tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74487541171807213802024-02-20T07:40:20.815-08:00Literature: Sound and SenseTaste the joy of reading literature with us in Literature Encyclopedia.I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-80999780961664402932009-09-19T13:15:00.000-07:002009-09-19T13:15:00.167-07:00Heroic Couplet<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heroic Couplet</span>. Lines of iambic pentameter (see meter) which rhyme in pairs: aa, bb, cc, and so on. The adjective "heroic" was applied in the later seventeenth century because of the frequent use of such couplets in heroic (that is, epic) poems and in heroic dramas. This verse form was introduced into English poetry by Geoffrey Chaucer (in The Legend of Good Women and most of<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Canterbury Tales), and has been in constant use ever since. From the age of John Dryden through that of Samuel Johnson, the heroic couplet was the predominant English measure for all the poetic kinds; some poets, including Alexander Pope, used it almost to the exclusion of other meters.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> In that era, usually called the Neoclassic Period, the poets wrote in closed couplets, in which the end of each couplet tends to coincide with the end either of a sentence or of a self-sufficient unit of syntax. The sustained employment of the closed heroic couplet meant that two lines had to serve something of the function of a stanza. In order to maximize the interrelations of the component parts of the couplet, neoclassic poets often used an endstopped<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">first line (that is, made the end of the line coincide with a pause in the syntax), and also broke many single lines into subunits by balancing the line around a strong caesura, or medial pause in the syntax. <br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> The following passage from John Denham's Cooper's Hill (which he added in the version of 1655) is an early instance of the artful management of the closed couplet that fascinated later neoclassic poets; they quoted it and commented upon it again and again, and used it as a model for exploiting the possibilities of this verse form. Note how Denham achieves diversity within the<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">straitness of his couplets by shifts in the position of the caesuras, by the use of rhetorical balance and antithesis between the single lines and between the two halves within a single line, and by the variable positioning of the adjectives in the second couplet. Note also the framing and the emphasis gained by inverting the iambic foot that begins the first line and the last line, and by manipulating similar and contrasting vowels and consonants. The poet is addressing the River Thames:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream<br />My great example, as it is my theme!<br />Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;<br />Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">And here is a passage from Alexander Pope, the greatest master of the metrical, syntactical, and rhetorical possibilities of the closed heroic couplet ("Of the Characters of Women," 1735, lines 243-48):<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">See how the world its veterans rewards!<br />A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;<br />Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,<br />Young without lovers, old without a friend;<br />A fop their passion, but their prize a sot;<br />Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> These closed neoclassic couplets contrast with the "open" pentameter couplets quoted from Keats' Endymion in the entry on meter. In the latter, the pattern of stresses varies often from the iambic norm, the syntax is unsymmetrical, and the couplets run on freely, with the rhyme serving to color rather than to stop the verse.<br /><br />From Abram's <span style="font-style: italic;">A Glossary of Literary Terms</span><br /></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-86628249236560812532009-09-15T11:16:00.000-07:002009-09-15T11:16:00.497-07:00Hills Like White Elephants<h3 style="font-weight: normal;"> By: Ernest Hemingway</h3><br /> <div class="MsoNormal">The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this siode there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.</div> <div class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.</div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It's pretty hot,' the man said. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Let's drink beer.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Yes. Two big ones.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'They look like white elephants,' she said. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I've never seen one,' the man drank his beer. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'No, you wouldn't have.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I might have,' the man said. 'Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl looked at the bead curtain. 'They've painted something on it,' she said. 'What does it say?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Anis del Toro. It's a drink.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Could we try it?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The man called 'Listen' through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Four reales.' 'We want two Anis del Toro.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'With water?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Do you want it with water?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I don't know,' the girl said. 'Is it good with water?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It's all right.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'You want them with water?' asked the woman. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Yes, with water.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It tastes like liquorice,' the girl said and put the glass down. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'That's the way with everything.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Yes,' said the girl. 'Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Oh, cut it out.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'You started it,' the girl said. 'I was being amused. I was having a fine time.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Well, let's try and have a fine time.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'That was bright.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it - look at things and try new drinks?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I guess so.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl looked across at the hills. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'They're lovely hills,' she said. 'They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the colouring of their skin through the trees.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Should we have another drink?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'All right.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'The beer's nice and cool,' the man said. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It's lovely,' the girl said. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig,' the man said. 'It's not really an operation at all.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl did not say anything. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly natural.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Then what will we do afterwards?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'We'll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'What makes you think so?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'And you think then we'll be all right and be happy.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I know we will. Yon don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'So have I,' said the girl. 'And afterwards they were all so happy.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Well,' the man said, 'if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'And you really want to?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I love you now. You know I love you.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'If I do it you won't ever worry?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'What do you mean?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I don't care about me.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Well, I care about you.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I don't want you to do it if you feel that way.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'And we could have all this,' she said. 'And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'What did you say?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I said we could have everything.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'No, we can't.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'We can have the whole world.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'No, we can't.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'We can go everywhere.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It's ours.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'But they haven't taken it away.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'We'll wait and see.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Come on back in the shade,' he said. 'You mustn't feel that way.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I don't feel any way,' the girl said. 'I just know things.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do -' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Nor that isn't good for me,' she said. 'I know. Could we have another beer?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'All right. But you've got to realize - ' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I realize,' the girl said. 'Can't we maybe stop talking?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'You've got to realize,' he said, ' that I don't want you to do it if you don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want anyone else. And I know it's perfectly simple.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Yes, you know it's perfectly simple.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Would you do something for me now?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I'd do anything for you.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'But I don't want you to,' he said, 'I don't care anything about it.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I'll scream,' the girl siad. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. 'The train comes in five minutes,' she said. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'What did she say?' asked the girl. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'That the train is coming in five minutes.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station,' the man said. She smiled at him. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>'All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him. </p><p class="MsoNormal">'Do you feel better?' he asked. </p><p class="MsoNormal">'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.' </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">An Analysis</span><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">The author of "Hills Like White Elephants", Ernest Hemingway, does not reveal the source of conflict between the young man and young woman in the story, but it is implied that the conflict is centered on the decision of abortion. The goal of the man in the story is to convince the young<br /> woman to have an abortion procedure. The goal of the young woman is to do whatever it takes to make her partner happy and thus preserve their relationship. The young woman in the relationship is definitely the "giver," while the man is definitely the "taker."<br /><br />The young woman, Jig, shows herself to be very dependent upon her male counterpart throughout the story. She asks for his input on even the simplest of tasks, such as the choice and number of her beverages. She asks him, "What should we drink? ...Should we have another drink? ...Is it good with water?" Her behavior can be interpreted to be a sign of insecurity more than anything else. Jig trusts his judgment, feels secure in his company and seems willing to do anything to keep him around. When pushed on the issue of the operation, Jig shows no real concern for her own health or mental well-being, stating categorically, "I don't care about me." Jig's main concern is whether or not she can make her partner happy so that they will "Be all right and be happy." It is doubtful that Jig went through with the procedure with a clear conscience, which is why she was so insistent that they would not discuss the matter any further.<br /><br />The man in the story seems to be cold, insensitive, and a shameless manipulator. He is well aware of the necessity of his person to her sense of security, and takes every possible advantage accordingly. He does not seem to show any real respect to her person, even stating that "It's really an awfully simple procedure....It's not really an operation at all...It's just to let the air in." This statement either reveals that he is extremely naive or that he does not really care about the physical and psychological pain that Jig will undoubtedly experience as a result of this surgery. His main goal seems to be to get that abortion at any cost and thus avoid taking the responsibility of being a father.