, sat, fat.
5. Onomatopoeia Onomatopoeia is a word that imitates the sound it represents. For example, “meow” sounds like the noise a cat makes. “Ring” is the sound produced by a telephone. “Woof” is the sound produced by a dog.
48 B. FIGURE OF SPEECH A figure of speech is a change from the ordinary manner of expression, using words in other than their literal sense to enhance the way a thought is expressed. The following are the more common figures of Speech you can use to achieve some interesting “effects” in your writing:
1. Apostrophe: direct address of an absent or dead person or personified thing. Invocation: an apostrophe to a god or muse. Examples: “God help me!” “Ambition, you’re a cruel master!”
2. Irony: using words to mean the opposite of what is said.
Sarcasm: cutting, sneering or taunting irony. Examples: “He’s handsome if you like rodents.” Hyperbole: exaggeration not meant to be taken literally. Examples: “I waited forever for him.” “I destroyed that test!” “The world ended the day my father died.” “He is as big as a house!” “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse!” “That’s the worst idea in the world.” “I nearly died when I heard the news.”
3. Litotes In rhetoric, litotes is a figure of speech in which the speaker emphasizes the magnitude of a statement by denying its opposite. It is a form of understatement. As with many figures of speech, the correct interpretation of litotes depends very much on the cultural setting. Examples: He was not unfamiliar with the works of Dickens. The food wasn’t bad. Understatement: the representation of something as significantly less than it actually is. e.g. “That was some sprinkle.” (in reference to the four inches of rain which fell an hour before)
49 4. Metaphor: an implied comparison between things, events, or actions which are fundamentally unlike. All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players They have their exits and their entrances; - William Shakespeare (from As you like it 2/7)
5. Metonymy: substituting a word--which is suggested by it or which is closely associated with it--for another word. Examples : He hit the bottle soon after his wife died.” “She counted heads.” “The White House denied the allegations.” The pen is mightier than the sword. “Pen” denotes publishing and “sword” denotes military force.
6. Synecdoche: using a part for the whole or the whole for a part Example: “The pen is mightier than the sword” - A part of something is used for the whole, - The whole is used for a part, - The species is used for the genus, - The genus is used for the species, or - The stuff of which something is made is used for the thing. Some common examples of synecdoche: - A part of something is used for the whole o “hands” to refer to workers, “head” for cattle, “threads” for clothing, “wheels” for “car”, “mouths to feed” for hungry people - The whole is used for a part o “the police” for a handful of officers, the “smiling year” for “spring”, “the Pentagon” for the top generals in the Pentagon building - The species is used for the genus o “cutthroat” for “assassin”, “kleenex” for facial tissue, “castle” for “home” - The genus is used for the species o “creature” for “person”, “personal computer” for “IBM-compatible personal computer” - The stuff of which something is made is used for the thing
50 o “hickory” for “baseball bat”, “copper” for “penny”, “boards” for “stage”, “ivories” for piano keys, “plastic” for “credit card” Synecdoche, as well as other forms of metonymy, is one of the most common ways to characterize a fictional character. Frequently, someone will be consistently described by a single body part or feature, such as the eyes, which comes to represent their person. Also, sonnets and other forms of (erotic) love poetry frequently use synecdoches to characterize the beloved in terms of individual body parts rather than a whole, coherent self. This practice is especially common in the Petrarchan sonnet, where the idealised beloved is often described part by part, from head to toe.
7. Personification: representing a thing, quality, or idea as a person. Examples: “The book just begged to be read.” “The ocean screamed its fury” “Fear lived with us in Vietnam.” Recommendations: - The comparison should be more evocative and appealing than the literal, plain statement of the thought. - Use sparingly. Too much of this and you call attention to yourself as the author instead of leaving your reader immersed in your story.
8. Onomatopoeia: using words to imitate the sound they represent Examples: “I heard the hiss of steam down in the access tunnel.” “The clock in the living room cuckooed the hour.” “The clang of the cymbals echoed across the square.”
9. Parallelism (like “Balance”): Expressing two ideas of equal importance through similar phrasing. - Antithesis: parallelism in grammatical pattern but strong contrast in meaning. Examples: “Give me liberty or give me death!” “That isn’t the truth, it’s a lie.” “You seem so wise, yet how foolish you are.” Recommendation: Don’t use too much of this; it can easily wear on the reader. - Paradox: a statement that seems self-contradictory. The effect of this is to jolt the reader into paying attention. Examples: “He who loses his life for My sake will save it.”
51 “One day is sometimes better than a whole year.” All horses are the same colour. - Oxymoron: a paradoxical statement in which two contradictory terms or words are brought together. Examples: “The quiet was deafening.” “He was clearly misunderstood.” “They were alone together.” - Anaphora: repetition of the same word or words at the beginning or successive clauses, verses, or sentences, Example., “He came as conqueror. He came as ally. He came as a stranger. He came as brother.”
10. Simile: an explicit comparison between things, events, or actions which are fundamentally unlike. Typically involves the words “like” or “as” Examples: “His arguments withered like grapevines in the fall.” “He was cold as an arctic wind.” “Crooked as a dog’s hind leg.” “Casual dress, like casual speech, tends to be loose, relaxed and colorful”
52 Unit Twelve: Movie review; short story review and book review Objectives After learning this unit, students will be able to write a review of a short story, a book or a movie
A. WRITING A MOVIE REVIEW
Writing a movie review is a great way of expressing your opinion of a movie. The purpose of most movie reviews is to help readers in determining whether they want to watch, rent or buy the movie. The review should give enough details about the movie that the reader can make an informed decision, without giving anyway any essentials such as the plot or any surprises.
Similar to the purpose of writing book reviews, movie reviews analyze the effectiveness of the plot, theme, acting, direction, special effects, musical effects, cinematography, and all other elements that created the movie. There are quality and guidelines that a critique of a movie should possess. Avoid the use of generalized opinions such as “oh, it was a great movie” or “the acting was horrible,” but rather give specific reasons and the whys. Here is a good guide to follow. While we don’t limit you to a certain style of writing, the number of words you must have in your review, and what you must (or must not) write about, we do provide the following guideline to help you get started in writing a review.
Paragraph 1: You will need to include the following: name of the film, prominent stars of the film, basic setting ( time and place), and type of film ( comedy, adventure, drama, etc.)
Paragraph 2: You will need to write a plot summary for the movie. Do not reveal the ending. Discuss at least 5 events and be sure to cover the entire scope of the movie, except the very end.
Paragraph 3: Discuss one aspect of film-making. You may choose from acting, direction, editing, costume design, set design, photography, background music, or anything else you may think of. Be sure that you are specific and cite examples from the movie.
53 Paragraph 4: Discuss another aspect of filmmaking. You may choose from acting, direction, editing, costume design, set design, photography, background music, or anything else you may think of, but obviously choose something different from what you discussed in the previous paragraph. Be sure that you are specific and cite examples from the movie.
Paragraph 5: Give your overall reaction to the film as well as your opinion on the quality of the film. Also include your recommendations for potential viewers.
Remember, the guideline above is just what it is. It’s just a guideline, so throw in your own spin and develop your own format if you want to.
B. WRITING A SHORT STORY REVIEW
- Write your impressions. As you read the story take notes about how it made you feel, whether or not it fascinated you, what you liked and what you felt was missing. Jotting down the information as you read the story provides a better recollection of your first impression, and helps you synthesize the information once you finished reading it. - Evaluate the writing style. Whether it’s a mystery, romance, thriller, comedy or literary piece of work, each genre has its own structure and pacing plan. Familiarize yourself with the basics of each category before reviewing the piece so as to adequately address the structure. - Construct a thesis. Organize your thoughts and narrow your focus. Concentrate on a central idea like the author’s intent, theme, character arc or plot. Exploring one of these elements in your thesis provides a well-crafted and synthesized review. - Offer your perspective. After introducing the author, the story and basic publishing facts, discuss the overall message of the story, its significance and whether or not you would recommend it. Be specific and provide details for your reasoning. - Summarize the plot. Highlight the different aspects of the story that piqued your interest, such as the beginning, the rising action or the climax. Include the character’s development and reflect on whether or not the character possessed depth. Analyze the ending to the story and describe your reaction. Did it satisfy you or let you down? - Discuss the author’s purpose and whether or not you feel she achieved it through the characters, storyline or style. If the story was meant to be an inspiring tale of
54 overcoming the odds, but failed to motivate you or engage your interest, then the author was not successful in that respect. - Give constructive advice. If you didn’t appreciate the author’s story do not criticize the author on a personal level, but instead focus your advice on the story elements themselves. List specific examples, such as story, plot or character development that could have improved the piece. - Draw your conclusion. Tie your piece together in the final paragraph. Give your overall opinion of the story and whether or not you would recommend it.
C. WRITING A BOOK REVIEW
- Read the book. This may seem obvious, but reading the book is key to a good review. - Understand what you are reading. If you don’t understand the work that you are going to write about, you cannot write a good review. The homework starts here, if you are reading a novel or a tale that talks about something that you don’t understand, try to put some effort and get some knowledge about it. Also be sure that you are not missing words while reading; a small dictionary should become a nice aid in those cases. - Gather information. As you read, make note of different things about the work. Mark some general and particular aspects about the witting. Some questions to help you are: Who is the narrator? Is it in first person or third person? What genre does it belong to? What about the style? Does it use a good selection of intelligent and eloquent words? does it accurately paint a picture in your mind? What is the age of the work? When was it written? Does it reflects its age? Less important but, what do you feel? How do you feel while reading it? - Make some notes of the story. Try to catch the important events on the story. One hardly forgets the main events but it depends on your reading habits. This is useful to keep track of the storyline once you have finished reading long or complex books. - Find more about the author and the works he or she had done. Find some information about the author’s life and take a look on other reviews of his work. This is important to understand the work in its own context. When you finished gathering the information and you have sufficient notes, then you are ready to write the actual article.
55 - Begin with an introduction. It depends on who are you writing for. You can begin with a paragraph that describes your first impression of the work, or an interesting anecdote that you had experienced through the book, or a more technical introduction where you briefly state the author, title, publisher, and any other information about the book you see pertinent. - In the first section, give a brief history of the author with some relevant data, like previous works, awards, studies, etc. - In the second section, outline the plot of the book. Take care of your reader, don’t write a spoiler if you are writing for a magazine, a book store, or a theater board. On the other hand, be clear and explicit if your work requires it. - Write a paragraph explaining your opinion of the way the book was written, as before mentioned. Use the final paragraph as a summary of the whole review. Give your personal - Give opinion of the book (I enjoyed this book, I hated this book, etc.) and finish by recommending the book. State who would enjoy this book, using general terms (children, action lovers, etc.). This is optional, depending on your public, sometimes you can use this section as a nice introduction for a non-technical review and it should be a good way to hook up your reader. Include your full name at the end and, optionally, your e-mail address
56 B. SELECTED WORKS AND DISCUSSION
Part I: PROSE CEMETERY PATH By Leonard Q. Ross Ivan was a timid little man—so timid that the villagers called him “Pigeon” or mocked him with the title, “Ivan the Terrible.” Every night Ivan stopped in at the saloon which was on the edge of the village cemetery. Ivan never crossed the cemetery to get to his lonely shack on the other side. The path through the cemetery would save him many minutes but he had never taken it—not even in the full light of noon. Late one winter’s night, when bitter wind and snow beat against the saloon, the customers took up the familiar mockery. “Ivan’s mother was scared by a canary when she carried him in her womb.”“Ivan the Terrible—Ivan the Terribly Timid One.” Ivan’s sickly protest only fed their taunts, and they jeered cruelly when the young Cossack lieutenant flung his horrid challenge at their quarry. “You’re a pigeon, Ivan. You’ll walk all around the cemetery in this fiendish cold— but you dare not cross the cemetery.” Ivan murmured, “The cemetery is nothing to cross, Lieutenant. It is nothing but earth, like all the other earth.” The lieutenant cried, “A challenge, then! Cross the cemetery tonight, Ivan, and I’ll give you five rubles—five gold rubles!” Perhaps it was the vodka. Perhaps it was the temptation of the five gold rubles. No one ever knew why Ivan, moistening his lips, said suddenly: “Yes, Lieutenant, I’ll cross the cemetery!” The saloon echoed with their disbelief. The lieutenant winked to the men and unbuckled his saber. “Here, Ivan. When you get to the center of the cemetery, in front of the largest tomb, stick the saber into the ground. In the morning we shall go there. And if the saber is in the ground—five gold rubles to you!” Ivan took the saber. The men drank a toast: “To Ivan the Terrible!” They roared with laughter. The wind howled around Ivan as he closed the door of the saloon behind him. The cold was knife-sharp. He buttoned his long coat and crossed the dirt road. He could hear the lieutenant’s voice, louder than the rest, yelling after him, “Five rubles, pigeon! If you live!” Ivan pushed the cemetery gate open. He walked fast. “Earth, just earth…like any other earth.” But the darkness was a massive dread. “Five gold rubles…” The wind was cruel
57 and the saber was like ice in his hands. Ivan shivered under the long, thick coat and broke into a limping run. He recognized the large tomb. He must have sobbed—that was the sound that was drowned in the wind. And he kneeled, cold and terrified, and drove the saber into the hard ground. With his fist, he beat it down to the hilt. It was done. The cemetery…the challenge…five gold rubles. Ivan started to rise from his knees. But he could not move. Something held him. Something gripped him in an unyielding and implacable hold. Ivan tugged and lurched and pulled—gasping in his panic, shaken by a monstrous fear. But something held Ivan. He cried out in terror, then made senseless gurgling noises. They found Ivan, next morning, on the ground in front of the tomb that was in the center of the cemetery. His face was not that of a frozen man’s, but of a man killed by some nameless horror. And the lieutenant’s saber was in the ground where Ivan had pounded it— through the dragging folds of his long coat.
Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about Ivan, is he stupid or innocent? Why? (write about 150 words)
POINT OF VIEW By A. Averchenko (1881-1925)
“Men are comic”! She said, smiling. Not knowing whether this indicated praise or blame, I answer noncommittally!: “Quite true” “Really”. My husband’s a regular Othello. Sometimes I’m sorry I’m married him” I looked helplessly at her. “Until you explain” ! I began “Oh, I forgot that you haven’t heard. About three week ago I was walking home with my husband though the square. I had a large black hat on, which suits me awfully well, and my cheeks were quite pink from walking. As we pass under a street light, a pale, dark-haired fellow standing near by glance at me suddenly took my husband by his sleeve.
58 “Would you oblige me with a light” he says. Alexander pulled his arm away, stooped down, and quicker than lighting banged him on the head with a brick. He fell liker a log. It was awful”. “Why on earth make your husband get jealous all of a sudden?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I told men are very comic”
Bidding her farewell, I went out, and at the corner came across her husband. “Hello, old chap” I said. “They tell me you’ve been breaking people’s heads”. He burst out laughing. “So you’ve been talking to my wife. It was jolly lucky that brick came so pat into my hand. Otherwise, just think: I had about fifteen hundred rubles in my pocket, and my wife was wearing her diamonds earrings”. “Do you think he wanted to rob you?” “A man accosts you in a desert spot, asks for a light and gets hold of your arm. What more do you want?” Perplexed, I left him and walked on.
There’s no catching you today?” I heard a voice say from behind. I looked and saw a friend I hadn’t set eyes upon for three weeks. “What on earth has happened to you?” I exclaimed. He smiled faintly and asked in turn. “Do you know whether any lunatics have been at large lately? I was attacked by one three weeks ago. I left the hospital only today. With a sudden interest, I ask “Three week ago!” Were you sitting in the square?” Yes, I was. The most absurd thing. I was sitting in the square dying for a smoke. No matches!
After ten minutes or so, a gentleman passes with his some old hag. He was smoking. I go up to him, touched him on the sleeve and ask in my most polite manner. “Can you oblige me with a light?” And what’d you think? The mad man stoops down, pick something up, and the next moment I’m lying on the ground with a broken head, unconscious. You probably read about it in the newspaper”. I looked at him and asked earnestly: “Do you really believe you met up with a lunatic?” “I am sure of it”
An hour afterwards I was read eagerly digging in old back numbers of the local paper. At last I found what I was looking for” a short note in the accident column:
59 UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DRINK Yesterday morning, the keepers of the square found on a bench a young man whose papers show him to be a good family. He had evidently fallen to the ground while in a state of extreme intoxication and has broken his head on a nearby brick. The distress of this prodigal’s parents is indescribable.
Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) Is the wife beautiful or not? Why? 3) Who is the lunatic in the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main message of this story? Task: Read this “Point of view” story and comment your own ideas about this story about who has the “right” point of view? (250 words)
THE KISS By Kate Chopin’s
It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains drawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was full of deep shadows.
Brantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he did not mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eves fastened as ardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight. She was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongs to the healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idly stroked the satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and she occasionally sent a slow glance into the shadow where her companion sat. They were talking low, of indifferent things which plainly were not the things that occupied their thoughts. She knew that he loved her--a frank, blustering fellow without guile enough to conceal his feelings, and no desire to do so. For two weeks past he had sought her society eagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him to declare himself and she meant to accept him. The rather insignificant and unattractive Brantain was enormously rich; and she liked and required the entourage which wealth could give her.
60 During one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the next reception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain knew quite well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two brought him to her side, and bending over her chair--before she could suspect his intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen her visitor--he pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips.
Brantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and the newcomer stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance struggling with the confusion in his face. “I believe,” stammered Brantain, “I see that I have stayed too long. I--I had no idea--that is, I must wish you good-by.” He was clutching his hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she was extending her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completely deserted her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak. “Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it’s deuced awkward for you. But I hope you’ll forgive me this once--this very first break. Why, what’s the matter?” “Don’t touch me; don’t come near me,” she returned angrily. “What do you mean by entering the house without ringing?” “I came in with your brother, as I often do,” he answered coldly, in self-justification. “We came in the side way. He went upstairs and I came in here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough and ought to satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say that you forgive me, Nathalie,” he entreated, softening. “Forgive you! You don’t know what you are talking about. Let me pass. It depends upon--a good deal whether I ever forgive you.”
At that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about she approached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when she saw him there. “Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?” she asked with an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy; but when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retired corner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of his expression. She was apparently very outspoken. “Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain; but--but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable since that little encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you might have misinterpreted it, and believed things” --hope was plainly gaining the ascendancy over misery in Brantain’s round, guileless face--”Of course, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want you to understand that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing. Why, we have always been like cousins--like brother and
61 sister, I may say. He is my brother’s most intimate associate and often fancies that he is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know it is absurd, uncalled for, to tell you this; undignified even,” she was almost weeping, “but it makes so much difference to me what you think of--of me.” Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery had all disappeared from Brantain’s face. “Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call you Miss Nathalie?” They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on either side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very end of it. When they turned to retrace their steps Brantain’s face was radiant and hers was triumphant. Harvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a rare moment when she stood alone. “Your husband,” he said, smiling, “has sent me over to kiss you. “ A quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. “I suppose it’s natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of this kind. He tells me he doesn’t want his marriage to interrupt wholly that pleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don’t know what you’ve been telling him,” with an insolent smile, “but he has sent me here to kiss you.” She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, sees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and tender with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked hungry for the kiss which they invited. “But, you know,” he went on quietly, “I didn’t tell him so, it would have seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I’ve stopped kissing women; it’s dangerous.” Well, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can’t have everything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to expect it.
Discussion questions 1) What is the first impression when seeing the title of this story? 2) How is the story’s opening? Does the setting look exciting or boring? 3) Is Mr. Brantain foolish? Why does he think that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of Nathalie? 4) What is the main theme of the story? Kissing someone is amazing or not? Why? 5) Is the plot open or close? Does it surprise you or not? Why? Task: Give your own point of view about Nathalie, is she selfish and greedy? Why?(about 200 words)
62 THE STORY OF AN HOUR By Kate Chopin (1894)
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 paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, 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 one 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
63 she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, and 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 the 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 or 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 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 during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence 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 the 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 key-hold, 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.
64 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 shudder 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 goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the 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. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease-of the joy that kills.
Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? Does it follow the normal rule? 2) What does “a fellow-creature” in the story mean? 3) Why does Mrs. Mallard “feel free” after her husband death? 4) Does Mrs. Love her husband? Why? Why not? 5) What is “a monstrous joy” from the protagonist?
Task: Give your own point of view about Mrs. Mallard, is she cruel or innocent? Why? (about 150 words)
TẾT By Ly Lan When I was young I used to stay at my granddad’s in a small village by a river. My best friend was Khanh, a boy who took care of Granddad’s water buffaloes. I liked to go with Khanh to the pasture, especially when his large khaki shirt pockets were filled with mud pellets and a catapult hung from his belt. When the buffaloes were grazing or wallowing in the mud by the river bank, Khanh and I played games. Our favorite was “Tarzan”. We covered our bodies with banana leaves and wild flowers. Khanh was Tarzan, and I was Jane. He went hunting with his catapult or fished
65 with a bamboo basket while I collected wild fruit and flowers. At lunch time we spread out everything we had gathered and had a feast. Sometimes there were wars, because Khanh was not the only Tarzan in the neighborhood. The other Tarzans were much bigger than him, so we usually had to achieve peace by surrendering. When the rice was harvested and then dried in the yard, birds came to pick at the grains or make off with pieces of straw, flying over the thatched roofs or singing gay songs in the bushes. Then we children knew that the Tet holiday was coming. Students were on vacation, and hunters were everywhere. Roasted wild bird was a great treat, and baked bird eggs were wonderful too. We buried them in hot ash. The eggs might get slightly burnt, but we eagerly broke the shells and stuffed them into our mouths. Nothing tasted better.
Khanh sometimes would find bird eggs when he was climbing trees looking for fruit. Once he ran shouting to me that he had discovered a dong-doc’s nest. I became excited and ran after him to the highest coconut tree by the riverside. There near the top of the tree hung a beautiful straw nest. We stood on the river bank looking up at it. Suddenly a new, giant Tarzan appeared. He grabbed our ears and said, “Get out of here. That dong-doc is mine.” We could do nothing but run off and nurse our stinging ears. Disappointed, we watched the great hunter aim his gun arrogantly at the nest. But the mother bird was not in the nest. He waited for a while, then walked over to us and said, “You see mother bird, you call me, understand?”
After a few minutes Khanh decided that the alien Tarzan only wanted the mother bird and that the nest was ours if we could get to it. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then quickly climbed to the top of the coconut tree. He found two lovely eggs in the nest, but just as he was showing them to me, the mother bird returned home. Khanh hurriedly hid the nest in a bush. Both of us started shouting and waving our arms to drive the mother bird away. I didn’t want the bird shot by the hunter. But she kept flying around and around the coconut tree, crying out desperately. “She’s looking for her children,” Khanh said. “BANG!” The shot startled both of us, but I saw the bird flying safely in the sky above us. “BANG!” The second shot made the bird dart away like an arrow. But she soon returned, still flying around in circles and crying out for her stolen nest.
66 “BANG!” I shut my eyes and nearly burst into tears. But when I opened them, magically the bird was still flying unharmed. Khanh shouted: “Fly away, mother bird, or you will be killed !” I shouted too. Both of us shouted and danced around like mad. The hunter got angry, gave each of us a kick, then went away. Khanh hastily carried the nest back to the top of the coconut tree, but he could not get it back into the same place where it had hung before. So he put it all the way up on top of the tree, then called to the mother bird, “Here is your home, come back!” The bird continued to fly round and round, not understanding our good intentions. Then she flew higher. Khanh cried out through his tears, “Don’t leave, mother bird! Your home is safe!”
It was dusk now, and the bird’s pained cries became more and more faint. She also became harder and harder to see. Khanh kept calling to her. “Don’t leave! Who will hatch your babies?”