<br />One can only assume that the sexist overtone of this story is illustrative of the time in which it was written. Jig fears losing her significant other, as would most people, but there is a much more significant underlying issue. The young woman, trapped in her gender role of the time<br /> fears losing her companion much the way someone would fear losing a career. Society was structured in such a way that she could not go out and just make a living of her own, so she was most likely dependent on this man for her financial well-being. Furthermore, it would have been regarded as scandalous for this woman to be a single mother in this time. Jig simply could not risk losing her partner.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-6450162581331707692009-09-11T11:13:00.000-07:002009-09-11T11:13:00.598-07:00A Story Without A Title<div style="text-align: justify;">by: Anton Chekhov<br /><br />In the fifth century, just as now, the sun rose every morning and every evening retired to rest. In the morning, when the first rays kissed the dew, the earth revived, the air was filled with the sounds of rapture and hope; while in the evening the same earth subsided into silence and plunged into gloomy darkness. One day was like another, one night like another. From time to time a storm-cloud raced up and there was the angry rumble of thunder, or a negligent star fell out of the sky, or a pale monk ran to tell the brotherhood that not far from the monastery he had seen a tiger—and that was all, and then each day was like the next.<br /><br />The monks worked and prayed, and their Father Superior played on the organ, made Latin verses, and wrote music. The wonderful old man possessed an extraordinary gift. He played on the organ with such art that even the oldest monks, whose hearing had grown somewhat dull towards the end of their lives, could not restrain their tears when the sounds of the organ floated from his cell. When he spoke of anything, even of the most ordinary things—for instance of the trees, of the wild beasts, or of the sea—they could not listen to him without a smile or tears, and it seemed that the same chords vibrated in his soul as in the organ. If he were moved to anger or abandoned himself to intense joy, or began speaking of something terrible or grand, then a passionate inspiration took possession of him, tears came into his flashing eyes, his face flushed, and his voice thundered, and as the monks listened to him they felt that their souls were spell-bound by his inspiration; at such marvellous, splendid moments his power over them was boundless, and if he had bidden his elders fling themselves into the sea, they would all, every one of them, have hastened to carry out his wishes.<br /><br />His music, his voice, his poetry in which he glorified God, the heavens and the earth, were a continual source of joy to the monks. It sometimes happened that through the monotony of their lives they grew weary of the trees, the flowers, the spring, the autumn, their ears were tired of the sound of the sea, and the song of the birds seemed tedious to them, but the talents of their Father Superior were as necessary to them as their daily bread.<br /><br />Dozens of years passed by, and every day was like every other day, every night was like every other night. Except the birds and the wild beasts, not one soul appeared near the monastery. The nearest human habitation was far away, and to reach it from the monastery, or to reach the monastery from it, meant a journey of over seventy miles across the desert. Only men who despised life, who had renounced it, and who came to the monastery as to the grave, ventured to cross the desert.<br /><br />What was the amazement of the monks, therefore, when one night there knocked at their gate a man who turned out to be from the town, and the most ordinary sinner who loved life. Before saying his prayers and asking for the Father Superior’s blessing, this man asked for wine and food. To the question how he had come from the town into the desert, he answered by a long story of hunting; he had gone out hunting, had drunk too much, and lost his way. To the suggestion that he should enter the monastery and save his soul, he replied with a smile: “I am not a fit companion for you!”<br /><br />When he had eaten and drunk he looked at the monks who were serving him, shook his head reproachfully, and said:<br /><br />“You don’t do anything, you monks. You are good for nothing but eating and drinking. Is that the way to save one’s soul? Only think, while you sit here in peace, eat and drink and dream of beatitude, your neighbours are perishing and going to hell. You should see what is going on in the town! Some are dying of hunger, others, not knowing what to do with their gold, sink into profligacy and perish like flies stuck in honey. There is no faith, no truth in men. Whose task is it to save them? Whose work is it to preach to them? It is not for me, drunk from morning till night as I am. Can a meek spirit, a loving heart, and faith in God have been given you for you to sit here within four walls doing nothing?”<br /><br />The townsman’s drunken words were insolent and unseemly, but they had a strange effect upon the Father Superior. The old man exchanged glances with his monks, turned pale, and said:<br />“My brothers, he speaks the truth, you know. Indeed, poor people in their weakness and lack of understanding are perishing in vice and infidelity, while we do not move, as though it did not concern us. Why should I not go and remind them of the Christ whom they have forgotten?”<br /><br />The townsman’s words had carried the old man away. The next day he took his staff, said farewell to the brotherhood, and set off for the town. And the monks were left without music, and without his speeches and verses. They spent a month drearily, then a second, but the old man did not come back. At last after three months had passed the familiar tap of his staff was heard. The monks flew to meet him and showered questions upon him, but instead of being delighted to see them he wept bitterly and did not utter a word. The monks noticed that he looked greatly aged and had grown thinner; his face looked exhausted and wore an expression of profound sadness, and when he wept he had the air of a man who has been outraged.<br /><br />The monks fell to weeping too, and began with sympathy asking him why he was weeping, why his face was so gloomy, but he locked himself in his cell without uttering a word. For seven days he sat in his cell, eating and drinking nothing, weeping and not playing on his organ. To knocking at his door and to the entreaties of the monks to come out and share his grief with them he replied with unbroken silence.<br /><br />At last he came out. Gathering all the monks around him, with a tear-stained face and with an expression of grief and indignation, he began telling them of what had befallen him during those three months. His voice was calm and his eyes were smiling while he described his journey from the monastery to the town. On the road, he told them, the birds sang to him, the brooks gurgled, and sweet youthful hopes agitated his soul; he marched on and felt like a soldier going to battle and confident of victory; he walked on dreaming, and composed poems and hymns, and reached the end of his journey without noticing it.<br /><br />But his voice quivered, his eyes flashed, and he was full of wrath when he came to speak of the town and of the men in it. Never in his life had he seen or even dared to imagine what he met with when he went into the town. Only then for the first time in his life, in his old age, he saw and understood how powerful was the devil, how fair was evil and how weak and faint-hearted and worthless were men. By an unhappy chance the first dwelling he entered was the abode of vice. Some fifty men in possession of much money were eating and drinking wine beyond measure. Intoxicated by the wine, they sang songs and boldly uttered terrible, revolting words such as a God-fearing man could not bring himself to pronounce; boundlessly free, self-confident, and happy, they feared neither God nor the devil, nor death, but said and did what they liked, and went whither their lust led them. And the wine, clear as amber, flecked with sparks of gold, must have been irresistibly sweet and fragrant, for each man who drank it smiled blissfully and wanted to drink more. To the smile of man it responded with a smile and sparkled joyfully when they drank it, as though it knew the devilish charm it kept hidden in its sweetness.<br /><br />The old man, growing more and more incensed and weeping with wrath, went on to describe what he had seen. On a table in the midst of the revellers, he said, stood a sinful, half-naked woman. It was hard to imagine or to find in nature anything more lovely and fascinating. This reptile, young, long-haired, dark-skinned, with black eyes and full lips, shameless and insolent, showed her snow-white teeth and smiled as though to say: “Look how shameless, how beautiful I am.” Silk and brocade fell in lovely folds from her shoulders, but her beauty would not hide itself under her clothes, but eagerly thrust itself through the folds, like the young grass through the ground in spring. The shameless woman drank wine, sang songs, and abandoned herself to anyone who wanted her.<br /><br />Then the old man, wrathfully brandishing his arms, described the horse-races, the bull-fights, the theatres, the artists’ studios where they painted naked women or moulded them of clay. He spoke with inspiration, with sonorous beauty, as though he were playing on unseen chords, while the monks, petrified, greedily drank in his words and gasped with rapture.…<br /><br />After describing all the charms of the devil, the beauty of evil, and the fascinating grace of the dreadful female form, the old man cursed the devil, turned and shut himself up in his cell.…<br />When he came out of his cell in the morning there was not a monk left in the monastery; they had all fled to the town.</div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-11395890152736534312009-09-10T13:48:00.000-07:002009-09-10T13:48:00.239-07:00A Guide to Drama<span class="textni12"><p> </p></span><ul style="text-align: justify;"><li><span class="textb17"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Introduction</span> </span></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>The early history of drama is more difficult to chart accurately even than that of fiction or poetry, not least because there are so few English examples before the ‘mystery plays’ of the Middle Ages and a lack of clear ‘movements’ even after that. Furthermore, during certain periods, theatre has been marginalised or censored which hardly assists continuity. Barren periods in theatre have been more common and lengthy than in any other art form. Acting has been deemed at times to be unchristian, idolatrous and depraved or, worse, boring. Actors themselves have frequently been seen to be one of the humbler classes, and only towards the end of the 19<sup>th</sup> century did their status start to improve. It is only since the 16<sup>th</sup> century, in fact, that plays and players have been settled in theatres in England and that drama, as we know it, has taken shape.</p> <p>Unlike the theatre-based entertainments of the ancient world - where an audience would gather to watch plays looking down from the raised semi-circular viewing platforms of an amphitheatre - English drama was less fixed and grew up on the road. Travelling companies of players would arrive in a town or the court and put on one or more plays: some serious, some light, and often with religious subjects. Moreover, there was clearly much improvisation. For the uninitiated, an interesting and enlightening (albeit fictional) account of the medieval player’s lifestyle and art can be found in Barry Unsworth’s novel, <b>Morality Play</b> (1995).</p></span><br /><span class="textni12"></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></div><ul style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Mystery Play </span></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>It is the mystery play, in medieval times, that forms our first record of English dramatic art. Taken around nearby towns by actors made up of people from craft guilds, these plays were popular from the 13<sup>th</sup> to the 16<sup>th</sup> century. It was from the trade (or "mestier") of the performers that these plays take their "mystery" name, although initially the term "miracle play" was also given to them (strictly, though, those are plays depicting saints’ lives). These plays did not only surface in England, but were common in Ireland and on the continent too: in France, Italy and Germany. Many different plays would be performed at festivals or pageants in the towns, forming "cycles" taken from Biblical sources and stripped down to their core narrative elements – each one to be played by a particular guild (shipmen for Noah’s story, ironically enough, in York). The four complete surviving play cycles show that the plays alternated between the serious and devout (for the Passion etc.), and the humorous or absurd (frequently involving Satan making a fool of himself or profane husband and wife arguments). It is no surprise that even during their time, these extremely popular plays caused certain controversy due to their apparent idolatry and the Church’s distaste for religious pageantry. In fact, the plays were spreading the knowledge and understanding of Christianity and Biblical stories at a time when books were not commonly available. However, they were finally repressed out of existence at the time of the Reformation.</p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Morality Play </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>Morality plays were popular in the 15<sup>th</sup> century and for some time after. They saw contrasting human qualities and emotions personified, debating and acting as if they were human. Most famous of these works was <b>Everyman</b> (c.1509-19), which has regained popularity and respect in the 20<sup>th</sup> century and features characters such as Fellowship, Knowledge and Good Deeds. John Skelton’s <b>Magnyfycence</b> (date unknown) is another famous example, probably from approximately the same time and involving the eponymous character’s suffering due to bad advice, and his salvation by characters called Good- hope, Perseverance and the like. The morality plays faded from existence via the similar and sometimes indistinguishable "Interludes" and a new desire on the part of audiences, playwrights and actors to find realism in drama.