We waited for the bird’s return until Granddad came looking for us. Khanh sobbed to him, “Tomorrow I cannot take care of your buffaloes. I have to go to pagoda.” Granddad laughed. “Why?” “I have to atone for my sin. When my mother left, Grandma said that unless my aunt showed repentance in her next seven lives, she could not atone for her sin of separating a mother and child. Today I made the mother bird leave its own babies.” Granddad rubbed Khanh’s head. “Your mother is traveling on business somewhere and will be home for Tet. No mother willingly leaves her children, not even a mother bird. Tomorrow she will come back to look for her nest. Wait and see if I’m not right.”
In the morning the mother bird did return to the nest. Khanh embraced me and both of us danced and sang: “On Tet holiday Mother will be home!” Nobody ever so longed for Tet as we did.
Khanh’s mother did return home, but mine did not. Now that I have grown up, I know what death means. But whenever Heaven and Earth prepare for a new year, I still long for my mother’s return.
67 Discussion questions 1) What is the first impression of this story’s title? Do you like Tet holiday? Why? 2) How is the story’s atmosphere? Does the setting look exciting or boring? 3) Is “the I character” the protagonist? Why does she talk about her intimate friend, Khanh? 4) What does the symbol of “dong-doc’s nest”?Why does Khanh want to go to the pagoda? 5) Are you deeply impressed by the touching resolution? Why? Task: Give your own point of view about main theme of this story, what is the meaning of motherhood? (about 250 words)
THE BLIND MAN By Kate Chopin
A man carrying a small red box in one hand walked slowly down the street. His old straw hat and faded garments looked as if the rain had often beaten upon them, and the sun had as many times dried them upon his person. He was not old, but he seemed feeble; and he walked in the sun, along the blistering asphalt pavement. On the opposite side of the street there were trees that threw a thick and pleasant shade: people were all walking on that side. But the man did not know, for he was blind, and moreover he was stupid.
In the red-box were lead pencils, which he was endeavoring to sell. He carried no stick, but guided himself by trailing his foot along the stone copings or his hand along the iron railings. When he came to the steps of a house he would mount them. Sometimes, after reaching the door with great difficulty, he could not find the electric button, whereupon he would patiently descend and go his way. Some of the iron gates were locked, their owners being away for the summer, and he would consume much time striving to open them, which made little difference, as he had all the time there was at his disposal. At times he succeeded in finding the electric button: but the man or maid who answered the bell needed no pencil, nor could they be induced to disturb the mistress of the house about so small a thing.
The man had been out long and had walked far, but had sold nothing. That morning someone who had finally grown tired of having him hanging around had equipped him with this box of
68 pencils, and sent him out to make his living. Hunger, with sharp fangs, was gnawing at his stomach and a consuming thirst parched his mouth and tortured him. The sun was broiling. He wore too much clothing - a vest and coat over his shirt. He might have removed these and carried them on his arm or thrown them away; but he did not think of it. A kind woman who saw him from an upper window felt sorry for him, and wished that he would cross over into the shade.
The man drifted into a side street, where there was a group of noisy, excited children at play. The color of the box which he carried attracted them and they wanted to know what was in it. One of them attempted to take it away from him. With the instinct to protect his own and his only means of sustenance, he resisted, shouted at the children and called them names. A policeman coming round the corner and seeing that he was the center of a disturbance, jerked him violently around by the collar; but upon perceiving that he was blind, considerably refrained from clubbing him and sent him on his way. He walked on in the sun.
During his aimless rambling he turned into a street where there were monster electric cars thundering up and down, clanging wild bells and literally shaking the ground beneath his feet with their terrific impetus. He started to cross the street.
Then something happened - something horrible happened that made the women faint and the strongest men who saw it grow sick and dizzy. The motorman’s lips were as gray as his face, and that was ashen gray; and he shook and staggered from the superhuman effort he had put forth to stop his car.Where could the crowds have come from so suddenly, as if by magic? Boys on the run, men and women tearing up on their wheels to see the sickening sight: doctors dashing up in buggies as if directed by Providence.
And the horror grew when the multitude recognized in the dead and mangled figure one of the wealthiest, most useful and most influential men of the town, a man noted for his prudence and foresight. How could such a terrible fate have overtaken him? He was hastening from his business house, for he was late, to join his family, who were to start in an hour or two for their summer home on the Atlantic coast. In his hurry he did not perceive the other car coming from the opposite direction and the common, harrowing thing was repeated.
The blind man did not know what the commotion was all about. He had crossed the street, and there he was, stumbling on in the sun, trailing his foot along the coping.
69 Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? Does it foreshadow something? 2) What does the blind man do for his living? 3) Why does the wealthiest, most useful and most influential men of the town die? 4) Is the blind man lucky or not? Why? 5) What is the meaning of this phrase “a man noted for his prudence and foresight” in the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the blind man and the wealthiest, most useful and most influential dead men. Is there human’s destiny in this life? Why? Why not? (about 150 words)
THE NECKLACE ByGuy De Maupassant
She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a family of artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded by a man of wealth and distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education. Her tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she had married beneath her; for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of rank, and put the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the land.
She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would not even have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the work in her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers, heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture
70 supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms, created just for little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage roused every other woman’s envious longings.
When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite her husband, who took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming delightedly: “Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?” she imagined delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in faery forests; she imagined delicate food served in marvelous dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as one trifled with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt that she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after. She had a rich friend, an old school friend whom she refused to visit, because she suffered so keenly when she returned home. She would weep whole days, with grief, regret, despair, and misery.
One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope in his hand. “Here’s something for you,” he said. Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these words: “The Minister of Education and Madame Ramponneau request the pleasure of the company of Monsieur and Madame Loisel at the Ministry on the evening of Monday, January the 18th.” Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she flung the invitation petulantly across the table, murmuring: “What do you want me to do with this?”.
“Why, darling, I thought you’d be pleased. You never go out, and this is a great occasion. I had tremendous trouble to get it. Everyone wants one; it’s very select, and very few go to the clerks. You’ll see all the really big people there.” She looked at him out of furious eyes, and said impatiently: “And what do you suppose I am to wear at such an affair?”
He had not thought about it; he stammered: “Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It looks very nice, to me …” He stopped, stupefied and utterly at a loss when he saw that his wife was beginning to cry. Two large tears ran slowly down from the corners of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth.
71 ”What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with you?” he faltered. But with a violent effort she overcame her grief and replied in a calm voice, wiping her wet cheeks: “Nothing. Only I haven’t a dress and so I can’t go to this party. Give your invitation to some friend of yours whose wife will be turned out better than I shall.” He was heart- broken.
“Look here, Mathilde,” he persisted. “What would be the cost of a suitable dress, which you could use on other occasions as well, something very simple?” She thought for several seconds, reckoning up prices and also wondering for how large a sum she could ask without bringing upon herself an immediate refusal and an exclamation of horror from the careful-minded clerk. At last she replied with some hesitation: “I don’t know exactly, but I think I could do it on four hundred francs.”
He grew slightly pale, for this was exactly the amount he had been saving for a gun, intending to get a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre with some friends who went lark-shooting there on Sundays. Nevertheless he said: “Very well. I’ll give you four hundred francs. But try and get a really nice dress with the money.” The day of the party drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy and anxious. Her dress was ready, however. One evening her husband said to her: “What’s the matter with you? You’ve been very odd for the last three days.”“I’m utterly miserable at not having any jewels, not a single stone, to wear,” she replied. “I shall look absolutely no one. I would almost rather not go to the party.”
“Wear flowers,” he said. “They’re very smart at this time of the year. For ten francs you could get two or three gorgeous roses.” She was not convinced. “No … there’s nothing so humiliating as looking poor in the middle of a lot of rich women.”“How stupid you are!” exclaimed her husband. “Go and see Madame Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewels. You know her quite well enough for that.” She uttered a cry of delight. “That’s true. I never thought of it.”
Next day she went to see her friend and told her trouble. Madame Forestier went to her dressing-table, took up a large box, brought it to Madame Loisel, opened it, and said: “Choose, my dear.” First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian
72 cross in gold and gems, of exquisite workmanship. She tried the effect of the jewels before the mirror, hesitating, unable to make up her mind to leave them, to give them up. She kept on asking: “Haven’t you anything else?”“Yes. Look for yourself. I don’t know what you would like best.”
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin case, a superb diamond necklace; her heart began to beat covetously. Her hands trembled as she lifted it. She fastened it round her neck, upon her high dress, and remained in ecstasy at sight of herself. Then, with hesitation, she asked in anguish: “Could you lend me this, just this alone?”“Yes, of course.”
She flung herself on her friend’s breast, embraced her frenziedly, and went away with her treasure. The day of the party arrived. Madame Loisel was a success. She was the prettiest woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling, and quite above herself with happiness. All the men stared at her, inquired her name, and asked to be introduced to her. All the Under- Secretaries of State were eager to waltz with her. The Minister noticed her.
She danced madly, ecstatically, drunk with pleasure, with no thought for anything, in the triumph of her beauty, in the pride of her success, in a cloud of happiness made up of this universal homage and admiration, of the desires she had aroused, of the completeness of a victory so dear to her feminine heart. She left about four o’clock in the morning. Since midnight her husband had been dozing in a deserted little room, in company with three other men whose wives were having a good time. He threw over her shoulders the garments he had brought for them to go home in, modest everyday clothes, whose poverty clashed with the beauty of the ball-dress. She was conscious of this and was anxious to hurry away, so that she should not be noticed by the other women putting on their costly furs. Loisel restrained her. “Wait a little. You’ll catch cold in the open. I’m going to fetch a cab.” But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the staircase.
When they were out in the street they could not find a cab; they began to look for one, shouting at the drivers whom they saw passing in the distance. They walked down towards the Seine, desperate and shivering. At last they found on the quay one of those old night prowling carriages which is only to be seen in Paris after dark, as though they were ashamed of their shabbiness in the daylight. It brought them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they walked up to their own apartment. It was the end, for her. As for him, he was thinking that he must be at the office at ten. She took off the garments in which she had
73 wrapped her shoulders, so as to see herself in all her glory before the mirror. But suddenly she uttered a cry. The necklace was no longer round her neck!
“What’s the matter with you?” asked her husband, already half undressed. She turned towards him in the utmost distress. ”I…I…I…I’ve no longer got Madame Forestier’s necklace…” He started with astonishment. “What! … Impossible!” They searched in the folds of her dress, in the folds of the coat, in the pockets, everywhere. They could not find it. “Are you sure that you still had it on when you came away from the ball?” he asked. “Yes, I touched it in the hall at the Ministry.” “But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall.” “Yes. Probably we should. Did you take the number of the cab?” “No. You didn’t notice it, did you?” .
“No.” They stared at one another, dumbfounded. At last Loisel put on his clothes again. “I’ll go over all the ground we walked,” he said, “and see if I can’t find it.” And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, lacking strength to get into bed, huddled on a chair, without volition or power of thought. Her husband returned about seven. He had found nothing. He went to the police station, to the newspapers, to offer a reward, to the cab companies, everywhere that a ray of hope impelled him. She waited all day long, in the same state of bewilderment at this fearful catastrophe. Loisel came home at night, his face lined and pale; he had discovered nothing. “You must write to your friend,” he said, “and tell her that you’ve broken the clasp of her necklace and are getting it mended. That will give us time to look about us.” She wrote at his dictation.
By the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared: “We must see about replacing the diamonds.” Next day they took the box which had held the necklace and went to the jewellers whose name was inside. He consulted his books. “It was not I who sold this necklace, Madame; I must have merely supplied the clasp.” Then they went from jeweller to jeweller, searching for another necklace like the first, consulting their memories, both ill with remorse and anguish of mind. In a shop at the Palais-Royal they found a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they were looking for.
74 It was worth forty thousand francs. They were allowed to have it for thirty-six thousand. They begged the jeweller not to sell it for three days. And they arranged matters on the understanding that it would be taken back for thirty-four thousand francs, if the first one were found before the end of February. Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs left to him by his father. He intended to borrow the rest. He did borrow it, getting a thousand from one man, five hundred from another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes of hand, entered into ruinous agreements, did business with usurers and the whole tribe of money- lenders. He mortgaged the whole remaining years of his existence, risked his signature without even knowing if he could honour it, and, appalled at the agonizing face of the future, at the black misery about to fall upon him, at the prospect of every possible physical privation and moral torture, he went to get the new necklace and put down upon the jeweller’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace to Madame Forestier, the latter said to her in a chilly voice: “You ought to have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it.” She did not, as her friend had feared, open the case. If she had noticed the substitution, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she not have taken her for a thief? Madame Loisel came to know the ghastly life of abject poverty. From the very first she played her part heroically. This fearful debt must be paid off. She would pay it. The servant was dismissed. They changed their flat; they took a garret under the roof.
She came to know the heavy work of the house, the hateful duties of the kitchen. She washed the plates, wearing out her pink nails on the coarse pottery and the bottoms of pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-cloths, and hung them out to dry on a string; every morning she took the dustbin down into the street and carried up the water, stopping on each landing to get her breath. And, clad like a poor woman, she went to the fruiterer, to the grocer, to the butcher, a basket on her arm, haggling, insulted, and fighting for every wretched halfpenny of her money. Every month notes had to be paid off, others renewed, time gained.
Her husband worked in the evenings at putting straight a merchant’s accounts, and often at night he did copying at twopence-halfpenny a page. And this life lasted ten years. At the end of ten years everything was paid off, everything, the usurer’s charges and the accumulation of superimposed interest. Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become like all the other strong, hard, coarse women of poor households. Her hair was badly done, her skirts were
75 awry, her hands were red. She spoke in a shrill voice, and the water slopped all over the floor when she scrubbed it. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down by the window and thought of that evening long ago, of the ball at which she had been so beautiful and so much admired.
What would have happened if she had never lost those jewels? Who knows? Who knows? How strange life is, how fickle! How little is needed to ruin or to save!
One Sunday, as she had gone for a walk along the Champs-Elysees to freshen herself after the labours of the week, she caught sight suddenly of a woman who was taking a child out for a walk. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still attractive. Madame Loisel was conscious of some emotion. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all. Why not? She went up to her. “Good morning, Jeanne.” The other did not recognize her, and was surprised at being thus familiarly addressed by a poor woman.
”But . . . Madame . . .” she stammered. “I don’t know . . . you must be making mistake.” “No . . . I am Mathilde Loisel.” Her friend uttered a cry. “Oh! . . . my poor Mathilde, how you have changed! . . .” “Yes, I’ve had some hard times since I saw you last; and many sorrows . . . and all on your account.”“On my account! . . . How was that?”“You remember the diamond necklace you lent me for the ball at the Ministry?” “Well?”“Well, I lost it.”“How could you? Why, you brought it back.” “I brought you another one just like it. And for the last ten years we have been paying for it. You realize it wasn’t easy for us; we had no money. . . . Well, it’s paid for at last, and I’m glad indeed.”
Madame Forestier had halted. “You say you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?” ”Yes. You hadn’t noticed it? They were very much alike.” And she smiled in proud and innocent happiness.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her two hands. “Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine was imitation. It was worth at the very most five hundred francs!!!
76 Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Write your own point of view about Mathilde, is she happy at the end of the story? How did she feel when knowing that the necklace was fake? (about 250 words)
LET’S GO HOME
By Dang Minh Chau
The old man stopped and looked upwards. Then with his right index finger he pointed at a high building in front of him and began counting: “One, two, three, four,..., eleven, twelve, thirteen...” He already felt the strain on his neck at this point, not to mention a feeling of dizziness. “Very high indeed!” he exclaimed. He wanted to count to the highest window to see how many stories the building had. Hardly had he got to “fourteen” when her voice boomed. “Stop it! Stop it! You Idiot!” his wife said as she turned around. He obeyed his wife’s order with alacrity. “How many more floors has it got?” he asked himself, following his wife’s steps. “Some day, when I’m alone, I’ll have to count them,” he told himself, turning back to look at the high-rise for a last look as it receded farther and farther away.
At the beach, his wife sat down on the sandy shore about ten metres from the water’s edge while he dipped his feet in the salty water. He had suffered from eczema on the feet for years. His wife had tried to treat his itchy feet before leaving, but in vain. Since they arrived in the coastal city and he began immersing his feet in the sea every morning, it was getting much better. He was happy and his wife was very pleased as well. She took pity on him and looked after him as if he was a little boy under the custody of an old maid. All her feelings went to him, but she was a bit authoritative now.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt that the salty sea water was infiltrating his body through his feet. It was good to be at the sea, much better than by the water of the small
77 river of his native place. “It’s time for us to go home, dear,” she said to him. Her tone was still very bossy. He was allowed to soak his feet for thirty minutes only. He opened his eyes wide and retreated. On fine mornings like this, the sea did not seem to have waves. He smiled, looking at the clear water. “Some day, when I’m all alone here, I’ll soak my feet for hours,” he told himself. He felt very optimistic.
In fact his son had once said: “Mother, let him go to the beach alone will you? He won’t go astray and get lost.”“Won’t get lost? Your father counts on every building that takes his fancy like a mad man. How can I stand that? Then he wants to be at the beach the whole morning. If he is like this, what will happen to him?” He did not want to make his wife sad. Formerly, he had been very bossy and his wife had been meek, not daring to look up at him. If the smallest thing in the house was not to his liking, he would stare at her and she would obey his unspoken bidding at once.
After he fainted because of high blood pressure and the doctor informed that he had been suffering from a heart problem without his knowing it, things had changed completely. When he was in hospital, especially at one point when he seemed beyond recovery, she had given him such care that he greatly regretted his past behavior. After leaving hospital, he became a much milder man. At first she was greatly worried about the change. Once she asked him boldly: “What’s the matter with you?”“What a question! If anything was wrong, how could I be this well,” he answered, smiling.
She was reassured. Over the days, she began to become bossier. Thanks to the knowledge of oriental medicine that she’d got from her father, a famous herbalist in the locality, she had treated him effectively, and he was all the more respectful. After more than six months of treatment at home, he had recovered almost completely. He had given up the habit of glaring at her. Meanwhile, she gained the power to run the family.
When they received a message from their eldest son in the coastal town that his wife had given birth to a baby boy, and both mother and child were safe and sound, the old woman was very happy. “We’ll have to be with them as soon as possible, darling,” she told him. He nodded, smiling: “I’ll prepare everything for this trip. I think we will be away long. You’d better say good-bye to the neighbours first,” she said.
78 He could not go to sleep. For the past few days, whenever he lay on the bed, he found himself restless. He was able to hear the sound of the waves very clearly. It seemed that he would touch the waves if he put his legs down on the ground. Tomorrow, it would be two months that they’d been away from home. His wife was very satisfied with the trip. The sea breeze was fresh and healthy, their grandson was handsome, their son and daughter-in-law treated them well, the house was well kept, and the meals were delicious. They did not want for anything. Meanwhile, his eczema had disappeared completely and he looked quite healthy.
A few days before, when everybody was in high spirits, their son had suggested: “Dad, Mum, would you mind staying here until Tet? It’s only four months away. I’ll take the opportunity and return home with you. It’s been such a long time.”“All right. That’s a good idea,” answered the old man. “It’d be much better if both of you stayed with us all the time,” said the daughter-in-law. He’d just smiled. “How long have we been here, dear? It’s one month and more than twenty days, isn’t it?” he asked his wife when the whole family was having dinner. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked him. “Oh, nothing. I just want to know, that’s all,” he replied, trying to evade his wife’s suspicion. In the morning, the sea was calm, as usual. Yet, he was upset. In the end he would have to do everything of his own accord. Quickly he stepped away from the water and said to his wife firmly: “Let’s go home, dear.”
“Why? We’ve been sitting here for only fifteen minutes?”“Let’s go home,” he repeated. He began walking briskly across the sand. “You’ve left your sandals behind. Stop and put them on, will you?” his wife ran after him, shouting. He kept walking as if he’d not heard. At last his wife caught up with him and dropped the pair of sandals near his feet. “Why do you do this? If you want to return home, you don’t have to be so hasty,” she reproached him. He stopped to put on his sandals and said in a calm voice: “Don’t be angry with me, darling. Please listen to me. I don’t want to displease you. But frankly, I cannot stay here any longer. Let’s go home.”“OK, let’s go,” she said and began walking briskly. “Just a minute, dear. Er... I mean we’d better return to our native place,” he said. She stopped short. He went up to her, and said in a very serious voice: “Last night I had a strange dream. There must be something wrong with our tombs at home. I’m greatly worried about them.” Being a superstitious woman, she became very frightened. He’d never told her such things before. The young couple could do nothing but watch their parents pack. The old man tried to cheer them up, saying they would come again next year, especially to see little Bờm. His wife did not say a word. The train left the station at midnight. She watched him sit motionless and staring into
79 the dark for a long time. Then she said: “You’d better go to sleep.” He sighed and smiled warmly at her. “Don’t be angry with me when I tell you this... The fact is that last night I was only dreaming of the small river flowing through our village. I don’t know why I missed it so much, especially when I felt so good soaking my feet into the salty water.” His wife jumped up as if she’d been stung.
He hurriedly explained: “The reason I want to leave is that I don’t feel well these days. I don’t want them to shoulder a burden if I fall ill. I’ve been very happy staying with them, but...,” he suddenly stopped and placed his hands on his chest. “What’s the matter with you?” she said, eyes brimming with tears.
“No problem. Don’t worry too much about my illness,” he waved his hands. ““Anyway, I have to return to our native place to take a bath in the river at least once.” The train whistled as it approached a bend. The sound disappeared in the dark. So he was going away from the sea. He would not have the chance to go alone and count the number of floors on that building, or to put his feet in the clear sea water again. He glanced at his wife and felt pity, no resentment over her bossy behavior over the past few months. He knew that in the depths of her heart she was a kind-hearted country woman. And in his heart of hearts, he did not want to regain his former patriarchal command. As soon as they reached home, he would yield it to her. He took a long breath again and smiled. “Let’s go home.” Translated by Van Minh Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 2) Why does the man count the building storeys? 3) Why is the man patriarchal at the beginning of the story? 4) Why does the man become much milder after leaving hospital? 5) Is the wife a bad woman? Why? Why not?
Task: Write your own point of view about “let’s go home”, what is the deeper meaning of the story after reading it? Is our motherland the best place to return when living far away from it? (about 150 words)
80 THE DAY ALWAYS BELONGS TO THE SUN By Tran Thanh Ha At last I managed to get a job teaching at a secondary school about fifteen kilometers away from home. The distance was nearly the same as between my house and the town. “What? You’ve accepted it, have you?” asked Aunt Thuong. “What else can I do?,” I answered. An, my sweetheart, was not surprised when I told him of my decision. “I see. In our lifetime, we always cherish such an illusion,” he said. I was offended, but he only smiled. “I intend that I’ll work for some time, say one or two years. When we’re qualified enough, we’ll get married,” I said. “Ah, a member of the intelligentsia!,” aunt remarked sarcastically. “You are showing your scholar’s pride, are you?” She had reason to be bitter, because I had turned down her offer of help - work for a foreign firm with a good salary. “Not that. I only want ...,” I began. “Let it be,” she interrupted. “Life will teach you to be self- reliant very early. But what about your darling? What is his opinion?”“For the time being, we’ll have to be away from each other for some time. Whenever both of us find that we’re able to live together, we’ll ... ,” I answered. “How romantic you are!” I brought our conversation to an end because I knew that it would lead to a quarrel. I still felt sad that she’d turned a deaf ear to my explanation. *** Aunt Thuong was my mother’s youngest sibling, after Uncle Hung. Mother was pretty and aunt was beautiful. Aunt’s eyes were as black as coal. Her nose was straight and delicate. Her lips were rosy and her complexion was lily-white. But she was congenitally lame. Unfortunately this defect had turned out be a major disadvantage. Mother told me that Aunt was very good at Math. She had come first in a mathematics competition at the district level. Children at her school nicknamed her “Lame.” Her pride in her intelligence was unable to compensate for her defect. She cried her heart out often. Moved, granny told her, “Stay home with me, dear. There’s no need for you to go to school anymore.”But aunt responded: “I’m lame. This is such a disadvantage. If I was illiterate as well, it would be much worse. I’d be looked down upon by everyone.” She did well at school. When she finished her secondary education with distinction she sat for the university-entrance examinations and passed it with high marks. But the college sent her back home just because she was lame. She resigned herself to staying at home for one year, doing needlework for purses and bags for young ladies. When Uncle Hung built a house in the town to get everything ready for his marriage, aunt told him: “Take me along as well. There I’ll look after your children.” He agreed. So she followed her elder brother to town. “She will be unhappy there,” Granny said. “Let her do what she wants to,” Mother insisted.