</p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Interlude </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>The so-called interludes – popular in the 15<sup>th</sup> and 16<sup>th</sup> centuries - were still to a large degree allegorical, but they were considerably shorter and more commonly performed by professional actors. This was made possible by their small casts. Further, these plays moved away from the religious or moralistic and towards comedy - farce particularly – and humour centred on social stereotypes. John Heywood was an exponent of the form (see <b>A Play of Love</b> and <b>The Play of the Wether</b> (both 1533)), and served under Henry VIII and Queen Mary. John Rastell, brother-in-law of Sir Thomas More, was also a writer of interludes, including <b>Four Elements</b> (c.1520). The most well known example of an interlude is the play-within-a-play during Shakespeare’s <b>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</b> (c.1595) where various hopeless amateurs perform "Pyramus and Thisbe" for the entertainment of the principal characters.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The English Renaissance 1 </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>The English Renaissance brought with it startling change in drama. Its three great heroes: Christopher Marlowe, William Shakespeare and Ben Jonson all wrote plays which far outdid moralities and interludes with their extravagant style, wit and substance. Marlowe seems to have been a violent and even criminally inclined man, and something of this temperament (which finally led to his death in a Deptford tavern quarrelling over the bill!) shows through in his plays (see <b>Tamburlaine</b> particularly). Typically for the later 16<sup>th</sup> century<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>1</sup>See the detailed historical passages of Spenser\047s poem <b>The Faerie Queene</b> (1590 and 1596), the many history plays of Shakespeare, the <b>Civil Wars</b> that were the major work of poet Samuel Daniel (1595, complete 1609) and so on, with the considerable and consistent influence of Raphael Holinshed\047s <b>Chronicles</b> (1577), the first comprehensive history of England.</span>'; </script>, Marlowe wrote historical drama, and was a great influence upon the young Shakespeare. Particularly powerful were his enormously successful <b>Tamburlaine part 1</b> (written before 1587 and performed many times a year in London), its sequel (1588), and <b>Edward II</b> (1594) that has much in common with Shakespeare’s <b>Richard II</b> (1595) in its depiction of a king facing rebellion with a combination of frustration, anger and dignity. The bloody and horrific ending of <b>Tamburlaine part 1</b>, while hardly typical of Elizabethan drama, shows the extent to which playwrights could now serve up a potent combination of violence and poetry. Shakespeare’s <b>Coriolanus</b> (1608) especially seems to follow the horror of Marlowe’s play. Most famous of Marlowe’s other plays is <b>Dr. Faustus</b> (first performed 1594). This sinister but enduringly popular play, based on the German <b>Faustbuch</b> of 1587 follows the medieval fable of a man literally selling his soul to the devil. Besides the compelling dialogues between the devious Mephistopheles and Faustus, the play is notable for its occasional use of humans-made-bestial visual jokes (again, see <b> A Midsummer Night’s Dream</b>) and extravagant conceits that it is still impossible to stage accurately.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The English Renaissance 2 </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Shakespeare and Jonson</p> </b> <p>There is space elsewhere for a full discussion of Shakespeare, whose plays form the centre of all theatre from this time onwards. It is worth mentioning, however, that his early plays were quite conventional and historical or in some cases comic, and it was only with the success that they brought him that he started to write exceptionally: his later histories (<b>Henry V</b> (c. 1599) especially), middle period comedies (e.g. <b> Twelfth Night</b> (c. 1600),<b> Much Ado About Nothing</b> (c. 1600)) and tragedies (<b>King Lear</b> (c.1605), <b> Antony and Cleopatra</b> (c. 1606 etc.). Even in Shakespeare’s case, however, there is dispute about authorship and dramatic qualities. ‘Problem’ comedies such as <b>Measure for Measure</b> (1604) are so- called because of their subject matter and tone, which do not quite fit either the comic or tragic categories. The later plays, or ‘romances’ (e.g. <b>The Winter’s Tale</b> and <b>The Tempest</b> (both c. 1611)) present similar problems of classification but seem more playful and therefore more easily ascribed a different genre entirely. However, Shakespeare like his contemporaries was working with theatres rather than merely presenting street-features of the sort common a century before. As Andrew Gurr states, "One partial answer to the paradox of Elizabethan playwriting must lie in its novelty. Writing for regular London audiences in custom-built theatres with famous players was new, and the possibilities raised were boundless"<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>2</sup>Gurr, A., \042The Elizabethan Stage and Acting\042 in Ford, B. (ed.), <b>The Age of Shakespeare</b></span>'; </script>. Indeed, by the end of his career Shakespeare famously had his own theatre, The Globe, and could work around its physical limits (c.f. <b>The Tempest</b>). Shakespeare was certainly an innovator, especially linguistically (he added more new words to the English language than any other individual in history). However, the debt he owes to his sources (Holinshed etc.) for his stories, and to Marlowe and the Greeks for his form is not to be underestimated. Nor, of course, is the input of his actors. We do not have a single text written in his own hand, and must assume that certain revisions were made with the assistance of the players themselves.</p> <p>Another of Shakespeare’s sources was Thomas Kyd’s <b>The Spanish Tragedy</b> (1592), which influenced <b> Hamlet</b>. (c.1599-1601) not to mention other ‘Revenge Tragedies’ of the period and the work of JohnWebster. Ben Jonson was paid to add to the text of Kyd’s play and, like Shakespeare, was a player himself. Jonson’s plays, of which <b>Volpone</b> (1605-6) and <b>Bartholomew Fair</b> (1614) are the most famous, are characterised by their repugnant casts (see <b>The Alchemist</b> (1610) particularly) and biting satire. A friend of John Donne, Francis Bacon, and Shakespeare among others, Jonson was the toast of the literary scene during the reign of James I but managed to get himself imprisoned for his and his co-writers’ comments about Scots in <b>Eastward Hoe</b> (1605) and has been cruelly underrated since 1700 due to the snowballing fervour for Shakespeare’s plays.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Seventeenth Century </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>The 17<sup>th</sup> century was a time of considerable upheaval for the English theatre. After reaching its heyday during the 1600s, it saw its great Elizabethan and early Jacobean exponents dying with no obvious followers. Worse, plays were overtaken by masques as the court entertainment of choice and banned for a time causing the closure of theatres. These were a combination of poetry, music and spectacle. Beaumont and Fletcher, together and separately, greatly influenced the theatre of the time with <b>Four Plays in One</b> (c.1608), <b>Philaster</b> (1609), <b>The Maid’s Tragedy</b> (1610-11) and others. These plays showed ever more sophistication in dialogue, inflated sentiment and a general steering away from the reality-chic of the Elizabethan age. Where in the 16<sup>th</sup> century there had been a truly varied audience for theatrical performances, in the mid-17<sup>th</sup> century this had been replaced by an aristocratic set. Plays were made more self-consciously refined and structurally complicated to suit their new audience by the playwrights of the day, while type-casting created actors who suited certain parts only. This was the time of heroic drama as catalysed by the works of Roger Boyle and Robert Howard, followed up by Elkanah Settle and Thomas Otway, and made in quantity and with some finesse by poet laureate and populist John Dryden (see <b>Tyrannic Love</b> (1669) etc.). However, with the exception of his blank verse tragedy, <b>All for Love</b> (1678) that he derived from Shakespeare’s <b>Antony and Cleopatra</b> (c.1606-7), heroic drama was a strange and ephemeral beast. Evans suggests that only psychologists are likely to find these plays interesting "for they suggest that an audience whose life was governed by cynicism found some relief in this dream-world picture of a fantastic conception of honour"<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>3</sup>Evans, I., <b>A Short History of English Literature</b> (1940)</span>'; </script>. Certainly, the plays are little performed now, and seem likely to linger in footnotes of literary textbooks.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Restoration Comedy </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>Restoration drama is best known, then, not for its tragedies but for its comedies: bawdy and immoral or amoral depending on your point of view they satirise 17<sup>th</sup> century society with verve and hilarious panache. While mere shadows of the comedies of Jonson or Shakespeare, the plays of William Wycherley, George Farquhar, Sir George Etherege and William Congreve are far superior to the works of the next century. Their characters reel about the stage with exaggerated extravagance and ridiculous affectation: the best example of this being Sir Fopling Flutter in Etherege’s <b>The Man of Mode</b> (1676). Congreve’s <b>Love for Love</b> (1695) and <b>The Way of the World</b> (1700) are similar and extremely amusing in their portraits of love and the social strain of marriage. The relatively realistic but somewhat ham-fisted Farquhar is best known for <b>The Beaux’ Stratagem</b> (1707), while the rather different and morally fierce (in the Jonsonean sense) Wycherley achieved renown for <b>The Country Wife</b> (c.1675). These comedies, especially <b>The Country Wife</b> caused great controversy for their apparently licentious subject matter, and gave comedy something of a bad name (or perhaps a rightful notoriety that it now lacks to its cost). Predominantly prose-based, they were so cynical and bawdy as to offend the new audience of the theatre with frivolity and sexual innuendoes, sexually charged widows and absurd fops. Jeremy Collier’s attack upon these plays, <b>A Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage</b> (1698), led to the prosecution of Congreve and generally shook up the theatrical world. Though now the best known, it was not the only savaging of contemporary theatre by any stretch of the imagination. These attacks did nothing for drama, however. The plays of Farquhar and the rest turned out to be the dying gasp of the great period of theatre that had begun one and a half centuries before. Not until the 20<sup>th</sup> century would new dramatic works be written with such success conceptually and artistically.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Sheridan and Goldsmith </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>In TS Eliot’s <b>A Dialogue of Dramatic Poetry</b>, we hear the claim that "There is no precedent for a nation having two great periods of drama". After Restoration comedy had faded out, one could have been forgiven for presuming that England was going to fail absolutely to buck that trend. It is hard to find any real continuity in drama at the best of times, it being a form moulded around (fickle) popular tastes to a greater degree even than fiction. As Raymond Williams claims, "Drama often shows more clearly and more quickly than the other art, the deep patterns and changes in our general ideas of reality"<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>4</sup>In Ford, B. (ed.), <b>The Pelican Guide to English Literature Vol. VII</b> (1961)</span>'; </script>. However, even despite the lack of continuity and the inevitable changes in popular taste, it is strange how neglected drama became after the 1700. The situation was not helped by the second-rate work of Colley Cibber who was much more concerned about spectacle and fame than literary worth: see <b>The Careless Husband</b> (1704) and the work of contemporary Richard Steele (<b>The Tender Husband</b> (1705) etc.). Only with Richard Sheridan’s fame after <b>The Rivals</b> (1775) and his later acclaimed work, <b>The School for Scandal</b> (1777), was there some kind of resurgence in the quality of new theatrical writing. However, these were not plays of any great gravity or depth, and did not actually stretch comic theatre far from Congreve and all (although by this time the Restoration comedies were playing in toned-down versions leading to a situation in the 19<sup>th</sup> century where they were ignored completely). Even Sheridan came to drama by accident when hit by poverty in the early 1770s due to various difficulties concerning his marriage to Eliza Linley. A satirist who wrote with wit and an easy sense of how to captivate the audience while mocking the hypocrisy of the world, Sheridan was effectively ruined by drama itself, sent into debt by the purchase of a theatre and payment of actors’ wages.