81 *** Living in the town with her brother’s small family and being tired of doing nothing but needlework in a deserted house in the daytime, Aunt took to visiting a grocer’s stall close to the market and stayed there for hours. With her presence, the number of customers coming to the stall increased noticeably. The shop owner asked Aunt to work for her, and she became a salesgirl. Passers-by, especially young men, besotted by her charm, could not help stopping in front of the stall to buy something they really did not need. “It’s high time you got married, dear,” said Granny. “Out of ten men, nine like the upper two-third portion of my body, not the lower one-third,” she replied. Later, uncle opened a shop in the front portion of his house for her to do business. Customers began to do their shopping at Aunt’s, instead of her former place of work. Year after year, the profits piled up. “My only hope is that she’ll soon have a husband, but that does not look like it is going to happen,” sighed Granny. Aunt just smiled. People flocked to her shop in greater numbers. *** By the time I began attending college, Aunt had built a house of her own. Although it was not luxurious, it was cosy and decent. For four years, most of my expenses for studying and living were borne by her since my parents were poor farmers with a large family. Aunt was still young, I was in my late teens, and I became closer to her than to my mother. I visited her often, usually on holidays, travelling the long distance between my college and the heart of the town. There were many times I buried my face in her bosom and cried my eyes out. “You can realise its problems only when you are in love,” she said. “Weep to your heart’s content, but don’t be disappointed.” When I started going out with An, she did not object. She only said: “Now that you are in love, you’ll have to accept what comes to you - good or bad.” Mother was totally against our affair because An worked a long way away, about a thousand kilometres from my house and his family belonged to, in her opinion, a dubious circle of traders. Aunt then told me that she was in love as well. I was very glad.“When are you going to get married?”“Never.” Surprised, I looked at her closely. At 30, she was still very attractive. It would be an injustice if such a beautiful woman was not loved by anyone. If only I looked like her or Mother, just a bit, things could have been different for me. Instead, I inherited the brown complexion and slanting eyes from Dad. “Aunt, tell me about your love, please,” I urged her. She smiled in a vague way for a few seconds, then said: “He is married already, and lives a normal life with his wife and children.”“A married man?” I could hardly breathe. “Nobody can persuade or coerce me into doing anything against my will,” she hastened to add, for fear that I might think badly of the man. But I was not going to keep silent. “He loves you, but doesn’t leave his wife, does he? Bastard.” She kept her head down
82 for a few minutes and then said: “Maybe it’s his cowardice that makes me love him. Sometimes, love and sympathy are two sides of an issue, and sometimes they’re different. For me, what I’m badly in need of is love and that will do.” I felt bitter. I was both angry and sympathetic. Usually, she was a practical woman, but now she had become so credulous and romantic. *** That Saturday, I went to town by bicycle. I had just received An’s letter asking me to come to his place immediately to discuss our affair and come to a decision soon. I was in two minds. To go to him or wait for something new. It was in the middle of the rainy season, but the weather was fine that day. The blue sky forecast a beautiful night. I reached the town at twilight. Riding my bicycle among couples on motorcycles or expensive bicycles going to and fro under the dazzling lights, most of them happy-looking young people, I felt sorry for my lonely and quiet life in the country.
After graduating from university, I should have gone to the south together with An or accepted the job offered to me in the town as Aunt suggested. I had done neither. With all my belongings in my hands, I reached a secondary school in a remote area as a teacher, a crusader come to enlighten the countryside. More than a year had passed. Contrary to expectations, my health had only worsened. Would there be any change? I asked myself. Apart from disappointment at unachieved dreams, I bore another pain in my heart: our love seemed set to turn in another direction. “When you’re fed up with your teaching, you can come here. I’ll let you take over this shop, or get you a much better job,” Aunt had said. Was it time now to take her up on the offer?
The door was locked. Luckily, I had a spare key she had given me. Entering the house, I found a message for me on the table: “Food’s in the fridge. Money in the wardrobe. I’ll be back late.” I cooked the dinner and ate it by myself. After that I watched TV and then read An’s letter. “I always ask myself if we really love each other when we still resort to this objective reasoning. We just expect something to come to us naturally, not daring to overcome obstacles to being beside each other,” he wrote.
Hearing a noise outside, I lifted the window curtain and looked out. It was eleven o’clock at night. Aunt stood under the eaves, close to a tall man leaning against his crutch. From inside of the house I could overhear her say in a low voice: “Come here tomorrow? Oh no, the day after tomorrow’s better. Or else I’ll see you at the cross roads.” They stood side by side in
83 silence in the wonderful moonlight. My aunt was wearing a rose blouse. Her shining and luxurious hair fell to her shoulders. “Can you see the moon?” asked the man after a long silence. “Yes, of course,” she answered nestling her head against his chest. “Kiss me,” she told him. Putting the crutch carefully under his armpit, he bent down as Aunt tried to straighten up her body to receive his kiss. What a long, burning kiss! It seemed to me that it contained everything: happiness, suffering and long waiting. It was not until midnight that I heard heavy thuds on the pavement recede farther and farther. *** She lay close to me, took my hand and placed it on her belly. “I’m going to have a baby, dear,” she whispered. I was startled. “I’d thought that I would never have one, but now I am certain.”“You’re very happy, aren’t you?” I asked. “Absolutely.” There was simple truth in her voice. “Are you sure that he really loves you?”“Certain. And if it’s not quite so, it would make no difference. What I need is to be beside the man I love. That’s all!”“Aren’t you afraid of suffering?” I asked. “If you are, stay away from love, that’s all,” she said firmly, turning her back towards me. Soon she fell asleep. I tossed and turned all night. The next morning I got up very early to get everything ready for my long journey. Then she found me packing, she was very surprised. “I’ve made up my mind to go, Aunt. I am going to An’s house.” She cried, hugging me tightly. “Are you certain that you can manage there?”“I don’t know for sure. It’ll be all right as long as we are still in love.”“Yes, yes, that’s right,” she sobbed. “Write to me if you meet with any difficulty. But I believe that you’ll be happy together.”
Dawn was breaking. The horizon was glowing bright and rosy, seeming to promise a much better future. Aunt led me to the balcony and pointed at the slowly rising sun. “Do you know this? The day always belongs to the sun.” Her eyes flashed with the reflection of countless sunbeams. Translated byVan Minh Discussion questions 1) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 2) Why does “the I character” refuse the good job in the town after graduation? 3) Why does “aunt Thuong” want to move to the town with the brother’s family? 4) What does aunt Thuong do when ling in the town? 5) Does she get married? Is she happy or not? Task: Write your own point of view about value of love in the story “The day always belongs to the sun”, what would our life be like without love? (about 150 words)
84 YESTERDAY’S LOVE By Nguyen Thu Phuong He recognized her at once, though she was a rather stout woman now, different from the girl he knew before. Fifteen years was time enough for a lot of things to be done and undone. He found warmth in her eyes, the black sad eyes that looked tired now, and could also see that she was moved. She smiled the same familiar reluctant smile.
“I never expected to meet you here,” he said. “Nor did I. But I have thought of you for years.” Her words were sincere and, it seemed, even remorseful. “How’s life now?”“I’m married and have two children. Life is normal, like that of other people. Nothing worth mentioning. And what about you?”“I have nothing worth telling you either.”
They paused and looked around. The music at the wedding was noisy and exciting, mixed with people shouting out congratulations. He wanted to ask her why she’d not brought her husband and children along. But he decided against it on second thoughts. He himself had come alone, without his wife and children. He brought the food for her and poured wine into her glass in the manner of an experienced ladies’ man. He drank a lot of beer without flushing. His capacity was great. Thanks to the beer he became more loquacious and alert, much more than when he was sober, or fifteen years younger. Then, as if by accident, he placed his hand on her knee under the table. As she did not push it away or show any other reaction, he whispered in her ear, “You are wonderful.”
She smiled. He saw that the smile expressed the confidence of a woman who knew very well that she was attractive. A diabolic self-confidence. “I have not been able to forget you for the last fifteen years.”“I still keep the poems you wrote for me, your love letters, and the notebook in which you wrote down the lyrics. My God, your handwriting was so beautiful. And the old hair pin, and other presents. All these things I’ve wrapped carefully and put into a small, velvet-lined box.”“What does your husband say about that?” he asked in surprise, his heart filled with emotion. “He is not the kind of man to get jealous about trifles. He knows I am a romantic woman, and treats me so well that I always feel grateful. I should not have dreamed about old flames, right?” She must not know that whenever he had a quarrel with his wife, he blamed himself for a lack of determination in getting married to her.
Whenever one’s present relationship lacks happiness, one often thinks of missed marriages. A friend in his early fifties had advised him “A man who has taken on the responsibility of
85 being a husband and a father, should know how to release the valve in order to regain balance in life. The best way is to create a secret corner. You only have to conceal it from you wife,”. He had not been faithful, he only tried not to be a bad man. Women had gone through his manly life, obscure, leaving behind no deep memory. But the image of his first love had often come to mind. Her half-smile, her sad black eyes, her sun-tanned complexion, an intact primitive beauty without any make up, any artful technique.
“We should leave this party soon,” he said softly after the fourth course was served. She nodded obediently and stood up presently. Then she left the room, relieved and calm as if she had waited for that moment. He, for formalities, lingered for a while, then stood up as well, giving a perfunctory salute to his neighbours. She was posing for a photograph with the bride and the groom at the gate, diplomatically intimate. Then she made for the park. Elbowing through a crowd excitedly toasting each other, he caught up with her. “Do you remember this place?”“Why not, it is a memory of our past life.”“For the last fifteen years I have been coming here to sit, watching it change hands, be dismantled, repaired and renovated....”“That’s surprising. I also occasionally come here, by myself, to think of you. But why didn’t we meet even once?” She remembered everything he reminded her of, as their past returned like a distant echo. Unable to control himself, he took hold of her hand, pressed it softly and caressed it. Then he raised it to his lips and kissed it, overflowing with emotion and desire. An experienced man was fully conscious of his desire, and knew how to fulfil it. “Wait a minute”, he said and made his way to the back of the cafeteria. Then he used his mobile phone to call a close friend in his fifties.
When he returned to the cafeteria, he paid the bill at the counter and went to where she was sitting. In the most natural voice he said, “Let’s go, my dear” and was pleased to see she followed him at once without asking him where to. The apartment has a private staircase to the third floor. They left their motorbikes with the caretaker, and climbed up the battered and mossy staircase. She was smiling as she recalled old stories, continuing from those that she’d related in the cafeteria and on the way. And she had not made any query about their destination. She was well-versed in world affairs and reasonable. These are virtues a woman should have, he thought. In addition, she still retained the romance of youthful days. The perfume she wore wafted into his nostrils, making him long for her.
He wondered, fleetingly, if his desire did not mean disrespect, when in his mind, she had such a noble and pure image. But this was going to be a happy ending, he reassured himself.
86 It was the climax of love, so different from other pleasures. Then they reached the apartment, he took out of a battered flower pot a small key. The first impression of the room was untidiness. Before she could comment, he softly closed the door and carefully bolted it after having found the switch to turn on the light.
Then, in a very natural way, he moved to the table that had no chair, where back issues of magazines lay scattered. He rapidly tidied up the mess, grumbling about the mess his friend had created. As he cleared the table, he found a box of “OK” condoms. He glanced at her and put it into his pocket. Then he went to the kitchen. He found a pile of instant noodles and an unopened bottle of mineral water. “I wonder whether it is drinkable,” she said hesitantly. He nodded yes. While she drank it like a kitten which was not thirsty, he had the opportunity to contemplate her.
She was wearing a “decent” brown dress, fashionable and fit. But it was a bit older style than her age warranted, in contrast to his checked shirt and a cream pair of trousers, and a gaudy cravat his wife had bought for him, making him look very dashing. Having drunk the water, she looked in vain for a seat. She had to sit down on the double bed. The bed was old, but covered with a flowered bedspread. She was still holding her handbag in her hand. He came up to her, put his hand round her waist like in the past.
“Do you know that you are very lovely?”Her black eyes softened as she looked at him. Suddenly he embraced her passionately and was about to kiss her lips. It was a long time since he had kissed a woman. But she swiftly glided out of his arms. Then she took out of her handbag a packet of chewing gums. She tore it open and put one into his mouth, bursting into a laugh, a resounding, thoughtless laugh. He sat chewing, deep in thoughts. She was like a cup of cappuccino - sweet, fragrant, deep and a little bitter. He had taken a short cut in his attempted conquest, but her experience made it difficult. As he thought thus, she came to him, her face indifferent, and began to loosen his time. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, gingerly and skilfully. “What do you have in your pocket?” Mischievously she put her hand inside. And what she managed to get out made her blush. He shook his head, trying to deny it, but entreated, “Let’s turn off the light, dear!”
She laughed again. But now her black eyes had lost their sadness and were filled with mischief. “No, I want to look at you in broad daylight.” Having unbuttoned the shirt, she placed it on
87 the table, and he was embarrassed now. But she started to loosen the belt. He stopped her, “What are you doing?”“Nothing, only.” He was at a loss. The beers guzzled down at many parties, the absence of exercise, sitting too long at the office, made him lose his boldness as he stood naked in the light before a woman who was not his wife. And suddenly, there was a gap between them. After a while, she slowly said, “My husband certainly does not want me to be involved in these adventures.”“Your husband,” he heard his own voice as it dragged out, sarcastic and scornful. “ If you are a faithful wife, why didn’t you tell me off from the start, why did you follow me here?” He reached for the shirt and put it on again. “I am a mother of two children, I am no longer the wonderful woman of our first love.” Her voice confessional without any hint of aggressiveness. “Please forgive me. But I need to be disillusioned. I wanted to get rid of your beautiful image that obsesses me. It is only in this way, that I will be able to forget you forever....”“Disillusion with love. Does this depend only on downgrading of the physical body and appearances after so many years of change? Is that all you needed in me?” He smiled with derision. “Aren’t you interested in the soul of a man who always thinks of you?”
She lowered her head, and spoke in an undertone, “Please don’t blame me. I have attached my fate to that of my children and my husband. I love them.” His voice was weary as he answered, “I can’t blame you when you have said so. It is my fault. I have courted a lover who is not bold enough to get involved.” She did not say anything else, quietly leaving the apartment.
He sat motionless for a long time after she left, his heart cold. Finally, he stood up and went into the bathroom to wash his face. In the mirror on the soiled wall, he saw the face of a well- fed, stupid man with haggard eyes. His shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest. His complexion was weathered and his body, not yet old, bore clear signs of laissez- faire and negligence. It was not believable that this was the same body and complexion that had been so radiant, youthful and full of life fifteen years ago, ready to be exposed to a crowd of curious people. There was some contradiction and injustice here, an inverse proportion between the body and the soul with the passage of time. He was suddenly filled with self-pity and loathing. Finding a cigarette in his pocket, he struck a match to light it and blew out the smoke. And how old was her husband after these fifteen years? What was he like when he took off his clothes? And if she had found him with a different body and complexion, would
88 she have still told him that she loved her husband and children? The mobile phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and saw the number of his crony. “Have you found the key?”“Oh yes, I am now in the room.”“Fine, have a good time.” Translated by Hoang Tuy
Discussion questions 1) What is the setting of the story? Does it foreshadow something? 2) What does the man do when seeing his ex-girlfriend at the wedding party? 3) Why does the couple leave the party soon? 4) Is the woman virtuous? Why does she follow her ex-boyfriend without asking the destination? 5) What is the meaning of this phrase “Disillusion with love” in the story? Is “yesterday’s love” eternal? Why? Task: Give your own point of view about the man and the woman in this story, who is right? Who is wrong? If you were the man or the woman in this story, what would you do? (about 150 words)
ONLY ONE WORD By Dau Viet Hung There were many things he disliked about the old man, but even so, Ty liked and respected him more than anyone else. Sometimes Ty observed him very closely, trying to find out where his Mr Sau did dwell in this short, wiry old man with his tanned skin, flat face, and kind eyes that were mostly warm but could also turn icy and severe. Was it possible that there were two of them in a single body? Ty was already fifteen years old, but Mr Sau still thought of him as a little boy who badly needed care from grown-ups. He could not utter a single swear word without being strongly scolded by the old man. “How can you learn bad things so fast?” Another one of his constant reminders that never failed to anger Ty was, “You must study hard, my child.”
*** At the liaison station Mr Sau was neither the head nor the deputy head. Nor was he a liaison man. In fact he was free lodger and did odd jobs for everybody like cooking, boiling water and repairing bed planks. Off and on, when there were not enough liaison officers at the
89 station, he was entrusted with some minor jobs like sending away letters or documents or leading some guerrillas to another station. And yet, Mr Sau seemed to be somebody. “Ty, you must say ‘hello’ or ‘good-bye’ when you come in or go out. You just leave without our notice or go home without saying anything; that’s impolite. You must know how to behave yourself.” There were many times Ty thought of leaving the station, but stayed on because he did not know where he’d go and what he’d do. Ty’s father was a guerrilla who was killed during a mopping up operation by the enemy. Ty was just seven years old then. His mother married again soon after and left him forever. He was forced to live with his paternal grandfather in the countryside. When he was 14, he was hired to look after a landlord’s buffaloes. When the freedom fighters attacked a blockhouse nearby and ran it over, he and his friends collected a lot of war trophies for them. On that occasion, he asked them to recruit him. “You’re too young to join the army,” the commander of the unit told him. “Just stay at this liaison station and help our guerrillas for two more years. I’ll come back and employ you.” So here he was.
*** He was much more useful than Mr Sau at the station, he told himself. He delivered urgent circulars and official letters to their destinations very quickly. Before the fighters launched an operation he scouted the terrain first to make sure it was secure, then returned and led them across it. Every task that was assigned to him, he did well. When he was recommended, he usually glanced at Mr Sau as if to say, “Look, I’m more important than you.” Nevertheless, Mr Tu Hau told him one day, “Ty, I’ll entrust you to Mr Sau’s care. You must obey him all the time. It’s a military order.” Mr Sau’s orders often sounded very strange. “Ty, try to gather at least three bundles of firewood. That’s an order;” or, “Fill up these two tanks with water. They nearly ran out this evening.” Or “Massage my back. It hurts a lot.”“Is that an order, Mr Sau?” he once asked the old man. “Yes, it is. Do it quickly.” No matter what they were, real orders or not, Ty obeyed them all and performed them well. In the process, his interest in Mr Sau deepened. Sometimes, from the bottom of his heart, he craved for something from Mr Sau, but could not quite figure out what it was. That Sau sympathised with and liked him was very evident to Ty. But, on the other hand, he could understand that the old man treated him so seriously as well. Each time Ty fell ill, Mr Sau was so worried that he could not sleep. Once, when he had a very high fever, Sau stayed up all night, placing wet and cold towels on his forehead. When Ty regained consciousness,
90 the old man shouted like a child, “Thank God, you are all right now. Don’t go out in the rain anymore.” Ty was moved to tears. For a long, long time, except for his paternal grandfather, nobody had shown such feelings towards him. Time and again, he thought that he would like to have a father like the old man with his simple teaching and orders, “From now on, don’t do this, don’t do that.” He would be very happy to comply with such instructions. But a few days later, when he had completely recovered from his illness, Ty found Mr Sau a bit different. He did not give him orders any more. Without jobs Ty felt very annoyed. He wanted to hear his orders again. Any orders would be welcome, even the one that he often hated very much, “My child, get in and study.”
*** From his childhood up to now, Ty had never seen the inside of a school. Now he had to spell syllable after syllable, word after word, and it was very unpleasant. As soon as he learnt a new word, he forgot the previous one. What was more, once Mr Tu Hau told him to address Mr Sau as “Teacher.”“Could Old Sau be my master? Never,” he told himself, although he vaguely knew that Mr Sau had previously been a village teacher. A howitzer shell had landed in the middle of his house, leaving him the sole survivor. Wandering about in his grief, he had stumbled across this station. Over time, thanks to his efforts, many people like Mr Tu Hau, Mr Chon Liem and Miss Thao had learnt the three Rs. Now they were able to read newspapers. Ty had not heard Mr Tu Hau address Mr Sau as Teacher, but Mr Chon Liem and Miss Thao always addressed him with great respect.
“If someone teaches you just one word, or even half a word, you should address the person ‘Teacher,’” says a Vietnamese proverb. But Ty was not convinced. Even if Mr Sau taught him thousands of words, he would never address him “Teacher.” In his mind, a teacher had to be a tall man with a leather satchel and polished shoes that shone. Mr Sau was always bare-footed and usually in black pyjamas with unkempt hair. How could he be a teacher? So this instruction of Mr Tu Hau was one that Ty ignored totally.
*** For a week now, Ty had been in charge of keeping a lookout on Highway 4 for any signs of enemy activity, so that he could lead guerrillas across when the time came. It was only a week, but he missed Mr Sau very much. The more he missed the old man the more he felt guilty. Living among the guerrillas, Ty had earned their high appreciation because he was
91 polite, considerate and obedient. “If only I’d learned more carefully as Mr Sau had told me to, I would have been further praised,” Ty thought. He resolved that when he got back to the station, he would show his gratitude by studying hard. As he returned to the liaison station after completing his mission on Highway 4, Ty came upon Miss Thao purely by chance. She’d been badly wounded by the enemy’s artillery shells. She was unable to speak clearly because her left cheek was injured. She gestured to him weakly as if she wanted him to do something. He brought her the handbag she usually carried. She took out of the bag a pencil and a notebook, then wrote something on a sheet, tore it and gave it to him. Hardly had he taken it when she fainted.
Looking carefully at the short note, he could not understand what she meant. He looked at her again and found blood oozing out of her wound. He hastily bandaged the wound and took her to a field hospital that had been rigged up in the district. There he entrusted her to the field physician. Suddenly, he remembered the letter. He asked a nurse to read it for him. The note said, “Move the station away at once. It’s been exposed. The enemy is going to make a round up in our locality.” He felt the earth shake under his feet. One day had already elapsed. From the hospital to the station, it would take him at least one more day. It was too late! He did not even say good-bye to the nurse as he rushed out.
When he reached the station, he could not believe what he was seeing. The small tree trunks used as pillars for the liaison tent were now smouldering. The belongings of the people in the station had been torn up and lay scattered here and there. Mr Tu Hau lay prone with one arm bent inwards under his chest and the other stretched forward as if he was trying to catch something. In the kitchen, the tray Ty used to have meals with the liaison officers lay tilted and food was spilled everywhere. On the floor were many patches of dark-red blood. Swarms of flies flew up when they were disturbed, then came down again. Ty felt bitterness rise in his throat. He walked to the tray. He knelt down, shouting aloud, “Father! Father!” His voice became weaker and weaker and was finally drowned in the rustle of the forest leaves. So Mr Sau had been taken away by the enemy. Then he stared. There was a trail of blood drops leading towards the kitchen garden. He tracked it with growing dread. The trail was getting fainter. Then he stopped abruptly. “The death zone,” he whispered. But there was no stopping him now. He kept moving towards the bushes, ignoring the branches that blocked his way until he reached an area where fallen trees lay scattered. He walked past them with difficulty and came upon the twisted bodies of a reconnoitring squadron of eleven Sai Gon Army soldiers. Mr Sau was among them, in his
92 tattered black pyjamas. His eyes were wide open, and there was no sign of severity or kindness in them, but they reflected the pride of having deceived the enemy into the death zone (a heavily mined area). His lips were half open as if he had smiled at Death.
Ty knelt down and bowed to the old man, then lifted his body and hugged it tightly. His thin shoulders shook violently as he sobbed out aloud, “Teacher! My Teacher!” Translated by Van Minh Discussion questions 1) How is Ty’s childhood? Why does he come to the liaison station? 2) What does Mr Sau do in this story? Why is he irascible to Ty? 3) Why does Ty dislike the old man at first and then he becomes fond of the old man? 4) What does Ms Thao give Ty? Why doesn’t he read it immediately? 5) What’s happened when Ty gets back to the liaison station?
Task: Explain the meaning of this sentence “If someone teaches you just one word, or even half a word, you should address the person ‘Teacher’.Give your own point of view about “only one word”. Could Ty save many people in the liaison station, if he were literate? (about 250 words)
A DAUGHTER-IN-LAW By Hoang Tran To Phuong
My grandmother, on my mother’s side, has two children - a daughter and a son. For her, the saying “a son means an offspring, ten daughters mean no offspring” was a truism. So all her attention and affection was focused on uncle Ba. My maternal grandfather’s family used to be the richest one in the village. When he died of some serious illness, she inherited his entire wealth. Everyone in the family was respectful to her. Mother and uncle Ba never talked back. She had strongly opposed the marriage between Dad and Mum because his family had no “position” in the village. He was also not the eldest son, just a soldier waiting to find employment after the nation’s liberation. Mother cried and cried, until grandmother gave in. But she stressed that a woman should follow her husband, and that all the assets of the family would belong to Uncle Ba. The wedding ceremony was a simple one with just close relatives present. As for Uncle Ba, he did whatever grandmother told him. He had a mild and gentle nature, and was careful not to displease her.
93 When I was five years old, a grand wedding party was organised for Uncle Ba. Grandmother was laughing heartily, and she looked very happy.
When I was 18, my aunt had been a daughter-in-law for 13 years. Mother said that aunt had to work from dawn to dusk, and unlike other people, had no spare time. Although she was very rich, at the end of the week she had to present her final accounts to grandmother. She worked like a machine without any respite or delay. Many evenings she went out into the corridor to cry, taking care even then that grandmother did not catch her doing it. The miserable life of a daughter-in-law made aunt an irascible person.
Grandmother was ageing and ailing and seldom touched her food. She spent the whole day on her bed. Mother often returned home to visit her. Uncle Ba was always glad to see mother and me. Aunt was indifferent. She did not say hello to us. She cleared her throat and asked:“Mother has not passed away, why do you come to ask for your inheritance?” Mother pretended not to hear. I stared at aunt. I could not believe that a girl cast in the typical “diligent needle work, modest, proper speech and morality” could behave like that. She took a broom and turning to mother, said: “Please don’t mind! The house is very dirty, I have to sweep it!”
I threw her an unpleasant look, and Uncle Ba was ill at ease, but as he was used to pleasing his wife, and did not utter a word. Aunt laughed: “Mother is only slightly ill. If you are worried that we cannot take care of her, please take her to your house. I have no objection.”
Mother left the medicine for grandmother, and over and over again, asked uncle to take good care of her. She managed to be polite to aunt, because she knew that her life as a daughter-in- law was miserable. I knew that mother wanted to take my grandmother to the city, but she dared not tell her. She loved uncle Ba so much, she would not agree to leave the house, whatever happened. Also, she did not want to rely on her daughter. Although I was her granddaughter, she did not love me because I bore the family name of another person. And, of course, I was a girl. In these days when gender inequality was becoming obsolete, I could not understand the strong hold it had on grandmother. All those times I visited her, she never greeted me once. I could never taste a fruit, although there were plenty of laden trees in the garden. She never gave me any presents. Everything was given to Sang, my uncle’s son. He was eleven years old, and very small. Aunt feared that if grandmother had some affection for me, she would treat Sang differently. So she did not like me.
94 But Sang was very pleased whenever I visited his house. He took me around to go fishing, to wade through the stream, and even taught me to shoot at birds. I was fed up with boys’ games, but I did not want to sadden him, and reluctantly followed him. He liked to hear me talking about the city, about my school and my class, his eyes widening as I spoke. Back home, he recounted everything to his mother. She said flatly “If you like the city, you can go to live there,” she also glanced at me “my child, we are people of the countryside, we are used to eating countryside rice, what is the use of going there?” Very angry, I left for the garden. The atmosphere in the house was getting colder and colder. Grandmother lay in her bed, racked by coughing fits, groaning occasionally: “Aunt Ba, give me some water” or “ Aunt Ba, I want to have some soup.” Aunt Ba was very busy in the house at all times. I was very quiet, whenever I was there, but would never do what Aunt Ba told me to, and she would be furious.
Once I heard her complain to uncle Ba: “Why do I have to be so miserable? A daughter-in- law is like a servant in this house.” Then the dam broke and she sobbed uncontrollably, and all that had been locked up within for a long time seemed to pour out. She recounted what she had to do in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening. Uncle Ba remained calm. He tried to comfort her. “You should try to bear with it, don’t get angry with mother. Anyhow she is very old now.”“How much longer do I have to endure this? Why don’t you entrust your sister with the task of caring for her? She would be much happier if she lived in the city.” Uncle Ba said gently: “Because mother does not agree!”“You have only to rent a taxi, and take her there. That’s all!” Uncle Ba lost his temper: “Don’t be insulting.”“You dare scold me, do you? Now my husband as well. Have I not been tortured enough?” Uncle Ba flew into a rage and slapped her. She covered her face and cried out loud. Neighbours rushed in to restrain him. It was the first time I’d seen him like this.
Aunt looked so miserable and pitiful. The miserable life she’d had to suffer for so many years had turned her into another person. Too much forbearance sometimes changes the nature of human beings, making them selfish, like the drop of water that makes the cup overflow. I did not hate her anymore, and began to commiserate with her. And I feared the fate of being a daughter-in-law. I’d never seen any sign of discord between my paternal grandmother and mother, nor had I seen my parents quarrel. Mother was devoted to her mother-in-law, who loved her very much and repeatedly said she was very happy to have such a daughter-in-law. Mother was worried. She decided to bring grandmother to the city.
95 Grandmother would not agree, consenting only after strong persuasion from relatives. Aunt sighed with relief. She said: “Sister, you can take her away. My husband and I will go see her very often!” Then she walked briskly into the kitchen. I followed mother home. Sang cried and asked to go with us. Aunt ran up to him and slapped him sharply on his buttocks. I burst into tears. I was very sad for him, but did not know what to do.
Grandmother was sent to the hospital. Uncle Ba came to our house to look after her. Some nights, mother did not sleep. There were dark circles under her eyes. Father, who was always away on some mission or the other, visited grandmother whenever he returned home. Many times grandmother twisted and turned, calling out uncle Ba’s name. Mother and uncle Ba spent many months beside my grandmother. One day aunt took Sang along when she visited her mother-in-law. Sang sobbed: “I miss you very much, Granny!” She nodded and stroked his hair. Aunt smiled derisively: “How miserable you are, Sister Hai! But it is nothing compared with what we endured for the last ten years and more.” Grandmother sat up slowly, and said angrily:“Aunt.” Then she was caught in a coughing fit. Mother was panic-stricken. She ran to grandmother and rubbed her chest. Uncle Ba frowned. Frightened, aunt pulled little Sang home. Sang ran back to hug his grandmother. Aunt went into the corridor and looked into the room from behind the door.
Grandmother twisted and turned for many nights, complaining she could not sleep. A month later, she passed away. She did not leave behind any will. She only held my mother’s hand. Though I was not close to her, I felt deeply the loss of a grandparent. The distance between life and death was so fragile and frightening. Mother looked emaciated. Uncle Ba and father hurried back and forth organising the funeral. Aunt rushed to the coffin and collapsed. I hated the pretence and did not want to look at her crying. People came home to offer their condolences. I was as sad as a stale noodle, but my eyes were dry. Midnight. The lights in my house were still on. Aunt was sitting in a corner of the house, wiping her tears with the tail of her mourning robe. Suddenly, I felt that I had been too severe and prejudiced against my aunt. I hoped that her tears would flow downstream, not upstream. Her remorse seemed to rise from deep within her heart. I wanted to comfort her, but was afraid. I went to the kitchen to pour some tea for her, and became lost in thoughts. The tea overflowed from the glass.
Translated by Huong Tu
96 Discussion questions 1) How is aunt Ba’s personality? Why does she become irascible? 2) What does “a son means an offspring, ten daughters mean no offspring” mean? 3) Why does “the I character” dislike aunt Ba at first and then she becomes fond of her? 4) Is “the I character’s mother a good daughter-in-law, which evidence can prove that? 5) Is there the great sympathy between a daughter-in-law and a mother-in-law? Task: Explain the meaning of this sentence “Too much forbearance sometimes changes the nature of human beings, making them selfish, like the drop of water that makes the cup overflow”. Is there typical woman of “diligent needle work, modest, proper speech and morality” in this modern time? Why? Why not?” (about 150 words)
97 Part II: VERSE A PRAYER IN SPRING By Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard, The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, And off a blossom in mid-air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love, To which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends he will, But which it only needs that we fulfill.
Discussion questions 1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? What is the main theme of this poem? 2) Have you ever read any other work by Robert Frost? If so, which one is your favorite? 3) What are some figures of speech in “A Prayer in Spring”? Did anything in particular move you about this poem? 4) Happiness seems to be of major theme in this poem. Is there a reason for this? Is nature something that should be enjoyed by the individual? 5) Quote your favorite line(s)/stanza of the poem. What is the main message of the last stanza?
98 SUCCESS IS COUNTED SWEETEST
By Emily Dickinson
SUCCESS is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break, agonized and clear.
Discussion questions 1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? What is the main theme of this poem? 2) Have you ever read any other work by Emily Dickinson? If so, which one is your favorite? 3) What are some figures of speech in “Success is counted sweetest”“ Did anything in particular move you about this poem? 4) Quote your favorite line(s)/stanza of the poem. 5) Is the main message of the poem related to “the value of life”?
99 BEFORE SLEEP By Catherine Anderson I was in love with anatomy the symmetry of my body poised for flight, the heights it would take over parents, lovers, a keen riding over truth and detail. I thought growing up would be this rising from everything old and earthly, not these faltering steps out the door every day, then back again.
Discussion questions 1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? What is the main theme of this poem? 2) What are some figures of speech in “Before sleep”? 3) Did anything in particular make you feel sad about this poem? 4) What is the real meaning of “sleep” here? 5) Is the main message of the poem related to “the value of life” and death?
LOVE AFTER LOVE
By Derek Walcott The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was yourself. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
100 all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.
Discussion questions 1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? What is the main theme of this poem? 2) What are some figures of speech in this poem? 3) Did anything in particular make you like this poem? 4) What is the real meaning of “peel your own image” here? 5) Is the main message of the poem related to “when this door is closed, there is another one will be opened” or we should give us a chance to live for yourself?
TO YOU By Walt Whitman STRANGER! if you, passing, meet me, and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?
Discussion questions 1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? 2) What is the main theme of this poem? 3) What are some figures of speech in this poem? 4) Is this poem strange? Why? 5) What is the real meaning of “STRANGER” here? 6) Is the main message of the poem related to “when this door is closed, there is another one will be opened” or We should give us a chance to live for yourself?
101 PETALS By Amy Lowell Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.
Discussion questions
1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? What is the main theme of this poem? 2) What are some figures of speech in this poem? 3) Is this poem amazing? Why? 4) What is the real meaning of “PETALS” here? 5) Which one is the main message of this poem? (“fame”, “love”, and the value of life or something else)?
102 DAFFODILS By William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed---and gazed---but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
103 Discussion questions
1) Did you enjoy this poem? Why or why not? What is the main theme of this poem? 2) Have you ever read any other work by Wordsworth? If so, which one is your favorite? 3) What are some figures of speech in “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud?” Did anything in particular move you about this poem? 4) Solitude seems to be of major importance in this poem. Is there a reason for this? Is nature something that should be enjoyed by the individual? 5) Quote your favorite line(s)/stanza of the poem. Why did the poet write “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”?How do you paraphrase each line of the poem?
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING By William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ‘tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:--- But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
104 The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
Discussion questions
1) Where was the poet sitting and what did he hear? Why did the poet become sad thought he was in a sweet mood? 2) What is the link between man’s soul and nature? Why does the poet become sad when he thinks about the activities of man? 3) What is the faith of the poet? What did the birds do? Why does the poet say that he cannot measure their thoughts? 4) How does the poet conclude that the birds were happy? What did the budding twigs do? 5) The expression, “what man has made of man “, is used twice in the poem. What does the poet want to convey through this?
105 Part III: FURTHER READING A. LEGENDARY
LOVE STORY OF MY CHAU AND TRONG THUY
After helping An DuongVuong - king of Au Lac nation - build Co Loa citadel, saint Kim Qui* offered him one of his claws to make a trigger of crossbow to protect the citadel from enemies. As the saint’s words this crossbow was magic one. Every arrow shot from the crossbow with magic trigger would hit a thousand of enemies at the same time.
The king chose Cao Lo, one of the mandarin’s household butlers, who was the most skillful crossbow maker in the country to be in charge of the heavy responsibility. However, this kind of weapon only suited to athletes to use. The king extremely treasured the crossbow so he hung it in his sleeping room. At that time, Trieu Da was the governor of a country adjoining Au Lac at the north. He had failed to occupy his neighboring nation for many times so he tried to guard his country by all means and waited for the right time. He then sent his son named Trong Thuy to Au Lac to seek a marriage alliance.
Trong Thuy then met My Chau, a dear daughter of An Duong Vuong. She was the most graceful lady of the country at that time. They were soon in love with each other and to be side by side to every where in the citadel. Witness the passionate love of the young couple, the king doubtlessly allowed Trong Thuy to take his dear daughter as a wife.
One night, when sitting in the garden in the moonlight, Trong Thuy asked his wife why there was no one who could defeat the country and if there was a secret. Honestly the innocent princess replied her husband that there was nothing but solid defence works in the citadel and a crossbow with a magic trigger which was kept in the king sleeping room. Trong Thuy was so surprise as if it had been the first time he heard that. The princess immediately took the crossbow out and showed it to the man. She also told him the way to use the crossbow.
One day later, Trong Thuy asked the king for permission to visit his father. He retold his father what he had known and they all agreed to find someone to make trigger reproduction. Finally Trong Thuy came back; he was offered a feast to celebrate the occasion of reunite. Trong Thuy drunk half-heartedly while An Duong Vuong and the princess so enjoyed the
106 feast that they both were drunk at the end. Catching the chance, Trong Thuy secretly broke into the king’s room and exchanged the magic trigger by a false one.
Once again Trong Thuy asked the king for permission for returning to his country for some days. The two then were loath to path with each other. Trong Thuy said to his beloved wife that he had to come back to depart a trip to the remove place in the North and it was hard to know when they could met again because of the troubled times. The poor wife released her husband that she had a fur coat so she would make marks on the way she went through with fur in order that he could find her. She then sobbed her heart out.
In a few days time Trieu Da rose troops to Au Lac. When hearing the news, An Duong Vuong didn’t take any precaution against. He waited until the enemy reached to the citadel and asked his butler to bring the crossbow to fight back. Unfortunately it wasn’t magic one. The citadel at last was occupied; An Duong Vuong had to evade with his dear daughter on a horse’s back. The princess remembered what she had told to her husband before they separated so she took the fur coat along with her and marked the way with fur.
King An Duong Vuong and his daughter were on the horse’s back for days, they had went through many rocky mountains and many bumpy paths and reach to the seashore while the enemy was tracing behind them. The king got down, turned his face to the sea and prayed saint Kim Qui with supplication. A whirlwind rose to replied the king’s words. After that the saint appeared and told him that the enemy was at his back. An Duong Vuong woke up to reality. He drew sword out and cut off his dear daughter’s head then jumped into the sea.
Trong Thuy at that time followed the marks to the seashore and found his wife lying dead on the grass with her unchangeable appearance. He burst out crying then buried her in the citadel and jumped into the well where his wife usually washed her hair. Nowadays, in Co Loa village, there were a temple of King An Duong Vuong and a well called Trong Thuy’s in front of the temple. It is said that when My Chau died, her blood leaked into the sea, oyster ate it then born precious pearl. If this kind of pearl was washed by water from Trong Thuy’s well, it would be much brighter.
* In Vietnamese folk literature Kim Qui was a saint with an appearance of a tortoise.
107 Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? Task: Give your own point of view about My Chau, is she stupid or innocent? Why? (write about 150 words)
THACH SANH - LY THONG
Long time ago there was a kind and old but childless couple. They had to cut wood in the forest for rice. God felt moved then sent his crown prince to them so the old woman was pregnant for years. After the husband died, she gave birth a son. The child was named Thach Sanh and became parentless some years later. He lived lonely in a shabby cottage under the old Banyan tree. He owned nothing except a hammer inherited from the father. When he was able to use the hammer, he was taught all kinds of kungfu and magic power by angles from heaven.
Once day there was an alcohol seller called Ly Thong passed by. He saw Thach Sanh carrying a heavy load of firewood. He knew there would be considerable benefits if he could persuade the young man to live under his roof. He did it. Thach Sanh was pleased and hoped that he would never be alone again.
At that time there was a man - eating ogress. No one could kill the evil so people had to make it a temple and offer it a man annually. Unfortunately, once day it was Ly Thong’s turn to come to the evil’s temple. He and his mother thought that the only way to keep his destiny is to ask his adopted brother for help. This evening when Thach Sanh came home he was offered a big meal then asked for nothing but just simply guarding the temple for a night. The kind fellow accepted.At mid-night when Thach Sanh was having half-closed eyes from sleepiness in the temple, the ogress appeared and was about to catch him with its sharp claws. Without huming and hawing he fought back bravely with the hammer handed down from his father and finally split the rival into parts and took its head and golden bow and arrows back. Hearing the voice of Thach Sanh in the front door Ly Thong and his mother were so afraid because they thought that it was only the soul of the victim coming back to
108 revenge. Thach Sanh got into the house and told them what had happened and once again he was told that the ogress he had killed was the king’s. The fellow was so frightened and was advised to return to the old cottage while Ly Thong brought the evil’s head to the court for award and was conferred as a duke.
The king at that time had a graceful and nubile princess, many neighboring princes who wanted to ask for her hand. Once day when walking in the royal garden, she was caught by a huge eagle. Luckily Thach Sanh saw the eagle when it was flying by the Banyan tree with the claws carrying a young lady so he shot the eagle a golden arrow and traced to it’s cave by the bloody mark on the surface.At this time Ly Thong was in the charge to find the princess, he didn’t know what to do but came to see Thach Sanh for another help. Thach Sanh was once again honestly told Ly Thong what he had done and then took him as well as his escorts to the eagle’s cave. He crept into the cave by a string, had a drastic fight with the evil eagle and finally saved the princess. He tightened her with the string and made a signal for the escorts to pulled the princess out of the den. After that the cave became darker and darker, he knew that its mouth was filled so he got deeper in the cave to find the exit. On the way to be out of the cave he saved the sea king’s son who was captured by the eagle long ago. He was invited to visit his palace in the sea and offered treasures before he came back to the land but he only suggested for a guitar and a small pot. Because of being defeated by Thach Sanh, souls of the ogress and the evil eagle were roaming and accidentally they met each other once day. They stole the king’s gold and hid it in their enemy’s cottage to accuse him of theft. Thach Sanh was thrown in jail for long.
Once day he began playing the guitar to kill sadness, actually melodies from the guitar resounded to the king’s palace, the princess who was so sad after being saved life by an unknown young man that she lived without smiling or saying began speaking and smiling happily. Thach Sanh after that was invited to the court. There he retold to all the court what had happened to him and how he had saved the princess’s life. Everything was made clear then. Thach Sanh was asked to judge lives of Ly Thong and his mother. However, they were freed to returned to their hometown for Thach Sanh’s kindness but they both were killed by thunderer on the way home and turned to Dor-beetles. The wedding of Thach Sanh and the princess was celebrated so magnificent that made all the princes of the neighboring countries who had failed for asking the princess’s hand. They rose army of 18 countries for war. Thach Sanh asked the king for going to the battle where he did not fight but play the guitar and made the enthusiasm of princes’ army damped by melodious sounds. They all put off
109 their amours and gave up. Thach Sanh offered all the princes and their army a meal but brought out a small pot of cooked rice only. They felt strange when they found that it was impossible for them to eat all the cooked rice in the small pot. The pot was filled again and again whenever cooked rice was taken out. After that they showed their deep gratitude to Thach Sanh and returned to their countries.
The king had no son so he ceded the throne to Thach Sanh.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about Thach Sanh, is he stupid or innocent? Why? (write about 150 words)
LEGEND OF SON TINH (MOUNTAIN SPIRIT) AND THUY TINH (SEA SPIRIT)
Once upon a time Emperor Hung Vuong the Eighteenth had a beautiful daughter, Princess Mi Nuong. Her beauty was so renowned that many suitors from foreign lands came to ask the Emperor for her hand. However, the Emperor did not believe that any one of them was good enough for his beautiful daughter. He wanted Mi Nuong to marry someone really distinguished and powerful. Her mother, the Empress was very much concerned for Mi Nuong’s future. The Empress looked at her daughter saying: “It is time you should get married, my darling. I hope your father will find a suitable man for you”.” The Princess could not hide her emotion and happiness; her beautiful eyes were blurred with tear. She said “Mother, thank you so much for your thoughtfulness. It is up to you and Father to decide for me. I understand that I have to get married and bear children like other women. I believe Father will choose a suitable person”.
One day, at the court there appeared two young men. One of them was Son Tinh, the Mountain Spirit, and the other one was Thuy Tinh, the Sea Spirit. Both of them were equally
110 handsome, distinguished, and powerful. The difference in character between the two men was that while Son Tinh was gentle and quiet, Thuy Tinh had a fiery temper. Son Tinh bowed his head and respectfully said to the Emperor: “My name is Son Tinh. My kingdom includes all mountains. I reign over all creatures living on the mountains. I own all the riches of the mountains including all the beautiful trees, plants, and flowers. I can summon lions and birds, I can make the mountains grow high to the sky. I want to marry the Princess and promise to bring her happiness and an eternal life”. Thuy Tinh stepped forward, bowed his head and said: “My name is Thuy Tinh. I am the Spirit of the Seas. I reign over all creatures living in the water. I own all coral, pearls, and treasures under the sea. I can raise the level of the sea as high as the mountain top. I can make rain and gather storms. If the Princess marries me, she will become the Queen of the Sea. The most wonderful undersea world and the most magnificent undersea palace will be hers”. The Emperor listened attentively to the suitors. He was reluctant in his choice because both suitors arrived at the same time and were equally handsome and powerful. Then he said to the suitors: “Tomorrow whoever brings the wedding gifts first, will have the hand of the Princess.” The suitors left the court and hurried back to their kingdoms in the hope of getting married with the Princess. Thuy Tinh had all his men collect the best pearls and jewelry, and the most exquisite sea food and delicious seaweed. Son Tinh rushed back to the mountain. He ordered his men to collect the best diamonds and the most precious stones they could find. He also selected the most delicious fruit and most fragrant flowers on earth for the Emperor and the Empress. The next morning, Son Tinh and a hundred attendants were the first who came to the court. He brought trays full of jewels and baskets full of mango, grapes, strawberries, roses, orchids, etc. The Emperor was delighted with all the gifts. He greed to let Son Tinh marry his daughter. Mi Nuong bid farewell to the Emperor and the Empress. Then she stepped into the palaquin and followed Son Tinh to his Kingdom on the mountain.