</p> <p>Other than Sheridan, only Oliver Goldsmith genuinely merits a mention as a significant dramatist of the time. Primarily, Goldsmith was a novelist (see <b>The Vicar of Wakefield</b>) but in the late 1760s took to writing plays, starting with the well-received comedy <b>The Good Natur’d Man</b> in 1768. He reacted strongly against the playwriting of the period (see Richardson, Sterne etc.): what "London Magazine" termed, "that monster called Sentimental Comedy", and was therefore considered a literary hero of sorts for a while. <b> She Stoops to Conquer</b> (1773) was a particular success with its amusing premise of a man mistakenly staying at a private house under the impression that it is an inn and, under this illusion, making love to the daughter of the ‘landlord’, thinking she is a servant girl.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Early Nineteenth Century </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>The first half of the 19<sup>th</sup> century was notable in drama for being a time when numerous great poets were writing, almost none of them wanting to write for the theatre. One exception was Shelley, who wrote <b>The Cenci</b> – a verse melodrama much indebted to Shakespeare - in 1819. It was not to be performed in his time, though, because its main concerns were incest and atheism. These were not popular or accepted subjects for the wealthy middle-classes who attended plays and possessed far less enthusiasm and intelligence than those of the Elizabethan or Jacobean ages.</p> <p>One of the greatest problems faced by playwrights during the nineteenth century was the fact that where once the stage had represented on some level a version of life in court or home, now it bore little resemblance to the society it intended to portray, let alone the individuals within it. Therefore, with no contemporary drama to speak of, even versions of older plays were unremarkable. Certainly, there existed at this time fine critics such as William Hazlitt and Thomas De Quincey writing about drama, but there was little modern for them to focus upon. Even the great Lord Byron, writing in Italy, could not raise the standard with his poorly received plays from 1821 such as <b>The Two Foscari</b> and <b>Cain</b>. For a man of his time, Byron was surprisingly interested in the field of drama, but could do little to restore it to greatness, remaining best known for his verse.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Later Victorians </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>Thomas William Robertson was initially an actor and only turned to writing for the stage upon his retirement at the age of thirty-five. He was to be one of the few figures of dignity in 19<sup>th</sup> century theatre. Realising the lack of realism and contemporary feeling in plays, he attempted to spin a natural and life-like web around his comedies. Best known now for his play <b>Caste</b> (1829-71), Robertson began with reasonably well-received works such as <b>David Garrick</b> (1864) and <b>Ours</b> (1866). Though slightly crude and artless to read, the plays seem less cripplingly sentimental or melodramatic when presented on stage. This argument would not have convinced WB Yeats, though. Defining the bookish era of the Modernist – he proclaimed, half a century later, "We do not think a play can be worth acting and not worth reading".</p> <p>To put Robertson’s mediocre achievements in perspective, at this time the Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen was writing <b>Peer Gynt</b> (1867) and was only a decade away from his great play <b>The Doll’s House</b> (1879). It was Ibsen and none of the mid-19<sup>th</sup> century English writers who came to influence the development of the play in the 20<sup>th</sup> century. Possessed of a greater poetic style by far than that of his British contemporaries, he has (unusually for a Scandinavian) been wholly accepted in England. This is perhaps because he wrote during this appalling vacuum of quality drama in England, just as Boccaccio is accepted as the greatest storyteller of the medieval world before Chaucer partially for sheer lack of competition.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Wilde and Bernard Shaw </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>With the background of Gilbert and Sullivan’s English comic operettas, which set the tone for turn of the 20<sup>th</sup> century drama<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>5</sup>Indeed Wilde forms a background for them: in <b>Patience</b> (1881), Gilbert poked fun at Wilde\047s \042Art for art\047s sake\042 pretensions.</span>'; </script>, the brilliantly witty Oscar Wilde shot to fame briefly before finding himself imprisoned for his then-illegal homosexual activities. His first two plays (<b>Vera</b> (1883) and <b>The Duchess of Padua</b> (1891)) shared much with the drama of the earlier half of the century in that they were dull and insignificant. However, due to his considerable powers of satire, his eye for society’s details, and his peculiarly wonderful way with insults and aphorisms, Wilde achieved great success with <b>A Woman of No Importance</b> (1893), <b> An Ideal Husband</b> (1895) and <b>The Importance of Being Earnest</b> (1895). These followed the initial popular triumph of <b>Lady Windermere’s Fan</b> (1892) and have become popular again in the 1990s and 2000s.</p> <p>At the start of the 20<sup>th</sup> century, a new group of playwrights emerged combining wit and thought in a way (Wilde aside) unheard of in England since the early 18<sup>th</sup> century. William Butler Yeats tried his hand at drama, adding his Irish mysticism and a lyrical element to<b> The Countess Cathleen</b> (1892) and <b> The Land of the Heart’s Desire</b> (1894). Far greater in a dramatic sense was Yeats’s friend and fellow Irishman John Millington Synge who wrote a controversial but honest comic account of the Irish character in <b>The Playboy of the Western World</b> (1907). Various other plays by Synge have lasted well and are worth investigation, including the tragedy <b>Riders to the Sea</b> (1904) and his late success <b>Red Roses for Me</b> (1946). In the late 1910s and 1920s, W. Somerset Maugham – already famed for his prose fiction – was inspired by the new vogue in dramatic writing and indulged with two refined comedies: <b>Caesar’s Wife</b> and <b>Home and Beauty</b> (both 1919) and various other ever more cynical and Restoration comedy- like plays.</p> <p>However, it was the work of George Bernard Shaw that truly astounds and at the time re-enlivened the stage. In an extraordinarily long life and writing career, Shaw went from working as a notable critic of the theatre to being its best author with <b>Man and Superman</b> (1903), <b>Pygmalion</b> (1913), <b>Heartbreak House</b> (1919) and vast swathes of other exceptionally intelligent and idea-based plays in the vein of Ibsen (who he greatly admired). He wrote with ease on subjects that made others uneasy such as prostitution and narcissism, but with brave honesty expressed in the unrepressed voices of his characters. A difficult man with strong opinions, Shaw used his comedies as ammunition in his personal fight against the foolish assumptions of the masses.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Twentieth Century </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>The attempts of TS Eliot to contribute to verse drama were not so much unsuccessful as unwanted. It is hard to find even an Eliot fanatic who will claim that the plays add much to the corpus of English dramatic literature. <b>Murder in the Cathedral</b> (1935), a play in verse about the death of Thomas Becket, remains the best known and favourite of his dramas, coming after his ambitious fragments, <b>Sweeney Agonistes</b> (1932) and <b>The Rock</b> (1934). <b>The Family Reunion</b> (1939), <b>The Cocktail Party</b> (1950) and suchlike did not lack ideas – the former having something of the conceptual background of his poem <b> "Burnt Norton"</b> - but failed to find an audience. He misunderstood (or more likely ignored) the nature of a theatre audience and its desires as much as he did that of poetry. But the poetic form is more forgiving than drama and pretension less a sin in a poet than a necessity. This has never been true of playwrights. As such, like WH Auden’s plays (with Christopher Isherwood, e.g. <b>The Dance of Death</b> (1935)), Eliot’s were somewhat specialist and have only been kept alive by their author’s fame in the field of poetry. It is ironic that Eliot’s greatest West End success has been Andrew Lloyd Webber’s goldmine musical <b>Cats</b> (1981-) based upon the distinctly light and Edward Lear-esque <b>Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats</b> (1939).</p> <p>With the unstoppable rise of the cinema, the 1930s and 1940s became times that saw better actors than they did dramatists: particularly since Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud and others of their ilk took to the stage. Despite or perhaps because of their popularity, JB Priestley (<b>An Inspector Calls</b> (1947)) and the most witty and camp writer since Wilde, Noel Coward (notably <b>Fallen Angels</b> (1925) and <b>Private Lives</b> (1933)), were not taken very seriously. However, Priestley is studied in schools regularly and Coward is now having something of a comeback on the stage. The latter’s screenplays from the time of World War II, such as <b>Brief Encounter</b> (1944), are of equal interest however.</p> <p>This is, of course, the problem with later 20<sup>th</sup> century drama: cinema wins audiences outright with its faster, and therefore modern, pace and infinitely wider possibilities. Certainly, the theatre has its uniquely intimate setting, and the cinema cannot compete (except with volume and visual extravagance). However, despite the positive effect of the fiercely contemporary and effective <b>Look Back in Anger</b> (1956) by John Osborne, Samuel Beckett’s radical <b>Waiting for Godot</b> (1956) and the influence of various American writers (particularly Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller and David Mamet), the 20<sup>th</sup> century has seen cinema and television rule over most of the Western World. The theatre, steadfastly and with good intentions, has held its metaphorical nose aloft and refused to pander to the desires of the masses. It has therefore lost all but a narrow and specialist audience. In doing so, it has provoked some sympathy but far more of the cynicism that follows opera around and the repulsive whiff of irrelevance and inherent snobbery. John Freeman’s recent attack upon the conventional view of theatre is shocking but rings true too often for comfort:</p> <p>"We have been duped into believing that theatre is entertaining, that it is instructional, that it is celebratory, that it is cathartic… Mainstream theatre does not entertain. If it did we would go more often… Theatre is not good for us and cinema bad. It’s a class argument and beyond contempt. Why would <b>Pulp Fiction</b> be harmful and <b>Medea</b> not?"<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>6</sup>Freeman, J., in \042The Guardian\042, 4th October 2000</span>'; </script></p> <p>Although Freeman goes too far in writing off drama, he does summarise rather effectively the counter argument to the absurd ‘theatre is better than cinema’ stance. Further, he is correct about diminishing audiences. We go in our hordes to musicals because they are fun and entertaining or sad and moving. We watch films for the same reason. We go to the theatre to receive a blessing from the god of high art. This is absurd. Marlowe, Jonson, Shakespeare, Wycherley and the rest – even heavy-handed old Dryden – did not write for an audience of fawning zombies. Without more reaction than a polite handclap and our suspect claims that the play ‘improved’ us, the theatre will (if it has not completely already) stagnate once again and become the immaterial minority interest it was between the Restoration and the late 19<sup>th</sup> century. Certainly, it is true that theatre will become an irrelevance without an audience. We must not fall prey of the easy and foolish belief that sitting on an uncomfortable seat peering at an unconvincing stage set and some actors we can barely see the expressions of is a more profound or ‘good’ experience than those to be found on the big or small screen. Instead, a new and popular direction is needed more <span class="textni12">desperately than in either poetry or fiction. Otherwise, stage drama is likely to become the province of critics alone – a disturbing prospect if ever there was one.</span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-88957715071751575502009-09-05T13:13:00.000-07:002009-09-05T13:13:00.412-07:00Fabliau<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fabliau</span>. The medieval fabliau was a short comic or satiric tale in verse dealing realistically with middle-class or lower-class characters and delighting in the ribald; its favorite theme is the cuckolding of a stupid husband. (Professor Douglas Bush neatly characterized the type as "a short story broader than it is long.") The fabliau flourished in France in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and became popular in England during the fourteenth century. Chaucer, who wrote one of the greatest serious short stories in verse, the account of Death and the rioters in "The Pardoner's Tale," also wrote one of the best fabliaux, the hilarious "Miller's Tale."</div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-60056015805158122652009-09-04T11:03:00.000-07:002009-09-04T11:03:00.491-07:00Birthday Party<div style="text-align: left;">It is a very short, but very deep story about a birthday party in a restaurant which is supposed to make the couples happy but ends in sobs. I suggest not to read it only one time. Try reading as much and you will definitely find new points each time. At the bottom an analysis is presented to make you think more on the story.</div><br />by: Katharine Brush<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">They were a couple in their late thirties, and they looked unmistakably married.<br />They sat on the banquette opposite us in a little narrow restaurant, having dinner. The<br />man had a round, self-satisfied face, with glasses on it; the woman was fadingly pretty, in<br />a big hat.