Alter Son Tinh and Mi Nuong had just left the court, Thuy Tinh came with his men carrying trays of jewels, pearls, and baskets full of sea food. Thuy Tinh was so angry when he heard Mi Nuong had gone with Son Tinh just minutes before. He immediately ordered his men to pursue Son Tinh and to take Mi Nuong away. Thuy Tinh yelled at his men and flourished his magic sword. Then the creatures in the sea turned into thousands of soldiers. Heavy rains began to fall. Gusty winds began to blow. The water level rose higher and higher. The high waves and the flood washed down thousands of trees and houses. Son Tinh had his own magic wand, too. He turned the animals on the mountain into thousands of soldiers to fight back. He turned the mountain higher as the water rose. The war between Son Tinh and Thuy
111 Tinh lasted for days. No one won the war. Many lives were lost. Finally, Thuy Tinh and his men ceased and withdrew to the sea. However, Thuy Tinh could not give up the idea of taking the Princess back for himself. So, every year Thuy Tinh raises the water and gathers storms up to the mountain top where Son Tinh and Mi Nuong are living. However, he never wins the war. Every year, when the war between the two spirits breaks out, people and animals suffer, crops and properties are destroyed.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about Thuy Tinh, is he cruel and heartless? Why? (write about 150 words)
THE STORY OF TAM AND CAM
Long, long ago there was a man who lost his wife and lived with his little girl named Tam. Then he married again a wicked woman. The little girl found this out on the first day after the wedding. There was a big banquet in the house, but Tam was shut up in a room all by herself instead of being allowed to welcome the guests and attend the feast. Moreover, she had to go to bed without any supper. Things grew worse when a new baby girl was born in the house. The step-mother adored Cam--for Cam was the name of the baby girl--and she told her husband so many lies about poor Tam that he would not have anything more to do with the latter. “Go and stay away in the kitchen and take care of yourself, you naughty child,” said the wicked woman to Tam. And she gave the little girl a dirty wretched place in the kitchen, and it was there that Tam was to live and work. At night, she was given a torn mat and a ragged sheet as bed and coverlet. She had to rub the floors, cut the wood, feed the animals, do all the cooking, the washing up and many other things. Her poor little soft hands had large blisters, but she bore the pain without complaint. Her step-mother also sent her to deep forests to gather wood with the secret hope that the wild beasts might carry her off. She asked Tam to draw water from
112 dangerously deep wells so that she might get drowned one day. The poor little Tam worked and worked all day till her skin became swarthy and her hair entangled. But Sometimes she went to the well to draw water, looked at herself in it, and was frightened to realize how dark and ugly she was. She then got some water in the hollow of her hand, washed her face and combed her long smooth hair with her fingers, and the soft white skin appeared again, and she looked very pretty indeed.
When the step-mother realized how pretty Tam could look, she hated her more than ever, and wished to do her more harm. One day, she asked Tam and her own daughter Cam to go fishing in the village pond. “Try to get as many as you can,” she said. “If you come back with only a few of them, you will get flogged and will be sent to bed without supper.” Tam knew that these words were meant for her because the step-mother would never beat Cam, who was the apple of her eyes, while she always flogged Tam as hard as she could. Tam tried to fish hard and by the end of the day, got a basket full of fish. In the meantime, Cam spent her time rolling herself in the tender grass, basking in the warm sunshine, picking up wild flowers, dancing and singing.The sun set before Cam had even started her fishing. She looked at her empty basket and had a bright idea. “Sister, sister,” she said to Tam, “your hair is full of mud. Why don’t you step into the fresh water and get a good wash to get rid of it? Otherwise mother is going to scold you.”Tam listened to the advice, and had a good wash. But, in the meantime, Cam poured her sister’s fish into her own basket and went home as quickly as she could. When Tam realized that her fish were stolen away, her heart sank and she began to cry bitterly. Certainly, her step-mother would punish her severely tonight!
Suddenly, a fresh and balmy wind blew, the sky looked purer and the clouds whiter and in front of her stood the smiling blue-robed Goddess of Mercy, carrying a lovely green willow branch with her. “What is the matter, dear child?” asked the Goddess in a sweet voice. Tam gave her an account of her misfortune and added: “Most Noble Lady, what am I to do tonight when I go home? I am frightened to death, for my step-mother will not believe me, and will flog me very, very hard.” The Goddess of Mercy consoled her. “Your misfortune will be over soon. Have confidence in me and cheer up. Now, look at your basket to see whether there is anything left there.” Tam looked and saw a lovely small fish with red fins and golden eyes, and uttered a little cry of surprise. The Goddess told her to take the fish home, put it in the well at the back of the house, and feed it three times a day with what she could save from her own food.
113 Tam thanked the Goddess most gratefully and did exactly as she was told. Whenever she went to the well, the fish would appear on the surface to greet her. But should anyone else come, the fish would never show itself. Tam’s strange behavior was noticed by her step- mother who spied on her, and went to the well to look for the fish which hid itself in the deep water. She decided to ask Tam to go to a faraway spring to fetch some water, and taking advantage of the absence, she put on the latter’s ragged clothes, went to call the fish, killed it and cooked it.
When Tam came back, she went to the well, called and called, but there was no fish to be seen except the surface of the water stained with blood. She leaned her head against the well and wept in the most miserable way. The Goddess of Mercy appeared again, with a face as sweet as a loving mother, and comforted her: “Do not cry, my child. Your step-mother has killed the fish, but you must try to find its bones and bury them in the ground under your mat. Whatever you may wish to possess, pray to them, and your wish will be granted.” Tam followed the advice and looked for the fish bones everywhere but could find none. “Cluck! cluck!” said a hen, “Give me some paddy and I will show you the bones. Tam gave her a handful of paddy and the hen said, “Cluck! cluck! Follow me and I will take you to the place.” When they came to the poultry yard, the hen scratched a heap of young leaves, uncovered the fish bones which Tam gladly gathered and buried accordingly. It was not long before she got gold and jewelry and dresses of such wonderful materials that they would have rejoiced the heart of any young girl. When the Autumn Festival came, Tam was told to stay home and sort out the two big baskets of black and green beans that her wicked step-mother had mixed up. “Try to get the work done,” she was told, “before you can go to attend the Festival.” Then the step-mother and Cam put on their most beautiful dresses and went out by themselves. After they had gone a long way Tam lifted her tearful face and prayed: “O, benevolent Goddess of Mercy, please help me.” At once, the soft-eyed Goddess appeared and with her magic green willow branch, turned little flies into sparrows which sorted the beans out for the young girl. In a short time, the work was done. Tam dried up her tears, arrayed herself in a glittering blue and silver dress. She now looked as beautiful as a princess, and went to the Festival.
Cam was very surprised to see her, and whispered to her mother: “Is that rich lady not strangely like my sister Tam?” When Tam realized that her step-mother and Cam were
114 staring curiously at her, she ran away, but in such a hurry that she dropped one of her fine slippers which the soldiers picked up and took to the King.
The King examined it carefully and declared he had never seen such a work of art before. He made the ladies of the palace try it on, but the slipper was too small even for those who had the smallest feet. Then he ordered all the noblewomen of the kingdom to try it, but the slipper would fit none of them. In the end, word was sent that the woman who could wear the slipper would become Queen, that is, the King’s First Wife.
Finally, Tam had a try and the slipper fitted her perfectly. She then wore both slippers, and appeared in her glittering blue and silver dress, looking extremely beautiful. She was then taken to Court with a big escort, became Queen and had an unbelievably brilliant and happy life. The step-mother and Cam could not bear to see her happy and would have killed her most willingly, but they were too afraid of the King to do so. One day, at her father’s anniversary, Tam went home to celebrate it with her family. At the time, it was the custom that, however great and important one might be, one was always expected by one’s parents to behave exactly like a young and obedient child. The cunning step-mother had this in her mind and asked Tam to climb an areca tree to get some nuts for the guests. As Tam was now Queen, she could of course refuse, but she was a very pious and dutiful daughter, and was only glad to help. But while she was up on the tree, she felt that it was swaying to and fro in the strangest and most alarming manner. “What are you doing?” She asked her step-mother. “I am only trying to scare away the ants which might bite you, my dear child,” was the reply. But in fact, the wicked step-mother was holding a sickle and cutting the tree which fell down in a crash, killing the poor Queen at once. “Now we are rid of her,” said the woman with a hateful and ugly laugh, “and she will never come back again. We shall report to the King that she has died in an accident and my beloved daughter Cam will become Queen in her stead!”
Things happened exactly the way she had planned, and Cam became now the King’s first wife. But Tam’s pure and innocent soul could not find any rest. It was turned into the shape of a nightingale which dwelt in the King’s garden and sang sweet and melodious songs. One day, one of the maids-of-honor in the Palace exposed the dragon-embroidered gown of the King to the sun, and the nightingale sang in her own gentle way: “0, sweet maid-of- honor, be careful with my Imperial Husband’s gown and do not tear it by putting it on a
115 thorny hedge.” She then sang on so sadly that tears came into the King’s eyes. The nightingale sang more sweetly still and moved the hearts of all who heard her.
At last, the King said: “Most delightful nightingale, if you were the soul of my beloved Queen, be pleased to settle in my wide sleeves.” Then the gentle bird went straight into the King’s sleeves and rubbed her smooth head against the King’s hand. The bird was now put in a golden cage near the King’s bedroom. The King was so fond of her that he would stay all day long near the cage, listening to her melancholy and beautiful songs. As she sang her melodies to him, his eyes became wet with tears, and she sang more charmingly than ever. Cam became jealous of the bird, and sought her mother’s advice about it. One day, while the King was holding a council with his ministers, Cam killed the nightingale, cooked it and threw the feathers in the Imperial Garden. “What is the meaning of this?” said the King when he came back to the Palace and saw the empty cage. There was great confusion and everybody looked for the nightingale but could not find it. “Perhaps she was bored and has flown away to the woods,” said Cam. The King was very sad but there was nothing he could do about it, and resigned himself to his fate. But once more, Tam’s restless soul was transformed into big, magnificent tree, which only bore a single fruit, but what a fruit! It was round, big and golden and had a very sweet smell.
An old woman passing by the tree and seeing the beautiful fruit, said: “Golden fruit, golden fruit, drop into the bag of this old woman. This one will keep you and enjoy your smell, but will never eat you.” The fruit at once dropped into the old woman’s bag. She brought it home, put it on the table to enjoy its sweet-scented smell. But the next day, to her great surprise, she found her house clean and tidy, and a delicious hot meal waiting for her when she came back from her errands as though some magic hand had done all this during her absence.
She then pretended to go out the following morning, but stealthily came back, hid herself behind the door and observed the house. She beheld a fair and slender lady coming out of the golden fruit and starting to tidy the house. She rushed in, tore the fruit peel up so that the fair lady could no longer hide herself in it. The young lady could not help but stay there and consider the old woman her own mother.
116 One day the King went on a hunting party and lost his way. The evening drew on, the clouds gathered and it was pitch dark when he saw the old woman’s house and went in it for shelter. According to custom, the latter offered him some tea and betel. The King examined the delicate way the betel was prepared and asked: “Who is the person who made this betel, which looks exactly like the one prepared by my late beloved Queen?” The old woman said in a trembling voice: “Son of Heaven, it is only my unworthy daughter.”
The King then ordered the daughter to be brought to him and when she came and bowed to him, he realized, like in a dream, that it was Tam, his deeply regretted Queen Both of them wept after such a separation and so much unhappiness. The Queen was then taken back to the Imperial City, where she took her former rank, while Cam was completely neglected by the King. Cam then thought: “If I were as beautiful as my sister, I would win the King’s heart.” She asked the Queen: “Dearest Sister, how could I become as white as you?” “It is very easy,” answered the Queen. “You have only to jump into a big basin of boiling water to get beautifully white.” Cam believed her and did as suggested. Naturally she died without being able to utter a word! When the step-mother heard about this she wept until she became blind. Soon, she died of a broken heart. The Queen survived both of them, and lived happily ever after, for she certainly deserved it.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about Tam, is she kind or unkind? Why? (write about 150 words)
117 CINDERELLA
Once upon a time there lived an unhappy young girl. Her mother was dead and her father had married a widow with two daughters. Her stepmother didn’t like her one little bit. All her kind thoughts and loving touches were for her own daughters. Nothing was too good for them - dresses, shoes, delicious food, soft beds, and every home comfort. But, for the poor unhappy girl, there was nothing at all. No dresses, only her stepsisters’ hand-me-downs. No lovely dishes, nothing but scraps. No rest and no comfort. She had to work hard all day. Only when evening came was she allowed to sit for a while by the fire, near the cinders. That’s why everybody called her Cinderella. Cinderella used to spend long hours all alone talking to the cat. The cat said, “Miaow”, which really meant, “Cheer up! You have something neither of your stepsisters has and that is beauty.” It was quite true. Cinderella, even dressed in old rags, was a lovely girl. While her stepsisters, no matter how splendid and elegant their clothes, were still clumsy, lumpy and ugly and always would be.
One day, beautiful new dresses arrived at the house. A ball was to be held at the palace and the stepsisters were getting ready to go. Cinderella didn’t even dare ask if she could go too. She knew very well what the answer would be: “You? You’re staying at home to wash the dishes, scrub the floors and turn down the beds for your stepsisters.” They will come home tired and very sleepy. Cinderella sighed, “Oh dear, I’m so unhappy!” and the cat murmured “Miaow.” Suddenly something amazing happened. As Cinderella was sitting all alone, there was a burst of light and a fairy appeared. “Don’t be alarmed, Cinderella,” said the fairy. “I know you would love to go to the ball. And so you shall!”“How can I, dressed in rags?” Cinderella replied. “The servants will turn me away!”
The fairy smiled. With a flick of her magic wand Cinderella found herself wearing the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. “Now for your coach,” said the fairy; “A real lady would never go to a ball on foot! Quick! Get me a pumpkin!”“Oh of course,” said Cinderella, rushing away. Then the fairy turned to the cat. “You, bring me seven mice, and, remember they must be alive!”
Cinderella soon returned with the pumpkin and the cat with seven mice he had caught in the cellar. With a flick of the magic wand the pumpkin turned into a sparkling coach and the mice became six white horses, while the seventh mouse turned into a coachman in a smart
118 uniform and carrying a whip. Cinderella could hardly believe her eyes.“You shall go to the ball Cinderella. But remember! You must leave at midnight. That is when my spell ends. Your coach will turn back into a pumpkin and the horses will become mice again. You will be dressed in rags and wearing clogs instead of these glass slippers! Do you understand?” Cinderella smiled and said, “Yes, I understand!”
Cinderella had a wonderful time at the ball until she heard the first stroke of midnight! She remembered what the fairy had said, and without a word of goodbye she slipped from the Prince’s arms and ran down the steps. As she ran she lost one of her slippers, but not for a moment did she dream of stopping to pick it up! If the last stroke of midnight were to sound... oh... what a disaster that would be! Out she fled and vanished into the night.
The Prince, who was now madly in love with her, picked up the slipper and said to his ministers, “Go and search everywhere for the girl whose foot this slipper fits. I will never be content until I find her!” So the ministers tried the slipper on the foot of every girl in the land until only Cinderella was left. “That awful untidy girl simply cannot have been at the ball,” snapped the stepmother. “Tell the Prince he ought to marry one of my two daughters! Can’t you see how ugly Cinderella is?” But, to everyone’s amazement, the shoe fitted perfectly. Suddenly the fairy appeared and waved her magic wand. In a flash, Cinderella appeared in a splendid dress, shining with youth and beauty. Her stepmother and stepsisters gaped at her in amazement, and the ministers said, “Come with us Cinderella! The Prince is waiting for you.” So Cinderella married the Prince and lived happily ever. As for the cat, he just said “Miaow!”
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about Cinderella, is she innocent or stupid? Why? (write about 150 words)
119 B. ALLEGORY THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER
In a field one summer’s day a Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart’s content. An Ant walked by, grunting as he carried a plump kernel of corn. “Where are you off to with that heavy thing?” asked the Grasshopper.
Without stopping, the Ant replied, “To our ant hill. This is the third kernel I’ve delivered today.”“Why not come and sing with me,” said the Grasshopper, “instead of working so hard?”“I am helping to store food for the winter,” said the Ant, “and think you should do the same.” “Why bother about winter?” said the Grasshopper; “we have plenty of food right now.” But the Ant went on its way and continued its work. The weather soon turned cold. All the food lying in the field was covered with a thick white blanket of snow that even the grasshopper could not dig through. Soon the Grasshopper found itself dying of hunger.
He staggered to the ants’ hill and saw them handing out corn from the stores they had collected in the summer.
Then the Grasshopper knew: It is best to prepare for the days of necessity.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is another main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the grasshopper, is he lazy or studious? Why? (write about 80 words)
THE DOG AND THE SHADOW
It happened that a Dog had got a piece of meat and was carrying it home in his mouth to eat it in peace. Now on his way home he had to cross a plank lying across a running brook. As he crossed, he looked down and saw his own shadow reflected in the water beneath.
120 Thinking it was another dog with another piece of meat, he made up his mind to have that also. So he made a snap at the shadow in the water, but as he opened his mouth the piece of meat fell out, dropped into the water and was never seen more.
“Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.”
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is another main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the dog, is he greedy and stupid? Why? (write about 50 words)
THE MISER AND HIS GOLD
Once upon a time there was a Miser who used to hide his gold at the foot of a tree in his garden; but every week he used to go and dig it up and gloat over his gains. A robber, who had noticed this, went and dug up the gold and decamped with it. When the Miser next came to gloat over his treasures, he found nothing but the empty hole. He tore his hair, and raised such an outcry that all the neighbours came around him, and he told them how he used to come and visit his gold. “Did you ever take any of it out?” asked one of them. “Nay,” said he, “I only came to look at it.” “Then come again and look at the hole,” said a neighbour; “it will do you just as much good.” Wealth unused might as well not exist. Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is another main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the miser, is he stupid? Why? (write about 100 words)
121 THE FOX AND THE STORK
At one time the Fox and the Stork were on visiting terms and seemed very good friends. So the Fox invited the Stork to dinner, and for a joke put nothing before her but some soup in a very shallow dish. This the Fox could easily lap up, but the Stork could only wet the end of her long bill in it, and left the meal as hungry as when she began. “I am sorry,” said the Fox, “the soup is not to your liking.” “Pray do not apologize,” said the Stork. “I hope you will return this visit, and come and dine with me soon.” So a day was appointed when the Fox should visit the Stork; but when they were seated at table all that was for their dinner was contained in a very long-necked jar with a narrow mouth, in which the Fox could not insert his snout, so all he could manage to do was to lick the outside of the jar. “I will not apologize for the dinner,” said the Stork: “One bad turn deserves another.”
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is another main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the stork, is she irascible? Why? (write about 80 words)
THE WOLF AND THE LAMB
A Wolf found great difficulty in getting at the sheep owing to the vigilance of the shepherd and his dogs. But one day it found the skin of a sheep that had been flayed and thrown aside, so it put it on over its own pelt and strolled down among the sheep. The Lamb that belonged to the sheep, whose skin the Wolf was wearing, began to follow the Wolf in the Sheep’s clothing; so, leading the Lamb a little apart, he soon made a meal off her, and for some time he succeeded in deceiving the sheep, and enjoying hearty meals. Appearances are deceptive
122 Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is another main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the wolf, is he intelligent? Why? (write about 80 words)
123 C. MORDEN STORIES
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI by O. Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are.
124 Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: “Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della. “I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”
125 Down rippled the brown cascade. “Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value-- the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically. “If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?”
At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.” The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
126 Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Della wriggled off the table and went for him. “Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again--you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say “Merry Christmas!” Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?” Jim looked about the room curiously. “You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy. “You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?” Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year-- what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.” White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and
127 yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!” And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!” Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? Task: Give your own point of view about the story’s meaning. (about 150 words)
128 TEARDROP LEAVES
By Que Huong Through my adolescent years, I had become addicted to the flavour of Tet that spread from Chi Thoi’s kitchen. It was deeply embedded in my heart and surfaced with intense passion with the onset of spring.
When the coldest day of the year had gone past, the rain had been reduced to the merest drizzle, the chill in the air lost its bite, when small buds sprouted on Uncle Tam’s golden apricot tree, Chi Thoi began preparing for Tet. From this side of the tea-tree fence separating our houses, I watched as she bustled about, busy as a bee, frequently returning home with heavy baskets. Mother muttered: “What a good girl! If only Tam....” - she stopped short, looking at Uncle Tam who sat listless, warming himself in the sunlight. She shook her head. “Will it be a great sunny day tomorrow, Mr. Tam?” - Chi Thoi addressed him over the fence. Uncle Tam looked at the sky and hummed: “If it rains, I don’t care. When I dry my vegetables for pickling, the rain should stay clear of me!” She smiled and got down to making the pickled vegetables. I almost did not have the heart to eat it when I saw her carving out the papaya so carefully. Leaves, a pine tree, peach blossoms, a pomegranate - exquisite figurines carved out of carrots or kohlrabis.
One year, when uncle Tam gave a wrong weather forecast, Chi Thoi dried the vegetables on a gloomy day, and it turned stale. Her distress was so evident that Uncle Tam sat up until midnight fanning live coals for her to dry the vegetables. The pickled vegetable that year was not as white as she wished, and she called it the “ailing” pickled vegetable.
For me, Tet was not a three-day festival. It was a prolonged affair that included the days of making and eating the sweets made by Chi Thoi. I rushed to her house as soon as I returned from school. Invariably, she was sitting in the kitchen, peeling tamarind, kumquat and ginger, and simmering them in sugar, her hair tousled and body smelling of preserved fruit. After finishing my homework, I went again to watch over her sweets and wait for the scrapings. No other jam could be tastier. Their essence seemed to be concentrated in sugar lumps and crumbs at the bottom of the pot - slices of coconut, pungent ginger, crispy sweet potato, soft lotus seeds.... Sometimes, I dozed off on her shoulders while waiting. Even in sleep, I felt the warmth and sweet fragrance envelop me on late winter nights.
129 Uncle Tam was broken-hearted when Ha, his sweetheart, suddenly got married. He often mumbled some verses or sat silent as the grave. But it was not advisable to get him to talk about it. He would go on and on about the story and his memories. And the only person patient enough to listen to the love story for a thousand times was Thoi. Chi Thoi was the eldest of three daughters. She was not very beautiful, but her hair was more beautiful than anything seen on girls advertising shampoos. I liked to see her in a silk blouse with her hair tied with a black velvet ribbon. It was said that in her school days, so many young men were willing to die for the silky hair, and it was a puzzle that she remained single until today. That hair had always been washed with soap berries. When she stood drying her hair, the fragrance of grapefruit flowers spread all over the area and enchanted everybody. I watched her drying her hair through the fence. Even uncle Tam watched it, but when I asked him if it was beautiful, he would talk about other people’s hair. Then, for no reason, Chi Thoi cut short that beautiful hair, the most beautiful hair in all of Hue. I felt sad. I picked up the black velvet ribbon she had thrown away and hid it in a dictionary. That Tet, I could not doze off on the silky, sweet scented tresses. That year, her jam crumbs were burnt and bitter.
Mother asked Chi Thoi to pray for Uncle Tam at the Linh Mu Pagoda as his condition worsened. He walked up and down Le Loi Road hoping to see Ms. Ha, although she had followed her husband to a far away land. Not all the couples in Hue chose Linh Mu Pagoda to witness their oaths as they were afraid of the goddess in red who could get jealous and deliver unhappiness. Yet, uncle Tam and Ms. Ha had studied for exams in the pagoda... In the end, it was not the goddess who helped his recovery, but Ms. Ha herself. I could not recognize her. She was fat, decked with jewels and made up heavily. She looked pityingly at uncle Tam, emaciated, mumbling verses he’d composed for her. Looking at her, he shuddered as it struck him that he was pining for such a woman. That afternoon, all those verses written in violet ink were thrown away. I felt sorry, so I ran to pick them up and give them to Chi Thoi. She sat down and read them very slowly in the twilight.
Chi Thoi’s two twin sisters were ten years younger than her. They were my classmates. They were so different from each other, like water and fire. But they looked like two drops of water, so beautiful and were household even as little girls in kindergarten. They won a lot of prizes in contests for healthy and good-looking children. To make identification easier, one of them always wore yellow skirts and the other wore blue ones. Soon, they came to be known as the Yellow and the Blue. The despicable Yellow sat next to me. When I unintentionally touched her multi-fold skirts that spread out like a sunflower, she would
130 pinch me. If I showed her something, she would seize it immediately. If I threatened her with a fist, she would cry out and lie down in protest. The Blue was a little gentler, even though she had that same doll-face as Yellow. She and I usually played the cooking game or the husband-wife game together. As soon as the imaginary rice cooked in a tiny pot was scooped out and served in bowls made of breadfruit leaves, the Yellow broke the pot with a stone. The kite I had spent a whole week making was trampled beneath her feet before it had a chance to enjoy flying in the blue sky. I took her shirt, asking for compensation, and she pulled at my hair, yelling. I called Uncle Tam for help. She called Chi Thoi. In the end, we both received a lashing.
As I grew up, Chi Thoi made less and less sweetmeats for Tet. Now cakes in cases, sweets in cases, jams made by machines, cheaper and attractively packed, were to be found in great quantity. It took only an hour in the market to get them, so nobody wanted to spend the whole of ten long days on making the sweetmeats like Chi Thoi. And if she did it, not anybody wanted to eat them. The days people spent Tet eating home-made and traditional dishes were over. The trend now was to eat more food. Everywhere one went, one could see pork pies, fermented pork rolls, cold meat. Returning from a distant school, I rushed into Chi Thoi’s kitchen. The Kitchen God had gone to heaven for a few days, yet the kitchen remained cold. She told me that she was not allowed to make the sweetmeats any more.
Friends of the Yellow and the Blue sampled only chocolates and cashew nuts when they came to wish the family a happy new year. Father’s friends tasted the cold food with wine. The jam could not be sold, so it was distributed among children in the hamlet. Without the fragrance of Chi Thoi’s kitchen, the flavour of Tet turned insipid. I went to the Tet market with my girlfriend. She did not know how to make the sweets, and had no desire to learn. She only wanted to wear chic clothes and roam the streets, looking through the shops selling Tet treats, sampling and buying some. As a little boy, I’d told Chi Thoi that I would only marry someone who was able to make sweetmeats as good as her. When I returned home the next year, her kitchen was busy for Tet again. The preserved tamarinds and kumquats looked as delicious as ever, as did the sugar coated lotus seeds. The fragrance of sweetmeats pervaded the place, and Chi Thoi’s clothes again smelt of jam and was warm with the heat of the fire, her cheeks were rosy, her hair tousled.... She explained that this year there were some visitors from afar. The Blue had married abroad, and taken home a Viet Kieu (overseas Vietnamese) to be introduced to the Yellow. On the other hand, there were uncle Tam and me, she said, looking at me and then at the door in expectation.
131 Having awakened from his love dream, uncle Tam took his graduate diploma from the teacher’s training college and volunteered to work in the U Minh forest land - the southernmost tip of the country. He’d promised to go home for this Tet.
The Blue came in just as Chi Thoi had just finished making a mixed jam with kumquat, ginger, orange. She rushed into the kitchen and kissed Chi Thoi time and again, saying: “I missed your kitchen the most!” She turned and gave me a smacking kiss. She remained as beautiful as in the old days.
The Yellow was so disappointed as the Viet Kieu was an elderly man, but the Blue said that he was only about five years older than her husband. He’d left for foreign lands in search of a better life, and was now returning to his native land because he missed it very much. The Yellow was not to this man’s taste. It made no impression when she tried to wear fashionable clothes that revealed the curves of her young body. Her figure, that had once charmed so many judges in beauty contests, failed to catch the eye of the man she was hunting. He liked to roam about in search of places he remembered and preferred to make up for lost time rather than go dancing with her. Chi Thoi’s family invited him to a ‘Royal’ dinner at the Huong Giang hotel, but he said if he would like to enjoy a dinner of the common people. So the main course was goby fish boiled with soy paste, typical of Hue, with sweet potato pudding as dessert.
The dinner produced satisfactory results. The guest enjoyed the food immensely, praising it repeatedly. He then took great delight in drinking green tea flavoured with ginger. Finally, he said that it had been twenty long years since he enjoyed a meal so rich in the home country’s flavour and taste.
Until the 28th of the last lunar month, Uncle Tam had not returned home. I had to sit up late and keep an eye on the pot of rice dumplings. Chi Thoi’s family was also cooking the same thing. The two fires were placed near each other on either side of the fence. The apricot tree was in full bloom. Chi Thoi told me that when she was a little girl, she often climbed up the apricot tree to see the flowers more closely. She seemed to see uncle Tam, but I saw the shadow of a person standing against the apricot tree. It was a girl. My heart clenched with a sudden presentiment. I turned to look at her, trying to record the look of happiness that suddenly shone brightly on her face before it died out.
132 Chi Thoi’s sweets were in top form this year. She’d put a spell on them that had the Viet Kieu moping about in the Yellow’s house. The Yellow boasted that he was about to bite the bait thinking that the sweets were made by her. He kept repeating that the food her family cooked was rich in the flavour of the homeland. “If I get married to him, I will have to take Chi Thoi along, I am afraid,” the Yellow told me, smiling. “But when he finds out that you do not know anything about cooking, what will you do?” I asked. “Oh, it’s as easy as shelling peas. When I go over there and he finds me unsuitable, I’ll get divorced. There are a lot of people. It will hurt nobody.” Looking at her red-coloured lips, I wondered how she could be Chi Thoi’s sister.
The Viet Kieu duly proposed, but to Chi Thoi, not the Yellow. Her mother was dumbfounded. The Yellow was venomous: “If he does not like the fashionable world, let him marry her and go back to the 19th century. I’ll get married to a man from Hong Kong.” She threw a dirty look at the Viet Kieu and then sped on her motorcycle out of the gate, putting an end to the role of a decent girl. I was not surprised. I did not believe that a man who still respected and lived with sweet memories and the past like the Viet Kieu could choose the Yellow as his bride. But there was yet another bombshell to be dropped. Chi Thoi rejected his proposal. Despite her rather plain looks and age, she refused a man who could take her abroad without any regret. Disregarding the advice of her parents and the Blue, and even Uncle Tam, she sat in silence, looking out over the tea trees to where Uncle Tam used to walk listlessly, mumbling: “Nobody thinks that naive love could be so profound.
Time goes by, but love stays. Despite the hair turning white like a large bulbul field.” The golden sun had just set, and Uncle Tam discussed his marriage. His girl was also a teacher. She was an orphan, so the wedding should be a simple, short affair. Then they would leave and make their living in another land. He said the people there were warm, simple and easy to live with. He had found peace there. For the simple wedding ceremony, he relied on his sister-in-law (my mother) and his close, childhood friend. Chi Thoi began preparing for the wedding. I kept stealing glances at her, but she was silent. As the wedding day approached, she was bustling about as if it were her wedding. The light in the kitchen burnt until mid-night as she sat up to make the cakes for the wedding. As I watched, I suddenly got angry with her: - Don’t care about them. Go to sleep. - When you get married, I’ll sit up the whole night. “I don’t want your help. Why do they want to put more work on your shoulders when you already work so hard? - Just to keep my head free of thoughts, you know.
133 She smiled aimlessly, and then got down to business. Knowing there was nothing I could say, I sat down to help her and finish the work sooner. She worked as carefully with the preserved vegetables as in the past. I suddenly noticed that the leaves carved out of papaya were shaped like teardrops, and looked as though they were jade. And the carrot flowers turned into blood-red drops. Chi Thoi was crying. 1. Chi stands for elder sister in Vietnamese. Translated by Manh Chuong Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about “chi Thoi”, is she miserable? Why? (write about 150 words)
ENCHANTING MOMENT
By Cao Tien Le
I was startled when I heard the name of Kim Oanh announced as one of the artists performing today. It had been quite a long time, about 15 years or so, since I’d met her last. But I had frequently seen and heard her sing on television, in particular in performances during national holidays. She seemed to be leading a happy life, having a great time with name and fame.
And I, I was like an insect, an ant or a bee which has to face up to a biting winter no sooner than it comes out of a burning summer. I am a cadre in an office whose leaders are regarded as a source of strategic strength for the Party and the State. These leaders are used to opening their arms wide to talk with the world and with the Party Central Committee, but they seem not even to worry about a shortage of electric lighting, and all year round residents have to carry water from the public taps. These hardships are but a trifling matter for these leaders, and never do they mind it. So I have to bend my back double to support my small family, and can afford no time to visit her. On the other hand, if I do meet her, I am sure to have nothing to talk about. Also, I am of the view that my time is better spent to support the weak, not the
134 strong. I do come to the aid of friends in difficulties and have always tried to find ways to help in any small way that I can, but I would never approach those enjoying good fortune in the hope of receiving some assistance.
Of course, Kim Oanh and I have never talked of anything, or harboured any attitude, however momentary, intentional or otherwise, that could offend each other.
I remember meeting her when she’d just left the music school. As I looked with admiration at the epaulets on her jacket lapels that ranked her as a junior lieutenant, she surprised me by confiding that she had a new man in her life. After graduating from the Polytechnic University, her sweetheart found a job immediately as an engineer in the army, yet his talent drew him to literature and art. His poems, prose and even music made the Truong Son Range much greener at a time when the area was being subjected to relentless firing from the air. And her singing voice was like an expansive carpet of happiness that invited encouraged listeners audience to step on it, or encouraging them to up the hills and down the valleys, weathering all storms, treating death as lightly as a feather, and marching joyously to the battlefront. But the roots of love do not stem from individual success. They were mistaken. Before they had enough time with each other to have a child, they were preparing to bid each other farewell, not able to see beyond their respective egos. Both of them expected to take the other for granted, a part of his or her body, an object that he or she owned that, once placed in the drawer, should lie motionless and intact until it was picked up again, no matter how much time it took.
After the divorce, Kim Oanh told me: “I feel a sense of relief, you know. As if I have just escaped danger. Fortunately, I am still young. There is nothing to tie us together.” She sang a little bit, smiling, and walked away as if everything in the world was beautiful, like a song. Two years later, her voice had become perfect. It could be heard often on radio and television and in live music program. It was as though she could, if she wished, stir up a storm in the hearts of the audience, not just in her own and neighbouring countries, but also further afield. They called her the harbinger of peace, of love and of happiness. When we met at this stage in her life, she said: “I don’t need a man with talent or of great intellect anymore. I’ll marry a very normal man.” I sighed, but remained silent. I might be a close friend, but it is difficult to offer any advice, particularly to those who are great and famous, and who are more used to giving orders than to listening. She did it. Married a musician, a very normal man who knew his place was in the sidelines and was comfortable with having a very talented wife. She
135 married a man with whom there was no need to quarrel about anything. He was a soldier obeying his commander’s orders. Now she could perform at will, and was free to travel to her heart’s content. On her numerous trips abroad, she brought home both spiritual and material wealth. He built a three-storied house, constantly changing its interiors to suit current trends.
However, family happiness cannot be created or confined within walls of modern homes. A larger house can allow stronger winds to blow through and create greater distances between friends. As the days, nights, weeks and months passed, he tried to escape from his loneliness by turning to alcohol and cigarettes, and going out with an assortment of friends to one bar and restaurant after the other. It did not really work, and his drinking increased steadily. Soon, he was not only addicted to alcohol and cigarettes, but also to the hands massaged him and provided other services as well. Many times, he’d had his arms around a bevy of women as he watched his wife singing on television. And she’d forgotten that she had a husband in the true sense of the word.
After many happy, but tiring trips, she would arrive at home, clothes drenched with sweat. She would wipe away a thick layer of make-up from a face that had already been touched with crow’s feet. She’d give him all the money, and after proffering a few words of advice, would go up to the bedroom and sleep soundly, reassured. And off on another trip. It got to a stage where he did not want her to be home so that he could go out and lose himself in soft voices and hands that would caress him. And he kept spending the money she’d given him. Not only did he spend all the money, he also began pile up debts as he plunged deeper into addiction, until one day, he forgot his way home.
I went into a small room, about ten square metres, where an artist could relax before stepping on to the stage. She was sitting with her chin cupped in her hands, staring absent-mindedly at the space filled with noises of a city racing into nothingness. She was wearing a very thin dress, her face was wonderfully made up, highlighting two bright eyes and rosy cheeks, making me wonder that she’d not changed in fifteen years, and had even become more beautiful and elegant.
In a moment, we were transported to our past. “You, oh, God, it’s such long a time. How many years, do you remember? I’d forgotten you!” smiled at her sincerity. She pulled me down on the seat opposite her. Looking closely at my face, she chattered: “You’ve got grey hair? Great! I thought there would be nothing in this world that could make your hair grey.
136 You live like a model. You love your friends, you love your wife and children. You have devoted yourself totally to your family and office. Wow!” And she joyfully started singing a parody of ca tru (a folk song): The hair is different, but the heart remains unchanged... Then abruptly, she stopped and announced: “I’m going to go to the court to get a divorce.” She told me about the men in her life, livid with resentment: “All of them are ill-bred. Some are thirsty for talent, others for wealth. I cannot bear it. Its high time that I lived alone. Oh, God! Why am I so miserable!” I found it painful. I felt sorry not just for her, but for a whole generation which was closely bound to certain roots. Suddenly a song that my neighbour often sang came to mind. I’d always found it depressing, but it matched the mood this time. ... If you come back to the old place.
The streets have now changed a lot I pity you for half your life’s in ruin I pity myself for a whole lifetime in exile...
She was very sensitive. As if she’d read my mind, her lament subsided quickly like a summer rainstorm. She took my shoulders, looked into my eyes and rubbed her head against my forehead. Then she stood up and continued singing gently the part I’d just remembered.
...So remote is that hopeless place Missing you has made my hair grey “Yes, it’s my turn to sing now!” - She walked out.
I remained sitting in the room, wondering how she could sing when so many emotions were surging through her: sadness, hatred, confusion. She hated not just one man, but all men. And people said that man occupies half of a woman’s life. And others even claimed that women is only a broken fragment of man!
It had been a long time since I’d had the opportunity to listen to her singing live, and I had been waiting for that day. But now I did not want to listen to her. I was afraid that she could fail on the stage, afraid that I would hear only a scattering of applause. I decided to sit in the room for sometime and leave through the rear entrance. But when she walked on to the stage and bowed, the applause was loud and long. She began singing. I heard it as if it was coming from the air, from space, from the old days, from our childhood, echoing the pledges, vows and rows that pulled us near and pushed us away, leaving us looking for that which was
137 pushing us far away, that was pulling us near, forcing us to plunge into the sea to look for a needle. She was singing... no, she was not singing. She was giving herself up to the passion of love.
Plenty of oil, but nobody to light up Plenty of corncobs, but nobody to roast Plenty of coal, but nobody to fan a flame Plenty of money, but nobody to spend it...”
Vi dam! (An amorous duet) She was singing vi dam. Vi dam had always tied me up. I went out. She was beautiful and brilliant. Her eyes were so tender and fresh, like the Lam river in the morning. They seemed to hypnotise the people. They flashed questions that had all men, me included, bend their heads guilt for betraying their love, begging to be forgiven and to come together again... As she finished, the applause was deafening. People rushed on the stage with bouquets of flowers and compliments. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks...
I walked slowly down Quan Su street back to my house. One question was burning within: How could she sing so beautifully despite her broken heart, her resentment, her hatred? Just then, she caught up with me on her motorcycle. “Please, let’s go and have a drink. I’m so thirsty!”“Sure, I also want to ask you a question.” We sat in a cafe. She ordered two cups of iced coffee, and stirred her glass to make the ice melt quickly. Her face showed that the joy in her heart was melting at a much faster pace... “I’m sorry, my question is a little bit trite, but I have to ask. How could you sing so beautifully when you’re so angry, so full of hatred against men?”
She shook her head. “Don’t think I am being deceitful or flattering when I say this. I did feel that I sang very well this evening. But I was able to do it because I met you. Don’t laugh! Don’t be so hasty in pouring scorn on me. I am telling you this from the bottom of my heart. When I met you, someone who I’d not thought of all these years, I returned to the days of our youth. We were very poor, but our life was afire with enthusiasm and passion, rich in trust. The flame had been lit inside me when I walked on the stage... I was not singing, I was letting my emotions pour out...”
138 She went on and on. I cannot remember all of it, but I realised that when she’d walked on to the stage today, there was a moment of enchantment that only a genuine artist can catch.
Translated by Manh Chuong Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story? Task: Give your own point of view about the singer, is she miserable? Why does “the I character keep on thinking of her for many years? (write about 150 words)
A THIEF By Nguyen Minh Chau The outstanding feature of women in the quarter is the habit of shouting. Whatever the emotion - anger, fear or joy - all find expression in high decibels.
That afternoon, in my four-storey block, the residents were just returning from work. Some women were inserting keys into their door locks, some were preparing dinner, some were about to go to the kindergarten to take their children home.
Suddenly a scream pierced the air from the second floor. “Look, Thoan has died!” “Who died?” Many women repeatedly. “Thoan.” “Who’s Thoan?” “Thoan of my husband’s unit who just returned home, that Thoan, no other!” “Oh, God! Help!”
Half an hour later, outside the rooms of the living quarter, down at the public water tap, on the landings, a full-throated noise of sympathy and grief resounded, punctuated by exclamations calling for divine intervention.
139 During dinner that night, nobody ate with good appetite. Some women, having helped their children finish dinner, felt so sad about poor Thoan that they cleared the tables without being able to eat anything. Oh, God, just a short time ago, not more than a month, she was still here, living with her colleagues and other residents in living quarter.
Big, tall, rice crust munching, graceful, cordial, tasteless, lazy Thoan who liked singing and sang well. Only 24 years old, and she was dead, buried in the ground. It just could not be true. Nobody could believe it. “You see,” a woman in a uniform cotton jacket who abandoned her dinner was telling, in no hushed whisper, a woman in a blue woollen pullover, “if she had stayed for another month, giving birth safely, and left later, everything would have been all right!” “She was big and strong, who could imagine that she would die?” Tears welled up in the eyes of the third woman, plastic bucket in hand, joining the other two on the way down from the room upstairs.
“How terrible! Was it haemorrhage?” “Yes, haemorrhage!” The woman in uniform cotton jacket said. “Why didn’t they staunch the blood?”
“In the countryside, you see.” The woman in the blue woollen pullover sniffed. “If she were in our hands in the city hospital, one would need only minutes to staunch the blood. But it was in the countryside, up in a remote area, from her house to the district’s hospital on a stretcher, it is ten kilometres. To the commune’s medical station, it is about five kilometres.”
Another group of women by the public water tap were also recovering from the shock of her death, with the same regrets, the same commiseration for a woman who died during her first childbirth.
“What about the baby?” Asked a curly-haired woman washing a heap of clothes and baby nappies. “The baby is alive.” “How unlucky the baby is!” “Who is nursing it now?” “Thoan’s mother.”
140 “Is the baby a boy a girl?” “A girl.” “Has Khanh been informed about it or not?” “He has just been informed. A message just came at 5pm today! How terrible for Khanh! He had just carried on the bicycle two baskets of pumpkins from the shop, and drenched in sweat, he stood by the building’s steps, nervously tearing the envelope, and having read the message, he rode the bicycle straight to the bus station. The logistics men then came to report to the commanders. When I arrived there, the unit’s car was just starting out of the gate. Mr. Quan was climbing into the car, buttoning up his shirt, sitting by driver Hai. I don’t think the two men had any dinner.” “Maybe they would arrive up there at about 9 o’clock?” “But Khanh should have gone with them, how else would Mr Quan and driver Hai know the way?”
The sighs, the commiseration, the tears. All these were not reserved for the ill-fated Thoan, but also for the newborn baby, and for her husband Khanh, the manager of the kitchen of the unit. The compassion of these women was becoming increasingly intense, multiplying, in the same way it had only a few months ago. These same women the one in the uniform cotton jacket, the blue woollen pullover with plastic bucket and others had been intense and vociferous in their indignation: “Why haven’t you thrown her out immediately! Why didn’t Mr Quan send Thoan back to her home village? Why the hell did he let her stay here for another day, another hour? What for?”
One woman had lost a two-metre piece of cloth after she had hung it up to dry in her garden. Surprising, it was found in Thoan’s trunk after a couple of weeks. With this discovery, people found the culprit for everything that had been lost for a long time. They were so indignant, so exultant, so satisfied! It was totally forgotten that Thoan had often picked up things dropped on the way and returned them to their owners. And fingers were pointed at hapless Thoan not just for things lost in the past, but also for things that disappeared after the incident of the two-metre cloth.
“Oh, it is sure to be that Thoan again, nobody else!” “If you want to dry any thing, please dry it inside your house!”
141 “You think that if you dry it inside your house, she cannot steal it?” “Thoan just went in here, didn’t she? What the hells is she doing in here? Now check everything to see if anything is stolen?”
Throughout this persecution, Thoan went about singing in her lovely voice, carefree, lazily munching rice crusts, as she worked insipidly in the unit’s kitchen. Not exactly the right attitude for a repentant thief, as far as the other women were concerned.
In late November, there was a cutting down of staff. The personnel department of the unit that was considering the merits of temporarily recruited Thoan decided to relieve her of her duties as the contract had already expired. Kitchen manager Khanh, Thoan’s husband, was not very happy with the decision, but only requested that she be permitted to stay in the hospital for a short time until she gave birth, then she and her baby would return to her home village. Sometimes people are naturally cruel.
The women in the quarter could not bear to have Thoan stay back. “Then when we all go to work, she is alone at home, she would feel free to steal!” “That Quan is not aware of the situation at all! What’s his use in keeping her, keeping that precious thing!” Unfortunately for all of us, just as the women were raising a hue and cry about Thoan staying back, another two metres of black silk cloth was stolen on a Sunday in broad daylight. The person who lost it lost no time in checking her room while the suspect was away. But the wooden trunk only turned out nappies for the coming baby. “She might have hidden it in another place.”
“There is no doubt about it! She is not stupid enough to hide it again in that trunk!”“Eh, ladies, Thoan is really lazy, but she is surely not a dishonest person!” “Stealing is not dishonest? How dare you take her side!” “She loves her child, she wants to give her baby a piece of beautiful cloth, so she is not clear- minded enough!”
“So you think I do not love my child? But should I then go and steal something?” “How sad that Khanh has such a lazy and dishonest wife!” “When he intended to marry Thoan, I had advised him not to, but he did not listen to me!”
142 “I also told him that he could marry anyone but that woman. And the result is as you can see, is debt, not a wife!” “And it is not only Khanh’s own debt, if that woman will stay one more day, we all here will have to keep an eye on her one more day, we will have to protect ourselves, we will have to be miserable because of her!”
“You, ladies, I agreed with you that she is a dishonest person, but they have become a couple, and they are going to have a baby, so we had better not say anything like that!” “Ah, you want to protect her, do you? Why do you protect her so strongly?” “She will give birth to a child like we have done.”