<br /><br />There was nothing conspicuous about them, nothing particularly noticeable, until<br />the end of their meal, when it suddenly became obvious that this was an Occasion—in<br />fact, the husband’s birthday, and the wife had planned a little surprise for him.<br />It arrived, in the form of a small but glossy birthday cake, with one pink candle<br />burning in the center. The headwaiter brought it in and placed it before the husband, and<br />meanwhile the violin-and-piano orchestra played “Happy Birthday to You,” and the wife<br />beamed with shy pride over her little surprise, and such few people as there were in the<br />restaurant tried to help out with a pattering of applause. It became clear at once that help<br />was needed, because the husband was not pleased. Instead, he was hotly embarrassed,<br />and indignant at his wife for embarrassing him.<br /><br />You looked at him and you saw this and you thought, “Oh, now, don’t be like<br />that!” But he was like that, and as soon as the little cake had been deposited on the table,<br />and the orchestra had finished the birthday piece, and the general attention had shifted<br />from the man and the woman, I saw him say something to her under his breath—some<br />punishing thing, quick and curt and unkind. I couldn’t bear to look at the woman then, so<br />I stared at my plate and waited for quite a long time. Not long enough, though. She was<br />still crying when I finally glanced over there again. Crying quietly and heartbrokenly and<br />hopelessly, all to herself, under the gay big brim of her best hat.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">An Analysis</span><br />Katharine Brush's short story "Birthday Party" reveals how joyless a marriage can be when spouses are too unimaginative to stray from the bourgeois notions of how a man-woman relationship should function. Brush writes of a sweet and sensitive wife who takes her husband out to eat on his<br />birthday. Instead of being pleased when the wife surprises her husband with a cake, the husband is cross and unkind. Upon noticing her husband's displeasure, the wife sits crying submissively. In true post World War II style, the husband has asserted his role as head of the household too practical for frivolous romance and the wife sadly obeys his wishes for practicality and convention.<br />The story's opening sentence describes the couple as somewhat bland and certainly normal. The statement that they are in their "late thirties" and appear "unmistakably married" (line one) immediately categorizes them and therefore stereotypes them. The fact that they sit in a "narrow"<br />(line two) restaurant suggests that with their bland, stable demeanor, perhaps they are narrow-minded. With the couple's strict regard for the appropriate behavior of a man and wife, as is evident later in the text, they certainly have narrow perceptions of proper marriage etiquette. The man is plain looking, almost non-descript, except for Brush's hint that he has a "self-satisfied face" (line three)---he is confident about himself, but even more importantly with where he stands as man of the house. His wife, a regular June Cleaver, is "fadingly pretty" (line three), implying perhaps that she still has a degree of youthfulness to her but for the most part is no longer a vivacious belle---and probably never was in the first place because she is too bland and normal ever to have been vivacious or truly beautiful. Brush further emphasizes how bourgeois the couple is with telling diction; the couple was not "conspicuous" or "particularly noticeable" (line four). Brush even mocks the couple's birthday dinner by capitalizing their event---it was an "Occasion" (line five). She sarcastically reveals that it is the husband's birthday and that the wife has pulled together a "little surprise" (line six) for him, demeaning the wife's plans by calling them little.<br /><br />The description of the next scene unearths the contrast between the wife's behavior to her husband's. The wife still has a certain amount of youthful spirit to her---like a child, she still takes delight in planing a surprise for someone and being privy to the secret. The husband, however, fails to find anything about the "small but glossy birthday cake" (line seven) as cute or amusing. The single candle on the tiny cake is perhaps representative of the couple's romance. Instead of glowing with passion and intensity, the candle---and the couple's marriage---presents one timid flame. In an attempt to salvage the marriage's romance, the wife hired a violin-and-piano "orchestra"---sarcastic diction that ironically diminishes the impressiveness of the band, even though these two instruments are typically associated with love---play the "Happy Birthday" song, but, again, her husband fails to enjoy the moment. He disapproves of his wife's efforts to entertain him. "With shy pride" (line ten), the wife beams upon the cake and orchestra---she does it shyly because she is afraid of expressing her emotions too candidly since it would not be "respectable" according to post World War II society for her to appear excited. People in the restaurant give a polite and almost desperate applause, but the husband is "hotly embarrassed" (line twelve about his wife's "little surprise".<br />In the final paragraph, Brush clearly reveals her sentiments about the husband's response, coloring him as cruel and "unkind" (line eighteen). The line "You looked at him and you saw this and you thought, 'Oh, now don't be like that!" and the author's italicization of the word "be"<br />implies a certain amount of disgust for a husband who is trying to crush his wife's jovial spirit. With a spit of contempt, Brush adds that "he was like that" (line fifteen), intensifying her anger and disapprobation of his meanness. Brush supplies a list of words to describe what the husband muttered to his wife as "some punishing thing, quick and curt and unkind" (line eighteen). The lengthened syntax in this sentence has the feel of the husband's criticism of his wife for essentially being sweet to him. He comes off as a nasty man too concerned with his macho, stoical reputation to take a moment to be nice to his wife and thank her for remembering his birthday.<br /><br />"Birthday Party" is an ironic story with an ironic title. What this husband and wife experience is certainly no party, but merely another miserable episode in their unenviable marriage. Katherine Brush laments the state of bourgeois relations between men and women, while ultimately commenting on the gradual and inevitable death of romance in American society. As people make more room in their hearts for their love of "respectability", the less room they have left in their hearts for spousal love and simple pleasures.<br /></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-9951126996421995172009-08-25T13:41:00.000-07:002009-08-25T13:41:00.237-07:00A Guide to Poetry<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Anglo-Saxon Period </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Vikings, Dragons, Visions and Loneliness</p> </b> <p>The first poetry to have been written in the English tongue was that of the Anglo-Saxon period. Due to the lack of a printing press until the 15<sup>th</sup> century and the fact that this was largely a pre-literate society, it was necessary for poets to employ complex systems of rhyme, familiar repeated phrases and alliteration to make their verse memorable as well as beautiful. Poems transmitted ideas. Surviving examples include histories celebrating bravery even in defeat by marauding Vikings (<b>"The Battle of Maldon"<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>1</sup>Dates of individual texts during the Anglo-Saxon period are unknown, but the historical battle of Maldon was fought in 991 AD against Danish raiders at Maldon in Essex.</span>'; </script><sup><a href="http://www.bibliomania.com/0/2/273/1886/24885/1.html#" class="notes" onmouseover="if (isMacIE) {overlib(arMenu1[9])}; + popUp('elMenu1',event)" onmouseout="if (isMacIE) {nd()}; + popDown('elMenu1')">1</a></sup></b>), religious writings (versions of <b>Genesis</b> and <b>Exodus</b> among other Biblical stories; and ‘dream-vision’ poems such as <b>"The Dream of the Rood"</b>) and a fair number of lewd riddles. For a culture we know relatively little about and from which survives only a small and random selection of texts (a mere 30,000 lines of poetry, in fact), Anglo-Saxon poetry offers an extremely rich and wide range of literature. Poems such as <b>"The Wanderer"</b>, <b>"The Seafarer"</b>, and <b>"The Wife’s Lament"</b> articulate profound sadness and alienation felt in a culture with little religious certainty (torn as it was between pagan and Christian beliefs) and the destabilizing effect of unpredictable and vicious Scandinavian invasions. In the six centuries before the Norman Conquest of 1066, a versatile oral poetic tradition had developed. What survives of this was finally written down towards the end of the period.</p> <p>The purpose of this poetry was clearly to educate and confirm new religious thinking. Christianity existed in tandem with the old beliefs for a century or more – old beliefs die hard. The most famous Old English poem, <b>Beowulf</b> (probably written in the later 8<sup>th</sup> century), acknowledges and mourns the passing of the pre-Christian heroic age – of monsters such as Grendel and the dragon – but with the wisdom of maturity and understanding of transience. The hero’s weapons and treasures symbolic of the dying pagan time are buried at the end "as useless to men as at that former time".</p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textb17"><br /></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textb17"> The Middle Ages </span> </p></span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Talking Pearls and Geoffrey Chaucer</p> </b> <p>Inevitably, some of the traditions of Anglo-Saxon poetry survived into the Middle Ages. Poems such as <b>"The Owl and the Nightingale"</b> (circa 1200) retain the familiar alliterative style and a tendency to anthropomorphize and therefore have animals and inanimate objects speaking as if human. Similarly, heroic journey stories did not die with <b>Beowulf</b> by any means and ‘romances’ such as <b>King Horn</b> (c. 1225) were common in the 13<sup>th</sup> century. The next century brought a number of Christian moral poems (<b>Piers Plowman</b> (c. 1367-70) and the Gawain poet’s dream vision poem about a lost daughter and the New Jerusalem which is referred to as <b>"Pearl"</b> (c.1400)). It was Chaucer, though, above Langland, Gower or Malory who is considered foremost in 14<sup>th</sup> century literature. His <b>Troilus and Criseyde</b>, tells a tragic love story set in the time of the siege at Troy and is still much revered for its majesty and impeccable construction in rhyme-royal verse. More famous, though, and more varied are <b>The Canterbury Tales</b> which surely need little introduction. This cornucopia of stories - derivative of Boccaccio’s <b>Decameron</b> both for certain plots and in being a varied selection of tales spoken by different characters – has remarkable scope. A group of pilgrims from the lowliest (a miller) to the noblest (a knight) tell each other a series of variously polite, lewd, scandalous and satirical stories in a selection of different verse forms. Chaucer was a respected member of society but could rarely resist a jibe at the expense of the corrupt (the Summoner), the absurd (the Monk) or the vain (the Prioress). Meanwhile he allows himself a wry smile when depicting unconventional social dissidents like the Wife of Bath. Chaucer’s sense of humour sets him apart from the more tiresomely heroic and religious writers of the Middle Ages.</p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Renaissance </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Rhetoric, the Court and Sexualizing Fleas</p> </b> <p>However, as in the case of prose fiction, the flourishing of poetry came with Caxton’s printing press. Indeed Chaucer, Malory (author of <b>Le Morte D’Arthur</b>) and suchlike were the first authors to be printed by Caxton. By the 1470s these were ‘classics’, no less. It was in the 16<sup>th</sup> century, though, that the great period of English poetry began and - some would say – ended: the English Renaissance. C S Lewis, the great 20<sup>th</sup> century critic of medieval literature described<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>2</sup>Lewis\047s <b>The Allegory of Love</b> (1936) is unsurpassed as a unified theory of this period and beyond.</span>'; </script><sup><a href="http://www.bibliomania.com/0/2/273/1886/24887/1.html#" class="notes" onmouseover="if (isMacIE) {overlib(arMenu1[9])}; + popUp('elMenu1',event)" onmouseout="if (isMacIE) {nd()}; + popDown('elMenu1')">2</a></sup> two periods in the 16<sup>th</sup> century. The first, the "Drab", was personified principally by Wyatt (sometimes seen as a forerunner of Donne) and Skelton; while the second, the "Golden", is of less esoteric interest to the modern reader. The masters of the Elizabethan and early Jacobean poetic ages have managed to retain their vitality for four centuries. Perhaps due to their perfection of the love sonnet or the ambition of their grander works, Sir Philip Sidney, Edmund Spenser, William Shakespeare and Samuel Daniel especially have retained their power to express longing and desire exceptionally well. Each of these writers wrote beautiful verse sequences to imaginary or actual lovers alongside their famous major works in poetry, plays and prose. Versatility was vital, as evidenced by the popular concept of following the poetic (specifically Virgilian) career running from pastoral early works to a mature epic, with love poetry as a personal and passionate side project. Only Spenser followed this pattern precisely: experimenting with pastoral ‘eclogues’ in <b>The Shepheardes Calender</b> (1579) before starting work on his Arthurian epic poem <b>The Faerie Queene</b> (1590 and 1596) in which he innovated a rhyme scheme totally unsuited to the English language’s word-endings in imitation of continental sonneteers. The poetic masterpieces of the age were assisted – made possible even - by the existence of a system of patronage whereby aristocrats would effectively commission poets to praise them in verse. Elizabeth I inevitably received the most lavish praise.</p> <p>By the time of John Donne’s poems in the 1590s and the early 17<sup>th</sup> century, however, patronage was becoming hard to attain and as such he wrote to numerous different aristocratic women, developing a novel ‘metaphysical’ style, crammed with metaphors and born of understandable insecurity about his subjects’ interest in his verse. Donne was unusual in his frank, if obtuse, declarations of the dark inspirations for love; in Spenser and Sidney, love had tended to be either pure or impure. The continued popularity of Donne’s poems can be put down to their amusingly innocuous subject matter: most famously the pseudo- sexual mixture of lovers’ blood allowed for by <b>"The Flea"</b>. If his later religious poetry and sermons appeal less to the modern taste, then than is not for any diminished poetic sensibility on his part. He continued to envision life and belief as a series of allegories and metaphors (the hill of truth etc.). Only Marvell (a poetic non-entity in his time) in the later 17th century competed with the ambitious and dark metaphysical conceits of Donne in <b>"The Garden"</b> and <b>"To his Coy Mistress"</b>. The Earl of Rochester, though, merits a mention for the sheer sordidness of his poetic experiments in the metaphysical style and for being the most sexually frank poet in English before the 20<sup>th</sup> century.</p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Eighteenth Century </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore</p> </b> <p>Alexander Pope was the next poet of note and fame. His <b>The Rape of the Lock</b> (1712) and <b>"Windsor Forest"</b> (1713) particularly have remained traditional school texts long past their respective expiry dates. His wit has not aged terribly well and his poetry is of predominantly historical and technical interest. Yet, he has had his followers in the 20<sup>th</sup> century in the form of Leavis and Empson who credit his poems with complexity and variation<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>3</sup>It should be noted at this point, however, that Leavis attacked Milton, Spenser, Shelley and others. Pope was a key figure in his own peculiar conception of the history of poetry. Meanwhile, Empson wrote extraordinarily difficult and technically dexterous poetry, which is by his own confession almost puzzle-like. This puts their praise in some kind of context.</span>'; </script><sup><a href="http://www.bibliomania.com/0/2/273/1886/24889/1.html#" class="notes" onmouseover="if (isMacIE) {overlib(arMenu1[9])}; + popUp('elMenu1',event)" onmouseout="if (isMacIE) {nd()}; + popDown('elMenu1')">3</a></sup>. The 19<sup>th</sup> century view of his poetry as tedious, however, dwells. Back then, W L Bowles referred to Pope’s poetry as being akin to "a game of cards", and even this seems unduly generous.</p> <p>The rise of the novel after 1740 as good as ended the tradition of epic poetry as espoused by Milton and Spenser. More than this, it diminished the number of writers choosing to write only or predominantly in verse. Dr Samuel Johnson’s <b>"London"</b> (1738) and sporadically written other poems in English and Latin are interesting but not as compelling as his prose. Until the later part of the 18<sup>th</sup> century, in fact, poets were people to write about, not to be. This was not least due to the fact that there was no money in writing poetry and certainly no patrons. This Johnson found out to his cost, living in poverty writing (very fine) hack journalism for magazines such as "The Idler" for much of his life. It is little surprise then that William Blake, writing at the end of the 18<sup>th</sup> century, published and illustrated his own poetry. Described as ‘mystical’, this was written in long lines of violently inspired verse and is quite unlike anything before or since. His personal mythology fills his <b>Book of Thel</b>, the more famous <b>Songs of Innocence</b> in 1789, and is present in his <b>Songs of Experience</b> (1794) that contains some of his more approachable verse. At the time, though, Blake did not find an audience for his work. It was only as the new vanguard of Romantic poets such as Wordsworth began to compare him favourably to Scott and Byron that his positive reputation started to take shape.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Early Romantics </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Opium, Opium Everywhere</p> </b> <p>Poems were to a great extent no longer public by the 1790s. Poets began to look inward for inspiration and the Romantic movement was born. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote of inner torment in <b>"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"</b> and <b>"This Lime Tree Bower My Prison"</b>, as well as mystical (or rather narcotic) visionary poetry in his justly revered <b>"Kubla Khan"<script> arMenu1[9] = '<span class="footnote"><sup>4</sup>All these poems were written between July 1797 and September 1798 when Coleridge worked closely with Wordsworth. Coleridge\047s earlier poems are interesting but rarely as subtle or well-written as those for which he is famed.</span>'; </script><sup><a href="http://www.bibliomania.com/0/2/273/1886/24890/1.html#" class="notes" onmouseover="if (isMacIE) {overlib(arMenu1[9])}; + popUp('elMenu1',event)" onmouseout="if (isMacIE) {nd()}; + popDown('elMenu1')">4</a></sup></b>. The world of inner sorrows was reflected in this poetry’s vision of the outside, in pathetic fallacy. Like Wordsworth, Coleridge was inconsistent. When he borrows the setting and concerns of the Gothic vogue in <b>"Christabel"</b> he writes some absolutely dire and embarrassingly self-consciously titillating verse (predictably the poem does have its admirers). It is with the torment of the mariner in <b>"The Rime…"</b> and the lonely voyage of guilt on the ghostly sea, where even the creatures of the water and the sun’s light seem to mimic his emotions, that he achieves true sublimity. This was the poetry of escape through the written word, of joyful appreciation of nature and loneliness. In this vein, <b>"Dejection: an Ode"</b> (1802) explores the destructive effects of opium addiction, but soon after his move to the continent in 1804 his poetry took a turn for the worse and his opinions to the conservative. He became, of course, a critic.</p> <p>Wordsworth’s career followed a similar pattern: beginning with their joint venture <b>Lyrical Ballads</b> (1798), he went on to write of and from suffering (the early deaths two of his children etc. – see <b>"Surprised by joy"</b> (1815)) before settling down into conservative and patriotic ways to the great chagrin of his young poetic admirers. He did, however, go on to write the substantial and admired <b>The Prelude</b>, published posthumously in 1850. His ambition was to write in the language of the common man, for the sake of purity and comprehensibility. This hardly fits with his later near-snobbish attitudes, but it was an aim that would inform the poetry of Thomas Hardy and Philip Larkin.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Later Romantics </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Live Fast, Write Young</p> </b> <p>The early 19<sup>th</sup> century produced many enduringly appreciated but short-lived poets: notably Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats, and Lord Byron (a close friend of the former). Considered to be the second phase of ‘Romantic’ poets, these men tend to be somewhat unfairly judged together. Keats was a fragile and ill-starred poet, much of whose poetry such as <b>Hyperion</b> was inspired by travels in the rugged landscapes of the Lake District (also associated with Wordsworth). The finest of his passionate and beautiful poems were written between 1818 and 1819: <b>"The Eve of St Agnes"</b>, <b>"La Belle Dame Sans Merci"</b> and <b>"Ode to a Nightingale"</b> stand out particularly. At his death he had not even reached thirty.</p> <p>Shelley lived only slightly longer and died the year after Keats in 1822. An exceptionally gifted young man, Shelley experimented with the Gothic horror prose form (more associated with his second wife, Mary) before turning to the revolutionary poetry of <b>Queen Mab</b> (1813) etc. Faced with the horror of his first wife’s suicide by drowning and financial difficulties he wrote most of his best poetry in a one year period after the summer of 1919, including <b>Prometheus Unbound</b> and <b>The Mask of Anarchy</b> as well as lyric poetry of note such as <b>"To a Skylark"</b>. Although frequently intellectually arrogant and often immersed in melancholy and self-pity (not always without reason), Shelley is still highly regarded.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Victorians </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>High Verse, Fewer Drugs</p> </b> <p>After the second phase of the Romantics, the Victorian age brought a succession of more self-consciously public poets to the scene: centrally Robert Browning and Alfred Lord Tennyson. This new group was comprised of the academically gifted and the passionate. Both Browning and Tennyson are somewhat of an acquired taste now and often considered to be over formal and dated. They represent the very English tendency to litter poetry with bookish references to the classics of English, Latin and Greek poetry, and created a new form of almost elitist verse that requires substantial background knowledge to appreciate beyond the superficial. This was especially true of Browning who grew up with the benefit and influence of his father’s 6000-strong and extremely eclectic library. Despite his uncommon learning, he nonetheless enchants with the poems of <b>Paracelsus</b> (1835) - his first critical success - and his collection <b>Men and Women</b> (1855). Even less renowned collections such as <b>Dramatic Romances</b> contain some beautifully fatalistic love poetry (see <b>"The Last Ride Together"</b>. His masterpiece, though, is widely considered to be <b>The Ring and the Book</b> (1868-9). This twelve-book poem in blank verse was inspired by a book the poet found in a Venetian market relating to a murder trial of the 17<sup>th</sup> century. Told by a succession of untrustworthy Roman citizens, the poem was as ambitious a poetic project as any since Milton. It was also a success critically, although it did not raise Browning to the popular level of poet laureate Tennyson.</p> <p>Tennyson, like Browning, was an exponent of the ‘dramatic monologue’ form and is now known principally for his poems <b>The Charge of the Light Brigade</b> (1854), and <b>In Memoriam</b> (1850) which mourned the loss of his friend A H Hallam in 1833. His best early and shorter poems were published in his <b>Poems</b> volumes of 1833 and 1842, including <b>The Lotos-Eaters</b>, <b>Ulysses</b> and <b>Locksley Hall</b>. Working on a £200 a year civil list pension and the laureateship, he produced <b>The Princess</b> (1847), <b>Maud, and other Poems</b> (1855) and <b>The Idylls of the King</b> (1859-). Bleak in his outlook but ambitious in the variety of his subject matter, he was a favourite of Queen Victoria. However, though popular at the time, Tennyson is usually at his best in his lyrical poetry rather than the dramatic and epic forms that he employed so often in his later poetry. He was certainly influential but can now appear over-wrought and melancholic.</p> <p>Unlike their contemporary, Matthew Arnold, who went on from poetry such as <b>"Tristram and Iseult"</b> (1852) and <b>"Dover Beach"</b> (1867) to express himself in pithy prose (notably <b>Culture and Anarchy</b> (1869)), neither Browning nor Tennyson seemed to see the value of brevity. The same could be said of Walt Whitman in America, who repeatedly enlarged his <b>Leaves of Grass</b> (1848-) from a slim twelve- poem book of Emerson-inspired verse into a comprehensive and vast expression of a disturbed self. Yet Whitman brought with <b>Leaves of Grass</b> a new freedom in verse that was almost chaotic in its rejection of tradition of poetic rules and traditions. Certainly, other poets would go further and deconstruct down to the word itself but Whitman began the trend and was a maverick figure unrivalled in the second half of the 19<sup>th</sup> century. Influential though he was in the United States, the effect and acceptance of Whitman’s free and personal verse took time to filter through to England where formal, traditional and majestic poetry still held sway.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul><li><span class="textb17"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Modernism</span> </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Sanskrit and Sanitaria</p> </b> <p>In fact, Thomas Hardy aside, turn-of-the-20<sup>th</sup>-century ‘English’ poetry of quality tended to originate outside England. William Butler Yeats, for instance, was an Irishman and wrote verse with Celtic themes, especially at the beginning of his career (see <b>The Wanderings of Oisin and other poems</b> (1889) and <b>The Wind Among the Reeds</b> (1899). Signalling the movement away from nostalgic-revolutionary Pre-Raphaelite tendencies (in poetry this meant Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his circle) and towards what became known as Modernism. The most important (and certainly the most self-important) movement in 20<sup>th</sup> century poetry, Modernism in poetic form begins with American Thomas Stearns Eliot’s <b>Prufrock and other Observations</b> (1917) and the poetry of his fellow American and (later) collaborator Ezra Pound. It was a movement born of disillusionment and intellectual fury, and this is keenly felt in the Modernist novels of Polish Joseph Conrad (<b>Heart of Darkness</b> (1899) etc.) and Irishman James Joyce (<b>A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</b> (1916) especially). Much of the success of Eliot and Pound can be put down to the sheer newness of their writing, integrating foreign tongues and forms, rebelling in lonely intolerance against foolishness and the stagnant waters of post World War I Britain; but also to the fact that they took it upon themselves to become the major critics of the age (and in Eliot’s case a director of poetry publishers Faber). Pound severely but beneficially edited down his friend’s first masterpiece, <b> The Waste Land</b> (1922). It confirmed Eliot as the foremost voice of his generation with its free but often terrifyingly bleak and pessimistic images of a corrupt London. The complex and philosophical <b>Four Quartets</b> (published in complete form 1943) is now seen as Eliot’s crowning achievement and is less experimental than its predecessors. There is nothing in the way of Sanskrit phrases and impressionist verse to deal with. Instead, we are given of a sense of sympathy and humanity - qualities the Anglo- American Modernist movement tended to lack.