“Let her rely on our help, let her give birth safe and sound first!” “But if she steals something from me tomorrow, will you pay for that?” “I will go to work tomorrow, will you stay at home and keep an eye on my house?” “ What a man Mr. Quan is! He still lets her stay, what’s the use? Oh, God, why do we have to let her continue to steal things in this quarter!”
Khanh was burning with shame. He could let her stay for only a few days more. He could not bear hearing these women talking incessantly about his wife in this manner. In the middle of the week, he decided to take his wife back to the village and have her give birth to their child there.
One week later, all the women cried in chorus, when it was discovered that the wind had blown the black cloth away to a sweet potato garden behind the building. Somebody who went to dig the potatoes found it there.
The women still remember very well that morning, a cold morning, as she followed her husband to the car station, Thoan was carrying only a jute hand basket with a new conical hat placed upon her pregnant belly. She came to say goodbye to every house, with that same simple, cordial attitude of a care free person. All the women took her hands into their own, asking her to stay, the longer the better, and all of them said:
“You now, return to that remote area, sooner or later this quarter will become empty without joy! We’ll miss you very much!”
143 All the women seemed unwilling to take leave of her at the parting time.
I think it would be unfair to say that the women in my quarter were showing a false attachment to Thoan. They are simple, easily moved, and true to their fickle emotions.
Translated by Manh Chuong Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) What is the main theme of the story?
Task: Give your own point of view about Thoan, why is she died? (write about 150 words)
DEATH WISH By Lawrence Block The cop saw the car stop on the bridge but didn’t think too much about it. People often stopped their cars on the bridge late at night, when there was not much traffic. The bridge was over the deep river that cut the city neatly in two, and the center of the bridge provided the best view of the city.
Suicides liked the bridge, too. The cop didn’t think of that until he saw the man get out of the car, walk slowly, along the footpath at the edge, and put a hand on the rail. There was something about that lonely figure, something about the grayness of the night, the fog coming off the river. The cop looked at him and swore, and wondered if he could get to him in time. He didn’t want to shout or blow his whistle because he knew what shock or surprise could do to a probable suicide. Then the man lit a cigarette, and the cop knows he had time. They always smoked all of that last cigarette before they went over the edge.
144 When the cop was within ten yards of him, the man turned, gave a slight jump, then nodded as if accepting that the moment he passed. He appears to be in his middle thirties, tall with a long narrow face and thick black eyebrows.
“Looking at the city” said the cop. “I saw you here, and thought I’d come and talk with you. It can get lonely at this hour of the night.’ He patted his pockets, pretending to look for his cigarettes and not finding them. ‘Got a spare cigarette on you?’ he asked.
The man gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. The cop thanked the man and looked out at the city. ’Look pretty from here,’ he said. ‘Makes a man feel at peace with himself.’ ‘It hasn’t had that effect on me,’ the man said. ‘I was just thinking about the ways a man could find peace for himself.’ ‘Things usually get better sooner of later, even if it takes a little while,’ the cop said. ‘It’s a tough word, but it’s the best we’ve got, and you’re not going to find a better one at the bottom of a river’.
The man said nothing for a long time, then he threw his cigarette over the rail and watched it hit the water. He turned to face the cop. ‘My name’s Edward Wright. I don’t think I’d have done it. Not tonight.’ Something particular bothering you? said the cop. ’Not … anything special.’ ‘Have you seen a doctor? That can help, you know? ‘So they say.’ ‘Want to get a cup of coffee? said the cop.
The man started to say something, then changed his mind. He lit another cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘I’ll be all right now,’ he said. ‘I’ll go home, get some sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well since my wife ---’ ’Oh,’ the cop said. ‘She died. She was all I had and, well, she died.’ The cop put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll get over it, Mr Wright. May be you think you can’t live through it, that nothing will be the same, but---’. ‘I’d better get home,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry to cause trouble. I’ll try to relax, I’ll be all right.’
145 The cop watched him drive away and wondered if he should have taken him into the police station.
But if you started taking in everyone who thought about suicide, you’d never stop. He went back towards the other side of the bridge. When he reached it, he took out his note-book and wrote down the name, Edward Wright. So he would remember what the man meant, he added, Big Eyebrows, Wife Dead, Thought About Jumping.
The psychiatrist stroked his pointed beard and looked at the patient. ’… no longer worth living, ‘the man was saying. ‘I almost killed myself the night before last. I almost jumped from the Morrissey Bridge,’ ‘And?’ ‘A policeman came along. I wouldn’t have jumped anyway.’ ‘Why not’ ‘I don’t know.’
The endless talk of patient and doctor went on. Sometimes the doctor went through a whole hour without thinking at all, making automatic replies but not really hearing a word that was said to him. I wonder, he thought, whether I do these people any good at all. Perhaps they only want to talk, and need a listener.
He listened next to a dream. Almost all his patients told him their dreams, which annoyed the psychiatrist, who never remember having a dream of his own. He listened to this dream, glancing now and then at his watch and wishing the hour would end. The dream, he knew, indicated a decreasing wish to live, a development of the death wish, and a desire for suicide that was prevented only by fear, but for how long ?.
Another dream. The psychiatrist closed his eyes and stopped listening. Five more minutes, he told himself, and then this food would leave.
The doctor looked at the man, saw the heavy eyebrows, the expression of guilt and fear. ‘I have my stomach pumped, Doctor,’ the man said. ‘Can you do it here or do we have to go to a hospital?’ ’What’s the matter with you?’ ‘Pills.’
146 ‘Sleeping pills? How many did you take?’ ‘Twenty,’ said the man. ‘Ten can kill you,’ said the doctor. ‘How long ago did you take them?’ ‘Half an hour. No, maybe twenty minutes,’ ‘And then you decided not to act like a fool, yes ? the doctor said. It was very unpleasant, but finally the doctor said, ‘You’ll live.’ ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ ‘Don’t thank me. I have no report this.’ ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I’m … I’m under a psychiatrist’s care. It was more an accident than anything else, really.’
The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Twenty pills? You’d better pay me now. I can’t risk sending bills to people who may be suicides.’ ’This is a fine gun for the price,’ the clerk said. ‘But for just a few dollars more ---’ ‘No, this well be satisfactory. I’ll need a box of bullets.’ The clerk gave him a box. ‘Or three boxes for ---’ ‘Just the one.’
The shopkeeper opened a book. “You’ll have to sign there, to keep the law happy.’ He checked the signature when the man had finished writing. ‘I’m supposed to see something to identify you. Mr Wright. Can I see your driver’s license?’ He checked the license, compared the signatures, and wrote down the license number. ’Thank you,’ said the man. ‘Thank you, Mr Wright. I think you’ll get a lot of use out of that gun.’ ‘I’m sure I will.’
At nine o’clock that night. Edward Wright heard his back doorbell ring. He walked downstairs, glass in hand, finished his drink and went to the door. He was a tall man with thick black eyebrows. He looked outside, recognized his visitor, and opened the door.
His visitor put a gun in Edward Wright’s stomach. ‘Mark ---’ ‘Invite me in,’ the man said. ‘It’s cold out here.’ ‘Inside.’
147 In the living room, Edward Wright stared at the gun and knew that he was going to die. ‘You killed her, Ed,’ the visitor said. ‘She wanted a divorce. You couldn’t let her have that, could you? I told her it was dangerous to tell you, that you were nothing but an animal. I told her to run away with me and forget you but she wanted to do the right thing, and you killed her.’ ’You’re crazy!’ ‘You made it look like an accident, didn’t you? How did you do it? Tell me, or this gun goes off. ‘I hit her.’
Wright looked at the gun, then at the man. ‘I hit her a few times, then I threw her down the stairs. You can’t go to the police with this, you know. They can’t prove it and they wouldn’t believe it.’
‘We won’t go to the police,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t go to them at the beginning. They didn’t know of a motive for you, did they? I could have told them a motive, but I didn’t go, Edward. Sit down at your desk. Take out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘You can’t ---’ ’Write I can’t go on any longer. This time I won’t fail, and sign your name’. He put the gun against the back of Edward Wright’s shaking head. ’You’ll hang for it, Mark.’ ‘Suicide, Edward.’ ‘No one will believe I was a suicide, note or no note. They won’t believe it.’ ’Just write the note, Edward. Then I’ll give you the gun and leave you to do what you must do.’‘You ---’ ‘Just write the note. I don’t want to kill you, Edward. I want you to write the note, and then I’ll leave you here.’ Wright did not exactly believe him, but the gun at his head left him little choice. He wrote the note and signed his name.
148 ‘Just write the note” ’Turn round, Edward.’ He turned and stared. The man looked very different. He had put on false eyebrows and false hair, and had done something to his eyes. ‘Do you know who I look like now, Edward? I look like you. Not exactly like you, of course, but a good imitation of you.’ ‘You – you’ve been pretending to be me? But why? ‘You just told me you’re not the suicide type. Edward. But you’d be surprised at your recent behavior. There’s a policeman who had to talk you out of jumping off Morrissey Bridge. There’s the psychiatrist who has been seeing you and hearing you talk about suicide. There’s the doctor who had to jump your stomach this afternoon. It was most unpleasant. I was worried my false hair might slip, but it didn’t. All those things you’ve been doing. Edward. Strange that you can’t remember them. Do you remember buying this gun this afternoon? ‘I ---’ ‘You did, you know. Only an hour ago. You had to sign for it. Had to show your driver’s license, too? ‘How did you get my driver’s license?’ ‘I didn’t. I created it.’ The man laugh softly. ‘It wouldn’t fool a policeman, but no policeman saw it. It fooled the clerk though. Not the suicidal type? All those people will swear you are, Edward.’ ‘What about my friends? The people at the office?’ ‘They’ll all help. They’ll start to remember your moods. I’m sure you’ve been acting very shocked and unhappy about her death. You had to play the part, didn’t you? You should never killed her, Edward. I love her, even you didn’t. You should have let her go, Edward.’
Wright was shaking with fear. ‘You said you weren’t going to murder me. You were going to leave me with the gun ---’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ the man said, very quickly, he pushed the gun into Wright’s mouth and shot him. Afterwards, he arranged things neatly, wiped his own fingerprints from the gun and put Wright’s fingerprints on it. He left the note on top of the desk, put the psychiatrist’s business card into Wright’s wallet, and the receipt for the gun into Wright’s pocket.
149 ‘You shouldn’t have killed her,’ he said to Wright’s dead body. Then, smiling privately, he went out of the back door and walked off into the night.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) Is the cop good? Task: Give your own point of view about Edward, why does he want to kill himself? (write about 150 words)
THE CACTUS By O’Henry
The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one’s gloves. That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor apartments. On the table stood a singular- looking green plant in a red earthen jar. The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with the slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion. Trysdale’s friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard complaining at being allowed to drink alone. Both men were in evening dress. White favors like stars upon their coats shone through the gloom of the apartment.
As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale’s mind a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours. It seemed that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been banked in odorous masses about the church, and in his ears the lowpitched hum of a thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp garments, and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the minister irrevocably binding her to another. From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had become a habit of his mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and how he had lost her.
Shaken rudely by the uncompromising fact, he had suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never before faced --his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He
150 saw all the garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn to rags of folly. He huddered at the thought that to others, before now, the garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and threadbare. Vanity and conceit? These were the joints in his armor. And how free from either she had always been--But why--As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an unworthy, sullen exultation that had served to support him. He had told himself that her paleness was from thoughts of another than the man to whom she was about to give herself. But even that poor consolation had been wrenched from him. For, when he saw that swift, limpid, upward look that she gave the man when he took her hand, he knew himself to be forgotten.
Once that same look had been raised to him, and he had gauged its meaning. Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its last prop was gone. Why had it ended thus? There had been no quarrel between them, nothing--For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those last few days before the tide had so suddenly turned. She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had accepted her homage with royal grandeur. It had been a very sweet incense that she had burned before him; so modest (he told himself); so childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have sworn) so sincere. She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of high attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise of blossom or fruit. As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the crowning instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came vividly back to him.
The scene was the night when he had asked her to come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness. He could not, now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the memory of her convincing beauty that night--the careless wave of her hair, the tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words. But they had been enough, and they had brought him to speak. During their conversation she had said: “And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language like a native. Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me? Is there anything you do not know?” Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty (he sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries. Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition. But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and flattering. He allowed the imputation to pass without denial. Without protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this spurious bay of
151 Spanish scholarship. He let it grace his conquering head, and among its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was to pierce him later.
How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a snared bird when he laid his mightiness at her feet! He could have sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer. “I will send you my answer to-morrow,” she said; and he, the indulgent, confident victor, smilingly granted the delay. The next day he waited, impatient, in his rooms for the word. At noon her groom came to the door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar. There was no note, no message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous foreign or botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did not come. His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings later they met at a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she looked at him, breathless, wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation. With womanly swiftness she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and ice. Thus, and wider from this on, they had drifted apart.
Where was his fault? Who had been to blame? Humbled now, he sought the answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit. If--The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his thoughts, aroused him. “I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? You look unhappy as if you yourself had been married instead of having acted merely as an accomplice. Look at me, another accessory, come two thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way from South America to connive at the sacrifice-- please to observe how lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders. Only little sister I had, too, and now she’s gone. Come now! take something to ease your conscience.”“I don’t drink just now, thanks,” said Trysdale. “Your brandy,” resumed the other, coming over and joining him, “is abominable. Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in. It’s worth the, trip. Hallo! here’s an old acquaintance. Wherever did you rake up this cactus, Trysdale?”“A present,” said Trysdale, “from a friend. Know the species?”“Very well. It’s a tropical concern. See hundreds of ‘em around Punta every day. Here’s the name on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish, Trysdale?”“No,” said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--”Is it Spanish?”“Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to you. They call it by this name--Ventomarme. Name means in English, ‘Come and take me.’
Discussion questions:
152 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? Task: Give your own point of view about Trysdale, is he stupid? (write about 150 words)
THE LAST LEAF By O’Henry
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a “colony.”
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d’hôte of an Eighth Street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.” Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
“She has one chance in - let us say, ten,” he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. “ And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of
153 lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?”“She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day.” said Sue. “Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?”“A man?” said Sue, with a jew’s-harp twang in her voice. “Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.”“Well, it is the weakness, then,” said the doctor. “I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten.” After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy’s room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward. “Twelve,” she said, and little later “eleven”; and then “ten,” and “nine”; and then “eight” and “seven”, almost together. Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count?
There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. “What is it, dear?” asked Sue. “Six,” said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. “They’re falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it’s easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.”“Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie.”“Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I’ve known that for three days. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”“Oh, I never heard of such nonsense,” complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. “What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don’t be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let’s see exactly what he said - he said the chances
154 were ten to one! Why, that’s almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self.”“You needn’t get any more wine,” said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. “There goes another. No, I don’t want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go, too.”“Johnsy, dear,” said Sue, bending over her, “will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down.”“Couldn’t you draw in the other room?” asked Johnsy, coldly. “I’d rather be here by you,” said Sue. “Beside, I don’t want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.”“Tell me as soon as you have finished,” said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, “because I want to see the last one fall. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves.”
“Try to sleep,” said Sue. “I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone a minute. Don’t try to move ‘til I come back. “ Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo’s Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress’s robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy’s fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
155 “Vass!” he cried. “Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy.”“She is very ill and weak,” said Sue, “and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn’t. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet.”“You are just like a woman!” yelled Behrman. “Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes.” Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking.
A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. “Pull it up; I want to see,” she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground. “It is the last one,” said Johnsy. “I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time.”“Dear, dear!” said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, “think of me, if you won’t think of yourself. What would I do?” But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. “I’ve been a bad girl, Sudie,” said
156 Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.” And hour later she said: “Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.” The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. “Even chances,” said the doctor, taking Sue’s thin, shaking hand in his. “With good nursing you’ll win.” And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.” The next day the doctor said to Sue: “She’s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that’s all.” And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. “I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? Task: Give your own point of view about Johnsy, is she stupid?Is the Behrman’s death for hersurvival (write about 150 words)
CHARLES
157 By Shirley Jackson
The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweetvoiced nursery- school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me. He came running home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?” At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain. “How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual. “All right,” he said. “Did you learn anything?” his father asked. Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said. “Anything,” I said. “Didn’t learn anything.” “The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. “For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full. “What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?” Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in the corner. He was awfully fresh.” “What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.” The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.” “Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked again?” “He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father. “What?” his father said, looking up. “Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began to laugh insanely. “Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly. “Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but everybody did.”
158 The third day—it was a Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of black-board privileges because he threw chalk. On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence.” “It’ll be alright,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles in the world. Might as well meet them now as later.” On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again.” “Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.” “You know what Charles did?” he demanded following me through the door. “Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him. “What did he do?” I asked. “He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop, y’old dust mop.” “Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed with him.” “What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other name?” “He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he doesn’t wear a jacket.” Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today.” “Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously. “Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even do exercises.” “That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”
159 “Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let do exercises.” “Fresh again?” I said. “He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend just told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him. “What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father asked him. Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said. Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other children. With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled the telephone and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after the first minute, “Looks like Charles.” During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an apple.” “What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?” “Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.” “What happened?” I asked incredulously. “He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged. “Can this be true about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something like this happen?” “Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal with, this may mean he’s only plotting.” He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school. “The PTA meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m going to find Charles’s mother there.” “Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.” “I’d like to know myself,” I said.
160 On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed.” “What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened. “Did Charles tell the little girls to say that?” he asked respectfully. “She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.” “What happened to Charles?” my husband asked. “Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.” Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk. My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the PTA meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.” “If only she’s there.” I said prayerfully. “She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a PTA meeting without Charles’s mother.” At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles. After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and smiled. “I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.” “We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said. “Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.” “We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now he’s a fine helper. With occasional lapses, of course.” “Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s influence.” “Charles?” “Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.” “Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”
161 Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? Task: Give your own point of view about Charles, is he naughty? (write about 100 words)
THE BET By Anton Chekhov
It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up and down his study and remembering how, fifteen years before, he had given a party one autumn evening. There had been many clever men there, and there had been interesting conversations. Among other things they had talked of capital punishment. The majority of the guests, among whom were many journalists and intellectual men, disapproved of the death penalty. They considered that form of punishment out of date, immoral, and unsuitable for Christian States. In the opinion of some of them the death penalty ought to be replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life. “I don’t agree with you,” said their host the banker. “I have not tried either the death penalty or imprisonment for life, but if one may judge a priori, the death penalty is more moral and more humane than imprisonment for life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, but lifelong imprisonment kills him slowly. Which executioner is the more humane, he who kills you in a few minutes or he who drags the life out of you in the course of many years?” “Both are equally immoral,” observed one of the guests, “for they both have the same object - to take away life. The State is not God. It has not the right to take away what it cannot restore when it wants to.” Among the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When he was asked his opinion, he said: “The death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, but if I had to choose between the death penalty and imprisonment for life, I would certainly choose the second. To live anyhow is better than not at all.” A lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and more nervous in those days, was suddenly carried away by excitement; he struck the table with his fist and shouted at the young man:
162 “It’s not true! I’ll bet you two million you wouldn’t stay in solitary confinement for five years.” “If you mean that in earnest,” said the young man, “I’ll take the bet, but I would stay not five but fifteen years.” “Fifteen? Done!” cried the banker. “Gentlemen, I stake two million!” “Agreed! You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!” said the young man. And this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt and frivolous, with millions beyond his reckoning, was delighted at the bet. At supper he made fun of the young man, and said: “Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me two million is a trifle, but you are losing three or four of the best years of your life. I say three or four, because you won’t stay longer. Don’t forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary confinement is a great deal harder to bear than compulsory. The thought that you have the right to step out in liberty at any moment will poison your whole existence in prison. I am sorry for you.”
And now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this, and asked himself: “What was the object of that bet? What is the good of that man’s losing fifteen years of his life and my throwing away two million? Can it prove that the death penalty is better or worse than imprisonment for life? No, no. It was all nonsensical and meaningless. On my part it was the caprice of a pampered man, and on his part simple greed for money ...”
Then he remembered what followed that evening. It was decided that the young man should spend the years of his captivity under the strictest supervision in one of the lodges in the banker’s garden. It was agreed that for fifteen years he should not be free to cross the threshold of the lodge, to see human beings, to hear the human voice, or to receive letters and newspapers. He was allowed to have a musical instrument and books, and was allowed to write letters, to drink wine, and to smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the only relations he could have with the outer world were by a little window made purposely for that object. He might have anything he wanted - books, music, wine, and so on - in any quantity he desired by writing an order, but could only receive them through the window. The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle that would make his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the young man to stay there exactly fifteen years, beginning from twelve o’clock of November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve o’clock of November 14, 1885. The slightest attempt on his part to break the conditions, if only two minutes before the end, released the banker from the obligation to pay him the two million.
163 For the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge from his brief notes, the prisoner suffered severely from loneliness and depression. The sounds of the piano could be heard continually day and night from his lodge. He refused wine and tobacco. Wine, he wrote, excites the desires, and desires are the worst foes of the prisoner; and besides, nothing could be more dreary than drinking good wine and seeing no one. And tobacco spoilt the air of his room. In the first year the books he sent for were principally of a light character; novels with a complicated love plot, sensational and fantastic stories, and so on.
In the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the prisoner asked only for the classics. In the fifth year music was audible again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him through the window said that all that year he spent doing nothing but eating and drinking and lying on his bed, frequently yawning and angrily talking to himself. He did not read books. Sometimes at night he would sit down to write; he would spend hours writing, and in the morning tear up all that he had written. More than once he could be heard crying.
In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealously studying languages, philosophy, and history. He threw himself eagerly into these studies - so much so that the banker had enough to do to get him the books he ordered. In the course of four years some six hundred volumes were procured at his request. It was during this period that the banker received the following letter from his prisoner: “My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show them to people who know the languages. Let them read them. If they find not one mistake I implore you to fire a shot in the garden. That shot will show me that my efforts have not been thrown away. The geniuses of all ages and of all lands speak different languages, but the same flame burns in them all. Oh, if you only knew what unearthly happiness my soul feels now from being able to understand them!” The prisoner’s desire was fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired in the garden. Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table and read nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the banker that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred learned volumes should waste nearly a year over one thin book easy of comprehension. Theology and histories of religion followed the Gospels. In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an immense quantity of books quite indiscriminately. At one time he was busy with the natural sciences, then he would ask for
164 Byron or Shakespeare. There were notes in which he demanded at the same time books on chemistry, and a manual of medicine, and a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or theology. His reading suggested a man swimming in the sea among the wreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by greedily clutching first at one spar and then at another.
The old banker remembered all this, and thought: “To-morrow at twelve o’clock he will regain his freedom. By our agreement I ought to pay him two million. If I do pay him, it is all over with me: I shall be utterly ruined.” Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now he was afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or his assets. Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild speculation and the excitability which he could not get over even in advancing years, had by degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud, fearless, self- confident millionaire had become a banker of middling rank, trembling at every rise and fall in his investments. “Cursed bet!” muttered the old man, clutching his head in despair “Why didn’t the man die? He is only forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he will marry, will enjoy life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look at him with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every day the same sentence: ‘I am indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!’ No, it is too much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is the death of that man!”
It struck three o’clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in the house and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilled trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproof safe the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and went out of the house.
It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting wind was racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where the lodge stood, he twice called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently the watchman had sought shelter from the weather, and was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse. “If I had the pluck to carry out my intention,” thought the old man, “Suspicion would fall first upon the watchman.”
165 He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the entry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage and lighted a match. There was not a soul there. There was a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner’s rooms were intact.
When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped through the little window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner’s room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the table.
Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years’ imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at the window with his finger, and the prisoner made no movement whatever in response. Then the banker cautiously broke the seals off the door and put the key in the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever in the room. He made up his mind to go in.