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Post World War I </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>America</p> </b> <p>The American poetic movement immediately following World War I defied the elitism, mysticism and academic inclination of Eliot, Yeats and Pound. William Carlos Williams, who had known Pound as a friend, saw the man’s decline. Williams called him "an ass", and eventually Pound was driven to criminal insanity. Williams’s early poems have something in common with Joyce’s ‘epiphanies’ (see Williams’s <b> Spring and All</b> (1923) especially <b>"At the Ball Game"</b>). Later poems such as <b>The Desert Music</b> (1954) and <b>Paterson</b> (1946-58) displayed something of the everything-in policy of Modernism (see David Jones <b>In Parenthesis</b> (1927) for similar prose-poetry). Williams was to be the main influence of Allen Ginsberg and through him the Beat movement of the 1950s and beyond. America also had e.e. cummings, whose experiments with poems as they appear on the page were a major influence on the free verse common in the later 20<sup>th</sup> century. His poems ("verse" is often the wrong word entirely with Cummings) formed the basis of the Cubist movement of the 1950s that included Dylan Thomas and Mallarme among others and harked back to acrostics and 17<sup>th</sup> century poet George Herbert’s <b>The Altar</b> (a poem about an altar in the shape of an altar, no less). Cummings innovated spatially on the page with poems such as <b>"r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r"</b> and <b>"the sky"</b> to such an extent that it is unclear where one starts and finishes reading. Satirical phonetic wordplay (in <b>"ygUDuh"</b> especially) was well within his reach as was pure, sensual beauty (<b>"in Just-/ spring"</b>). There was a purposeful childish simplicity to this poetry, which strained against the excessive ‘adultness’ of European Modernism. Welshman Dylan Thomas shared this instinct and further innovated linguistically (the wonderfully inventive phrase "a grief ago" is typically impressionistic) and spatially.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Post World War II </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>England</p> </b> <p>In England, meanwhile, the ‘Puritan’ simplicity embraced by Wordsworth (see the "Preface" to <b>Lyrical Ballads</b>) had its new exponents in Philip Larkin, John Betjeman and W H Auden. They saw England teeming with contrary images: factory and field; industrial grime and natural purity. Within this stood the poet: lonely, alienated and cynical, like Marvell in <b>The Garden</b> (see Larkin’s <b>The Whitsun Weddings</b> (1964) and <b>High Windows</b> (1974)). Yet, humour and satire filled their poetry. It is telling that Larkin defaced a copy of Spenser’s <b>The Faerie Queene</b> in St. John’s library at Oxford University, wittily declaring a hatred of Chaucer’s <b>Troilus and Criseyde</b> and <b>Beowulf</b> at the same sitting. Tradition, he implied, is bunk. To an extent he correctly gauged the new vanguard of individualist poets, less ignorant than uninterested in classics and complex forms. Modern poets have written from their own experience, or in a stream of images but avoiding literary allusions. Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes alike shared this, taking respectively but probably unknowingly William Carlos Williams’s twin <b>Paterson</b> declarations as if their muse: "no ideas but in the truth" and "no ideas but in things".</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><br /><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Twenty-first Century </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>In the later 20<sup>th</sup> century and early 21st, it has become perfectly possible to eschew modern poetry altogether and feel little shame. Innumerable fine poets such as Simon Armitage and Edwin Morgan simultaneously achieve recognition but condemn themselves by allowing their poems to be anthologized for teenage exams. Poetry has become a matter for study only, and volumes sell in the low thousands at best unless written by the dead or by our sole remaining public poet of any dignity and ambition: Seamus Heaney. Indeed, poetry books make up only 3 of all book sales in England. The lover of verse is best advised to seek the voices set to popular music such as Tom Waits, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen (an exceptional poet before and during his songwriting), Bob Dylan and Nick Cave. We might blame the lack of recent whole-world conflict or fear of God for our poetic decline and look to those shaken by political turmoil for inspiration. In fact, the Anglo-centrism of ‘classic’ poetry – thoroughly endorsed, unfortunately but inevitably, by this brief guide through poetry in English – has ensured that after exploiting oppression, repressed sexuality, bigotry and finally indulging in experimental poetry, we must now listen to those with something to say (American poets such as Ai and Sonia Sanchez spring to mind). This is neither a call to arms nor a declaration of the end of poetry, merely a promise that white male middle-class poetry will now have competition from the other billions of voices that make up the world and can now shout eloquently with a chance of being heard.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-37060910541773936412009-08-20T15:06:00.000-07:002009-08-20T15:06:00.404-07:00Donne's The Flea<span style="font-weight: bold;">Summary</span><br /><br />The speaker tells his beloved to look at the flea before them and to note "how little" is that thing that she denies him. For the flea, he says, has sucked first his blood, then her blood, so that now, inside the flea, they are mingled; and that mingling cannot be called "sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead." The flea has joined them together in a way that, "alas, is more than we would do."<br /><br />As his beloved moves to kill the flea, the speaker stays her hand, asking her to spare the three lives in the flea: his life, her life, and the flea's own life. In the flea, he says, where their blood is mingled, they are almost married--no, more than married--and the flea is their marriage bed and marriage temple mixed into one. Though their parents grudge their romance and though she will not make love to him, they are nevertheless united and cloistered in the living walls of the flea. She is apt to kill him, he says, but he asks that she not kill herself by killing the flea that contains her blood; he says that to kill the flea would be sacrilege, "three sins in killing three."<br /><br />"Cruel and sudden," the speaker calls his lover, who has now killed the flea, "purpling" her fingernail with the "blood of innocence." The speaker asks his lover what the flea's sin was, other than having sucked from each of them a drop of blood. He says that his lover replies that neither of them is less noble for having killed the flea. It is true, he says, and it is this very fact that proves that her fears are false: If she were to sleep with him ("yield to me"), she would lose no more honor than she lost when she killed the flea.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Form</span><br /><br />This poem alternates metrically between lines in iambic tetrameter and lines in iambic pentameter, a 4-5 stress pattern ending with two pentameter lines at the end of each stanza. Thus, the stress pattern in each of the nine-line stanzas is 454545455. The rhyme scheme in each stanza is similarly regular, in couplets, with the final line rhyming with the final couplet: AABBCCDDD.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Commentary</span><br /><br />This funny little poem again exhibits Donne's metaphysical love-poem mode, his aptitude for turning even the least likely images into elaborate symbols of love and romance. This poem uses the image of a flea that has just bitten the speaker and his beloved to sketch an amusing conflict over whether the two will engage in premarital sex. The speaker wants to, the beloved does not, and so the speaker, highly clever but grasping at straws, uses the flea, in whose body his blood mingles with his beloved's, to show how innocuous such mingling can be--he reasons that if mingling in the flea is so innocuous, sexual mingling would be equally innocuous, for they are really the same thing. By the second stanza, the speaker is trying to save the flea's life, holding it up as "our marriage bed and marriage temple."<br /><br />But when the beloved kills the flea despite the speaker's protestations (and probably as a deliberate move to squash his argument, as well), he turns his argument on its head and claims that despite the high-minded and sacred ideals he has just been invoking, killing the flea did not really impugn his beloved's honor--and despite the high-minded and sacred ideals she has invoked in refusing to sleep with him, doing so would not impugn her honor either.<br /><br />This poem is the cleverest of a long line of sixteenth-century love poems using the flea as an erotic image, a genre derived from an older poem of Ovid. Donne's poise of hinting at the erotic without ever explicitly referring to sex, while at the same time leaving no doubt as to exactly what he means, is as much a source of the poem's humor as the silly image of the flea is; the idea that being bitten by a flea would represent "sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead" gets the point across with a neat conciseness and clarity that Donne's later religious lyrics never attained.<br /><br /><p align="center"><b><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;color:#996600;">The Flea<br />John Donne</span></b> </p><p align="center"><b><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;color:#996600;">Mark but this flea, and mark in this,<br />How little that which thou deny'st me is;<br />It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,<br />And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;<br />Thou know'st that this cannot be said<br />A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;<br />Yet this enjoys before it woo,<br />And pampered swells with one blood made of two,<br />And this, alas, is more than we would do.<br /><br />Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,<br />Where we almost, yea, more than married are.<br />This flea is you and I, and this<br />Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;<br />Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,<br />And cloistered in these living walls of jet.<br />Though use make you apt to kill me,<br />Let not to that, self-murder added be,<br />And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.<br /><br />Cruel and sudden, hast thou since<br />Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?<br />Wherein could this flea guilty be,<br />Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?<br />Yet thou triumph'st and say'st that thou<br />Find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;<br />'Tis true, then learn how false fears be:<br />Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,<br />Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee</span></b> </p>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-34633032165527530692009-08-20T13:11:00.000-07:002009-08-20T13:11:00.254-07:00Roman à clef<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Roman à clef </span> (French for "novel with a key") is a work of prose fiction in which the author expects the knowing reader to identify, despite their altered names, actual people of the time. The mode was begun in seventeenth-century France with novels such as Madeleine de Scudéry's Le Grand Cyrus (1649-53). An English example is Thomas Love Peacock's Nightmare Abbey (1818), whose characters are entertaining caricatures of such contemporary literary figures as Coleridge, Byron, and Shelley. A later instance is Aldous Huxley's Point Counter Point (1928), in which we find, under fictional names, well-known English people of the 1920s such as the novelist D. H. Lawrence, the critic Middleton Murry, and the right-wing political extremist Oswald Mosely.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: webdings; font-weight: bold;">From </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: webdings; font-weight: bold;">A Glossary of Literary Terms</span><br /></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-33558694418504935812009-08-17T13:02:00.000-07:002009-08-17T13:02:00.398-07:00Stanza<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stanza</span>. A stanza (Italian for "stopping place") is a grouping of the verselines in a poem, often set off by a space in the printed text. Usually the stanzas of a given poem are marked by a recurrent pattern of rhyme and are also uniform in the number and lengths of the component lines. Some unrhymed poems, however, are divided into stanzaic units (for example, William Collins' "Ode to Evening," 1747), and some rhymed poems are composed of stanzas that vary in their component lines (for example, the inegular ode).