At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman’s and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged- looking face, no one would have believed that he was only forty. He was asleep ... In front of his bowed head there lay on the table a sheet of paper on which there was something written in fine handwriting. “Poor creature!” thought the banker, “he is asleep and most likely dreaming of the millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, and the most conscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death. But let us first read what he has written here ... “
The banker took the page from the table and read as follows: “To-morrow at twelve o’clock I regain my freedom and the right to associate with other men, but before I leave this room and see the sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. With a clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, that I despise freedom and life and health, and all that in your books is called the good things of
166 the world.For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds’ pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ... “Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of man has created in the ages is compressed into a small compass in my brain. I know that I am wiser than all of you. “And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death will wipe you off the face of the earth as though you were no more than mice burrowing under the floor, and your posterity, your history, your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly globe. “You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies for truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to strange events of some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on apple and orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began to smell like a sweating horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heaven for earth. I don’t want to understand you. “To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, I renounce the two million of which I once dreamed as of paradise and which now I despise. To deprive myself of the right to the money I shall go out from here five hours before the time fixed, and so break the compact ...” When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, kissed the strange man on the head, and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no other time, even when he had lost heavily on the Stock Exchange, had he felt so great a contempt for himself. When he got home he lay on his bed, but his tears and emotion kept him for hours from sleeping.
167 Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they had seen the man who lived in the lodge climb out of the window into the garden, go to the gate, and disappear. The banker went at once with the servants to the lodge and made sure of the flight of his prisoner. To avoid arousing unnecessary talk, he took from the table the writing in which the millions were renounced, and when he got home locked it up in the fireproof safe.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) Is the young lawyer stupid when he breaks the compact? Task: Give your own point of view about “the bet”, is it meaningless? (write about 150 words)
THE SNOB By Morley Callaghan
It was at the book counter in the department store that John Harcourt, the student, caught a glimpse of his father. At first he could not be sure in the crowd that pushed along the aisle, but there was something about the color of the back of the elderly man’s neck, something about the faded felt hat, that he knew very well. Harcourt was standing with the girl he loved, buying a book for her. All afternoon he had been talking to her, eagerly, but with an anxious diffidence, as if there still remained in him an innocent wonder that she should be delighted to be with him. From underneath her wide-brimmed straw hat, her face, so fair and beautifully strong with its expression of cool independence, kept turning up to him and sometimes smiled at what he said. That was the way they always talked, never daring to show much full, strong feeling. Harcourt had just bought the book, and had reached into his pocket for the money with a free, ready gesture to make it appear that he was accustomed to buying books for young ladies, when the white- haired man in the faded felt hat, at the other end of the counter, turned half-toward him, and Harcourt knew he was standing only a few feet away from his father.
168 The young man’s easy words trailed away and his voice became little more than a whisper, as if he were afraid that everyone in the store might recognize it. There was rising in him a dreadful uneasiness; something very precious that he wanted to hold seemed close to destruction. His father, standing at the end of the bargain counter, was planted squarely on his two feet, turning a book over thoughtfully in his hands. Then he took out his glasses from an old, worn leather case and adjusted them on the end of his nose, looking down over them at the book. His coat was thrown open, two buttons on his vest were undone, his hair was too long, and in his rather shabby clothes he looked very much like a workingman, a carpenter perhaps. Such a resentment rose in young Harcourt that he wanted to cry out bitterly, “Why does he dress as if he never owned a decent suit in his life? He doesn’t care what the whole world thinks of him. He never did. I’ve told him a hundred times he ought to wear his good clothes when he goes out. Mother’s told him the same thing. He just laughs. And now Grace may see him. Grace will meet him.” So young Harcourt stood still, with his head down, feeling that something very painful was impending. Once he looked anxiously at Grace, who had turned to the bargain counter. Among those people drifting aimlessly by with hot red faces, getting in each other’s way, using their elbows but keeping their faces detached and wooden, she looked tall and splendidly alone. She was so sure of herself, her relation to the people in the aisles, the clerks behind the counters, the books on the shelves, and everything around her. Still keeping his head down and moving close, he whispered uneasily, “Let’s go and have tea somewhere, Grace.” “In a minute, dear,” she said. “Let’s go now.” “In just a minute, dear,” she repeated absently. “There’s not a breath of air in here. Let’s go now.” “What makes you so impatient?” “There’s nothing but old books on that counter.” “There may be something here I’ve wanted all my life,” she said, smiling at him brightly and not noticing the uneasiness in his face. So Harcourt had to move slowly behind her, getting closer to his father all the time. He could feel the space that separated them narrowing. Once he looked up with a vague, sidelong glance. But his father, red-faced and happy, was still reading the book, only now there was a meditative expression on his face, as if something in the book had stirred him and he intended to stay there reading for some time. Old Harcourt had lots of time to amuse himself, because he was on a pension after working hard all his life. He had sent John to the university and he was eager to have him distinguish himself. Every
169 night when John came home, whether it was early or late, he used to go into his father and mother’s bedroom and turn on the light and talk to them about the interesting things that had happened to him during the day. They listened and shared this new world with him. They both sat up in their night clothes and, while his mother asked all the questions, his father listened attentively with his head cocked on one side and a smile or a frown on his face. The memory of all this was in John now, and there was also a desperate longing and a pain within him growing harder to bear as he glanced fearfully at his father, but he thought stubbornly, “I can’t introduce him. It’ll be easier for everybody if he doesn’t see us. I’m not ashamed. But it will be easier. It’ll be more sensible. It’ll only embarrass him to see Grace.” By this time he knew he was ashamed, but he felt that his shame was justified, for Grace’s father had the smooth, confident manner of a man who had lived all his life among people who were rich and sure of themselves. Often when he had been in Grace’s home talking politely to her mother, John had kept on thinking of the plainness of his own home and of his parents’ laughing, good-natured untidiness, and he resolved desperately that he must make Grace’s people admire him. He looked up cautiously, for they were about eight feet away from his father, but at that moment his father, too, looked up and John’s glance shifted swiftly far over the aisle, over the counters, seeing nothing. As his father’s blue, calm eyes stared steadily over the glasses, there was an instant when their glances might have met. Neither one could have been certain, yet John, as he turned away and began to talk hurriedly to Grace, knew surely that his father had seen him. He knew it by the steady calmness in his father’s blue eyes. John’s shame grew, and then humiliation sickened him as he waited and did nothing. His father turned away, going down the aisle, walking erectly in his shabby clothes, his shoulders very straight, never once looking back. His father would walk slowly down the street, he knew, with that meditative expression deepening and becoming grave. Young Harcourt stood beside Grace, brushing against her soft shoulder, and made faintly aware again of the delicate scent she used. There, so close beside him, she was holding within her everything he wanted to reach out for, only now he felt a sharp hostility that made him sullen and silent. “You were right, John,” she was drawling in her soft voice. “It does get unbearable in here on a hot day. Do let’s go now. Have you ever noticed that department stores after a time can make you really hate people?” But she smiled when she spoke, so he might see that she really hated no one.”You don’t like people, do you?” he said sharply. “People? What people? What do you mean?”
170 “I mean,” he went on irritably, “you don’t like the kind of people you bump into here, for example.”. “Not especially. Who does? What are you talking about?” “Anybody could see you don’t,” he said recklessly, full of a savage eagerness to hurt her. “I say you don’t like simple, honest people, the kind of people you meet all over the city.” He blurted the words out as if he wanted to shake her, but My notes about what I am reading he was longing to say, “You wouldn’t like my family. Why couldn’t I take you home to have dinner with them? You’d turn up your nose at them, because they’ve no pretensions. As soon as my father saw you, he knew you wouldn’t want to meet him. I could tell by the way he turned.” His father was on his way home now, he knew, and that evening at dinner they would meet. His mother and sister would talk rapidly, but his father would say nothing to him, or to anyone. There would only be Harcourt’s memory of the level look in the blue eyes, and the knowledge of his father’s pain as he walked away. Grace watched John’s gloomy face as they walked through the store, and she knew he was nursing some private rage, and so her own resentment and exasperation kept growing, and she said crisply, “You’re entitled to your moods on a hot afternoon, I suppose, but if I feel I don’t like it here, then I don’t like it. You wanted to go yourself. Who likes to spend very much time in a department store on a hot afternoon? I begin to hate every stupid person that bangs into me, everybody near me. What does that make me?” “It makes you a snob.” “So I’m a snob now?” she asked angrily. “Certainly you’re a snob,” he said. They were at the door and going out to the street. As they walked in the sunlight, in the crowd moving slowly down the street, he was groping for words to describe the secret thoughts he had always had about her. “I’ve always known how you’d feel about people I like who didn’t fit into your private world,” he said. “You’re a very stupid person,” she said. Her face was flushed now, and it was hard for her to express her indignation, so she stared straight ahead as she walked along.They had never talked in this way, and now they were both quickly eager to hurt each other. With a flow of words, she started to argue with him, then she checked herself and said calmly, “Listen, John, I imagine you’re tired of my company. There’s no sense in having tea together. I think I’d better leave you right here.” “That’s fine,” he said. “Good afternoon.” “Good-by.” “Good-by.”
171 She started to go, she had gone two paces, but he reached out desperately and held her arm, and he was frightened, and pleading, “Please don’t go, Grace.” All the anger and irritation had left him; there was just a desperate anxiety in his voice as he pleaded, “Please forgive me. I’ve no right to talk to you like that. I don’t know why I’m so rude or what’s the matter. I’m ridiculous. I’m very, very ridiculous. Please, you must forgive me. Don’t leave me.” He had never talked to her so brokenly, and his sincerity, the depth of his feeling, began to stir her. While she listened, feeling all the yearning in him, they seemed to have been brought closer together, by opposing each other, than ever before, and she began to feel almost shy. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I suppose we’re both irritable. It must be the weather,” she said. “But I’m not angry, John.” He nodded his head miserably. He longed to tell her that he was sure she would have been charming to his father, but he had never felt so wretched in his life. He held her arm tight, as if he must hold it or what he wanted most in the world would slip away from him, yet he kept thinking, as he would ever think, of his father walking away quietly with his head never turning.
Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) Is John snob or is Grace a snob? Task: Give your own point of view about JohnHarcourt, is he boastful? (write about 150 words)
ALL SUMMER IN A DAY by Ray Bradbury
No one in the class could remember a time when there wasn’t rain.
“Ready?” “Ready.” “Now?”
172 “Soon.” “Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will it?” “Look, look; see for yourself!” The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun. It rained. It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives. “It’s stopping, it’s stopping!” “Yes, yes!” Margot stood apart from these children who could never remember a time when there wasn’t rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall. Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering and old or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with. She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands. But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone. All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun. About how like a lemon it was, and how hot. And they had written small stories or essays or poems about it: I think the sun is a flower, That blooms for just one hour. That was Margot’s poem, read in a quiet voice in the still classroom while the rain was falling outside. “Aw, you didn’t write that!” protested one of the boys. “I did,” said Margot. “I did.” “William!” said the teacher. But that was yesterday. Now the rain was slackening, and the children were crushed in the great thick windows.
173 “Where’s teacher?” “She’ll be back.” “She’d better hurry, we’ll miss it!” They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes. Margot stood alone. She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. Now she stood, separate, staring at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass. “What’re you looking at?” said William. Margot said nothing. “:Speak when you’re spoken to.” He gave her a shove. But she did not move; rather she let herself by moved only by him and nothing else. They edged away from her, they would not look at her. She felt them go away. And this was because she would play no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground city. If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows. And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was. But Margot remembered. “It’s like a penny,” she said once, eyes closed. “No it’s not!” the children cried. “It’s like a fire,” she said, “in the stove.” “You’re lying, you don’t remember!” cried the children. But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head, screaming the water mustn’t touch her head. So after that, dimly, dimly, she sensed it, she was different and they knew her difference and kept away.
174 There was talk that her father and mother were taking her back to earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so, though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her family. And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of big and little consequence. They hated her pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future. “Get away!” The boy gave her another push. “What’re you waiting for?” Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And what she was waiting for was in her eyes. “Well, don’t wait around here!” cried the boy savagely. “You won’t see nothing!” Her lips moved. “Nothing!” he cried. “It was all a joke, wasn’t it?” He turned to the other children. “Nothing’s happening today. Is it?” They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed and shook their heads. “Nothing, nothing!” “Oh, but,” Margot whispered, her eyes helpless. “But this is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun. . . .” “All a joke!” said the boy, and seized her roughly. “Hey, everyone, let’s put her in a closet before teacher comes!” “No,” said Margot, falling back. They surged about her, caught her up and bore her, protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the door. They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from her beating and throwing herself against it. They heard her muffled cries. Then, smiling, they turned and went out and back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived. “Ready, children?” she glanced at her watch. “Yes!” said everyone. “Are we all here?” “Yes!” The rain slackened still more. They crowded to the huge door. The rain stopped. It was as if, in the midst of a film, concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had, first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a peaceful tropical slide which did not move or tremor. The world ground to a standstill. The silence was so
175 immense and unbelievable that you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your hearing altogether. The children put their hands to their ears. They stood apart. The door slid back and the smell of the silent, waiting world came in to them. The sun came out. It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their spell, rushed out, yelling, into the springtime. “Now don’t go too far,” called the teacher after them. “You’ve only two hours, you know. You wouldn’t want to get caught out!” But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms. “Oh, it’s better than the sun lamps, isn’t it?” “Much, much better!” They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing, tumultuously, even as you watched it. It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring. It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without sun. It was the color of stones and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon. The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and heard it sigh and squeak under them, resilient and alive. They ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each other, they played hide-and-seek and tag, but most of all they squinted at the sun until the tears ran down their faces, they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running. And then— In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed. Everyone stopped. The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand. “Oh, look, look,” she said, trembling. They came slowly to look at her opened palm. In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop.
176 She began to cry, looking at it. They glanced quietly at the sky. “Oh. Oh.” A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew cool around them. They turned and started to walk back toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away. A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran. Lightening struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash. They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and avalanches, everywhere and forever. “Will it be seven more years?” “Yes. Seven.” Then one of them gave a little cry. “Margot!” “What?” “She’s still in the closet where we locked her.” “Margot.”
They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor. They looked at each other and then looked away. They glanced out at the world that was raining now and raining and raining steadily. They could not meet each other’s glances. Their faces were solemn and pale. They looked at their hands and feet, their faces down. “Margot. One of the girls said, “Well . . .?” No one moved. “Go on,” whispered the girl. They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of the cold rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightening on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closest door slowly and stood by it. Behind the closed door was only silence.
They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out.
177 Discussion questions: 1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 3) What is the climax of the story? 4) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 5) Is Margot strange? Why? Task: Give your own point of view about this story, is the sun indispensible in our life? (write about 150 words)
178 APPENDIX
COMMON SYMBOLS IN LITERATURE I. COLOURS - Red: immoral; the colour of the life principle, blood, passion, emotion, danger, immoral characteror daring;often associated with fire - Black: seen as a cold and negative aspect suggesting passivity, death, ignorance, or evil;black hens are used in witchcraft as are black cats. - White: innocence, life, light, purity, or enlightenment. - Green: inexperience, hope; new life, immaturity; a combination of blue and yellow, it mediates between heat and cold and high and low; it is a comforting, refreshing humancolour; it is the colour of plant life - Yellow: rotting, heat, decay, violence, decrepitude, old age, and the approach of death Blue: cool, calm, peaceful; an insubstantial colour in the real world except as calm, peacefulness, translucency,the void of heavens. - Pink: innocence, femininity - Purple: royalty, bruising or pain. - Brown: a colour somewhere between russet and black; it is the colour of earth and ploughedland and soil, it represents humility and poverty - Orange: symbolizes the point of balance between the spirit and the libido; it may be theemblem of divine love or extreme lust. - Violet: composed of red and blue, it is the colour of temperance, clarity of mind
II. NATURE
A. Seasons - Spring: birth, new beginning - Summer: maturity, knowledge - Autumn: decline, nearing death, growing old - Winter: death, sleep, hibernation, or stagnation - Christmas season: birth, change for the better - Easter season: rebirth, enlightenment - Light: truth, safety, warmth, knowledge - Darkness: evil, ignorance, danger
179 B. Trees - Apple: temptation, loss of innocence - Chestnut: foresight - Oak: strength, wisdom - Pear: blossoming, fleeting nature of life - Poplar: linked to the underworld, to pain, sacrifice, and grief, a funeral tree, symbolizes the regressive powers of nature - Sycamore: a sign of vanity and to climb it is to thrust in vain things - Pine: symbol of immortality because of its evergreen foliage C. Weeds: evil (hemlock, pigweed, etc), wildness/outcasts of society
D. Flowers: beauty, youth, strength, gentleness - Anemone: transience - Chrysanthemums: solar symbol; represents perfection, an autumn flower, - Rose: budding youth, romance, potential, fragility. Roses stand for romance. - Chrysanthemums represent perfection. - Sunflower: Sturdiness. Sunflower: timeless, victory, hope - Violet: shyness, something petite. Violets represent shyness. - Lily: evokes unlawful passion, temptation, the election of one’s choice. Lilies stand for beauty and temptation. - Water: washes away guilt, origin of life, regeneration, vehicle of cleansing - River: fluidity of life, stream of life and death - Moon: changing and returning shape, feminine symbol - Sun: source of light, heat and life; a masculine symbol - Cavern: the maternal womb - Mountain: places where heaven and earth meet; stability, safety, often symbolic of human pride - Rubies: represents good fortune; it was believed that they banished sorrow and warded off evil spirits - Sapphires: contemplation, purity - Silver: relates to the moon, to water and the female principle; it may also symbolize theobject of all desires and the harm they cause - Gold: the perfect metal; a reflection of heavenly light; it suggest the sun-fertility, wealth,dominion; it is a male principle
180 - Pearl: associated with water, they may be regarded as symbols of knowledge and wealth
III. DIRECTIONS - East: land of birth or rebirth; of the Sun and Venus; it is associated with renewal, youth, feasting, song and love. - North: is the side which lies on the sun’s right hand and lies on either side of life; it symbolizes night sky and night wind and is the home of the Moon and the MilkyWay. North represents coldness, alienation, and hostility; it is the abode of death. - South: is the side which lies on the Sun’s left hand and is the hand of fire; represents warmth and comfort. - West: is the land of evening, old age, and the descending passage of the sun.
IV. WEATHER, SEASON, TIME - Snow: blanket which obscures, covers or even smothers. - Fog/Mist: prevents clear vision or thinking; represents isolation; mist is often the symbol of the indeterminate phase in development when shapes have yet to bedefined; they are preludes to important revelations or prologues to manifestations. - Rain: sadness or despair or new life; a symbol of celestial influences the Earth receives. - Wind and Storms: violent human emotions. - Lightning: indicates the spark of life and the powers of fertilization; it can be either life-giving or death dealing, so it is a sign of power and strength. - Morning: the time of God’s blessings; the beginning of when all is still uncorrupted; a symbol of purity and promise. - Rainbows: also intermediaries and pathways between Heaven and Earth; mostly are generally heralds of good and are linked with cycles of rebirth, they may also serve as prologues to disturbance. - Thunder: the voice of God or gods
V. ANIMALS - Dove: peace, purity, simplicity - Fox: slyness, cleverness - Raven: death, destruction; they often play prophetic roles or function as a conductor of the soul
181 - Lion: a solar symbol, power, pride - Peacock: pride, vanity - Serpent/Snake: temptation, evil - Mouse: shyness, meekness - Hawk: sharp, keen eyesight - Owl: wisdom, rational knowledge; messenger of death - Salmon: instinct; sacred wisdom - Cats: are often viewed as serpents of the underworld; they also symbolize cunning, forethought, and ingenuity - Lamb: serves as a manifestation of the power of Spring and renewal, sacrificial element, the children of God - Cuckoo: jealousy and parasitism, it lays eggs in the nests of other birds; laziness
VI. WALLS: barriers between people, both physical and mental; a barrier that shuts out the world
VII. HUMAN BODY PARTS - Blood: symbolizes all the integral qualities of fire and the heat and vitality inherent in thesun; it also corresponds to vital and bodily heat - Bones: they represent both the framework of the human body, bust since they contain marrow, they symbolize strength and virtue - Hands: strength or weakness - Eyes: windows to the soul or barometer of emotions - Mouth: indicator of character traits - Neck: long slender neck is associated with sexuality - Knee: main source of bodily strength according to ancient traditions - Right and Left: to look to one’s right hand is to look to the protector; this is the place ofthe elect at the Last Judgment, the damned will go to the left.
VIII. CLOTHING - Cape: or any circular garment or vestment with a hole in the middle suggests a celestial and ascendant symbolism. When monks or nuns withdraw from the world, they cover themselves in a cape or cloak, which symbolizes a withdrawal into oneself or into God.
182 - Cloak: is a symbol of human trickery, and the different personalities humans can assume - Mask: externalize demonic tendencies
IX. OBJECTS - Chain: symbolizes the bond which connect Heaven and earth or ties together two extremes or beings. - Key: a key has the power and authority of letting in and shutting out; to hold a key means to have been initiated. It not only shows the power to enter a place, town, orhouse, but to accede to a spiritual state or abode or to a level of initiation. - Ladder: ladders are symbols of ascension and realization of potential; they are also symbols of intercommunication and the comings and goings between Heaven andEarth. - Mirror: often a solar symbol; an unbroken mirror can be a sign of a happy marriage: a broken mirror would indicate a separation or destruction of the union. - Tower of Babel: confusion, human pride, resulted in multiple languages
X. JOURNEY: may be a quest for truth, peace or immortality; a journey often serves as a metaphor for life.
XI. SETTING - The forest: usually a place of evil or mystery - An isolated setting: alienation, loneliness - A garden: paradise of a haven - Window of a room: freedom or lack thereof - A park: a place for retreat and renewal - The town: place where rules are on their best behavior - Bed: consummation of marriage - Parlour: vanity
XII. SYMBOLS An object is meant to be representative of something or an idea greater than the object itself is symbolism.Objects are often used to symbolize something else: - A chain can symbolize the coming together of two things. - A ladder can represent the relationship between heaven and earth or ascension.
183 - A mirror can denote the sun but when it is broken, it can represent an unhappy union or a separation. - dove: peace - ice: death - spring: youth, birth, life - water: birth, rebirth - winter: death, dying, old age - eagle: freedom, liberty, strength - skull: death - rose: love, beauty - crown: wealth, royalty - wedding ring: love, commitment - cross bones: death, danger - sunrise: new start, beginning - full moon: danger, weirdness - autumn: middle age, maturity - Cross - representative of Christ or Christianity - Bald Eagle - America or Patriotism - Owl - wisdom or knowledge - Yellow - implies cowardice or rot
184 REFERENCES
Hùng, Trần Anh (Director). (1993).The green Papaya[Motion picture]. Les Productions Lazennec. http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/american-poets-of-the-20th-century/how-to- analyze-poetry http://www.enotes.com/topics/how-analyze-poem http://www.online-literature.com/ http://www.vaniercollege.qc.ca/tlc/tipsheets/reading-and-analyzing/analysing-short- stories.pdf http://vietnamwebsite.com/story/Vietnam Stories Collection Minh, Nguyễn Võ Nghiêm. (Director). (2003). Buffalo boy [Motion picture]. Hãng phim Giải Phóng Việt Nam, 3B Productions Pháp và Novak Prod Bỉ. Tánh, Nguyễn Trung, (n.d.) Dẫn luận văn học, in lần thứ 6. Sài Gòn: Nhà xuất bản TP Hồ Chí Minh. Toán, Bùi Minh, (2008).Giáo trình dẫn luận ngôn ngữ học, Nhà xuất bản Đại học Sư phạm, Hà Nội. T.T, Nguyễn & Việt D. Trần (2005).Dẫn luận văn chương., Nhà xuất bản TP Hồ Chí Minh. Uyên, Phan Thị Minh (2015).Giáo trình dẫn luận văn chương Anh, Lưu hành nội bộ.
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