<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Of the great diversity of English stanza forms, many have no special names and must be described by specifying the number of lines, the type and number of metric feet in each line, and the pattern of the rhyme. Certain stanzas, however, occur so often that they have been given the convenience of a name. Some literary scholars apply the term "stanza" only to divisions of four or more lines. This entry, however, follows a widespread application of theterm also to divisions of two and three lines.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> A <span style="font-weight: bold;">couplet</span> is a pair of rhymed lines that are equal in length. The octosyllabic couplet has lines of eight syllables, usually consisting of four iambic feet, as in Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" (1681):<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The grave's a fine and private place,<br />But none, I think, do there embrace.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Iambic pentameter</span> lines rhyming in pairs are called decasyllabic ("tensyllable") couplets or "heroic couplets." (For examples, see heroic couplet.) The tercet, or triplet, is a stanza of three lines, usually with a single rhyme. The lines may be the same length (as in Robert Herrick's "Upon Julia's Clothes," 1648, written in tercets of iambic tetrameter), or else of varying lengths. In Richard Crashaw's "Wishes to His Supposed Mistress" (1646), the lines of each tercet are successively in iambic dimeter, trimeter, and tetrameter:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Who e'er she be<br />That not impossible she<br />That shall command my heart and me.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Terza rima</span> is composed of tercets which are interlinked, in that each isjoined to the one following by a common rhyme: aba, beb, ede, and so on. Dante composed his Divine Comedy (early fourteenth century) in terza rima; but although Sir Thomas Wyatt introduced the form early in the sixteenth century, it has not been a common meter in English, in which rhymes are<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">much harder to find than in Italian. Shelley, however, used it brilliantly in "Ode to the West Wind" (1820), and it occurs also in the poetry of Milton, Browning, and T. S. Eliot.<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> The <span style="font-weight: bold;">quatrain</span>, or four-line stanza, is the most common in English versification, and is employed with various meters and rhyme schemes. The ballad stanza (in alternating four- and three-foot lines rhyming abeb, or less frequently abab) is one common quatrain; when this same stanza occurs in hymns, it is called common measure. Emily Dickinson is the most subtle, varied,<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">and persistent of all users of this type of quatrain; her frequent use of slant rhyme prevents monotony:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Purple—is fashionable twice—<br />This season of the year,<br />And when a soul perceives itself<br />To be an Emperor.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The <span style="font-weight: bold;">heroic quatrain</span>, in iambic pentameter rhyming abab, is the stanza of Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (1751):<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,<br />The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,<br />The plowman homeward plods his weary way,<br />And leaves the world to darkness, and to one.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Rime royal</span> was introduced by Chaucer in Troilus and Criseyde (the latter 1380s) and other narrative poems; it is believed to take its name, however, from its later use by "the Scottish Chaucerian," King James I of Scotland, in his poem The Kingis Quair ("The King's Book"), written about 1424. It is a seven-line, iambic pentameter stanza rhyming ababbec. This form was quite widely used by Elizabethan poets, including by Shakespeare in "A Lover's Complaint" and The Rape of Lucrèce, which begins:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">From the besieged Árdea all in post,<br />Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,<br />Lust-breathèd Tarquín leaves the Roman host<br />And to Collatium bears the lightless fire<br />Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire<br />And girdle with embracing flames the waist<br />Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrèce the chaste.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Ottava rima</span>, as the Italian name indicates, has eight lines; it rhymes abababcc. Like terza rima and the sonnet, it was brought from Italian into English by Sir Thomas Wyatt in the first half of the sixteenth century. Although employed by a number of earlier poets, it is notable especially as the stanza which helped Byron discover what he was born to write, the satiric<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">poem Don Juan (1819-24). Note the comic effect of the forced rhyme in the concluding couplet:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Juan was taught from out the best edition,<br />Expurgated by learned men, who place,<br />Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,<br />The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface<br />Too much their modest bard by this omission,<br />And pitying sore his mutilated case,<br />They only add them all in an appendix,<br />Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Spenserian stanza</span> is a still longer form devised by Edmund Spenser for The Faerie Queene (1590-96)—nine lines, in which the first eight lines are iambic pentameter and the last iambic hexameter (an Alexandrine), rhyming ababbcbcc. Enchanted by Spenser's gracious movement and music, many poets have attempted the stanza in spite of its difficulties. Its greatest successes have been in poems which, like The Faerie Queene, evolve in a leisurely<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">way, with ample time for unrolling the richly textured stanzas; for example, James Thomson's "The Castle of Indolence" (1748), John Keats' "The Eve of St. Agnes" (1820), Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Adonais" (1821), and the narrative section of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Lotus Eaters" (1832). The following is a stanza from Spenser's Faerie Queene 1.1.41:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft,<br />A trickling streame from high rocke tumbling downe<br />And ever-drizling raine upon the loft<br />Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne<br />Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne:<br />No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,<br />As still are wont t'annoy the wallèd towne,<br />Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes,<br />Wrapt in eternali silence farre from enemyes.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> There are also various elaborate stanza forms imported from France, such as the rondeau, the villanelle, and the triolet, containing intricate repetitions both of rhymes and of entire lines, which have been used mainly, but not exclusively, for light verse. Their revival by W. H. Auden, William Empson, and other mid-twentieth-century poets was a sign of renewed interest in high<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">metrical artifice. Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night" is a villanelle; that is, it consists of five tercets and a quatrain, all on two rhymes, and with systematic later repetitions of lines 1 and 3 of the first tercet.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> One of the most intricate of poetic forms is the sestina: a poem of six sixline stanzas in which the end-words in the lines of the first stanza are repeated, in a set order of variation, as the end-words of the stanzas that follow. The sestina concludes with a three-line envoy which incorporates, in the middle and at the end of the lines, all six of these end words. (An envoy, or "sendoff," is a short formal stanza which is appended to a poem by way of conclusion.) This form, introduced in the twelfth century, was cultivated by Italian, Spanish, and French poets. Despite its extreme difficulty, the sestina has also been managed with success by the Elizabethan Sir Philip Sidney, the Victorian Algernon Swinburne, and the modern poets W. H. Auden and John<br /></div>Ashberry.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: webdings;">From Abrams's </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: webdings;">A Glossary of Literary Terms</span>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-215400961440435222009-08-12T13:32:00.000-07:002009-08-12T13:32:00.908-07:00A Guide to Fiction<span class="textni12"><p style="font-weight: bold;"> </p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Anglo-Saxon and Medieval Writing </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p style="font-weight: bold;"> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>In terms of strictly English fiction, the earliest remaining works are those of the Anglo-Saxon period, most famously <b>Beowulf</b>, written in the 8<sup>th</sup> century. Again, though, this is a poem. In fact, only <b>Apollonius of Tyre</b> has survived as evidence of an Old English prose romance genre – and we only have this by the chance of its being copied into the back of a book of homilies and laws in the 11<sup>th</sup> century. Therefore prose fiction may have existed in greater quantities before the Norman Conquest, but it seems from the examples that we have that prose was usually employed for sermons and other religious writings, legal and documentary texts, and travel / medical books.</p> <p>Fiction in the Middle Ages also tended to be written in the form of poems (<b>The Canterbury Tales</b> (circa 1387-1400) and <b>Gawain and the Green Knight</b> (c. 1400)), or was transmitted in the form of morality plays. After 1470, though, Caxton began to print the works of Chaucer, Gower and Malory. The printing press made prose fiction a practical possibility and in the early years of the 16<sup>th</sup> century the Humanists (principally Thomas More and his friend, the Dutchman Desiderius Erasmus) began to write. However, their famous books <b>Utopia</b> (1516) and <b>Encomium Moriae</b> (1511, "The Praise of Folly") were written in Latin, which was still the language of official documents. <b>Utopia</b>, although it was veiled as a genuine account of a traveller’s experiences in a strange land, was nonetheless a work of prose fiction.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p style="font-weight: bold;"> </p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Birth of the Novel </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p style="font-weight: bold;"> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Swift and Defoe</p> </b> <p>It was in the early years of the 18<sup>th</sup> century that the novel as we know it began to be written. As Walter Allen writes in <b>The English Novel</b>, <i>"Nothing that preceded it in the way of prose fiction can explain it. There were no classical models for it".</i> Certainly Sidney and Cervantes’s <b>Don Quixote</b> (translated into English in 1612) were models of a sort, but what developed in the works of the great innovators of the novel form (Swift and Defoe) had more in common with histories, plays and moral tales. What prose fiction before 1670 lacked was what Hazlitt calls, <i>"the close imitation of men and manners… the very texture of society as it really exists"</i>. The novel emerged when authors fused adventure and romance with verisimilitude and heroes that were not supermen but, frankly, insignificant nobodies.</p> <p>It is no surprise, then, that Swift and Defoe’s seminal works of fiction, now seen as the progenitors of the novel form, were pseudo<i>-</i>histories. Defoe’s <b>Robinson Crusoe</b> (1719) was based on the actual desert island adventures of Alexander Selkirk. Swift’s <b>Gulliver’s Travels</b> (1726), though a satire and spoof of the far-fetched travel literature of the Middle Ages, (where stories of twenty-foot tall dragon- headed women, disembodied heads on legs and so on abounded) was written as a narration by a traveller (like More’s <b>Utopia</b>). Coleridge claimed that Crusoe was <i>"the universal representative, the person, for whom every reader could substitute himself"</i>. Therein lies the key to both the appeal of the novel and its imminent ubiquity: the real world. Of course, neither a happy desert island sojourn nor capture in a land full of one foot tall people can be termed ‘realistic’, but the narrators of these first novels spoke as if they <i>were</i>, and they themselves were ordinary representatives of humanity. In <b>Moll Flanders</b> (1719 and 1722) Defoe offered an ordinary setting and a familiar world but presented an extraordinary woman, strange in her actions and compelling in her adventures but ultimately not abnormal: more deserving of infamy than fame. It is significant that Defoe’s other major work was <b>A Journal of the Plague Year</b> (1722), a fictionalized account of an historical event. Truth and a degree of verisimilitude were essential to the early novel.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Epistolary Novels </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Richardson and Fielding</p> </b> <p>As the 18<sup>th</sup> century progressed, the novel began to take shape with the publication of Samuel Richardson’s <b> Pamela</b> in 1740 and <b>Clarissa</b> (1748). These were written in the form of letters and again this lent a false ‘realness’ to the enterprise and started something of a vogue in epistolary novel writing. It is Henry Fielding, though, who is seen to have established the English novel form, oddly enough in direct reaction against Richardson. <b>Joseph Andrews</b> (1742) was initially conceived as a satire on <b>Pamela</b> but became much more than mere ribbing or criticism. Like Richardson he became a novelist almost by accident when the 1737 Licensing Act censored the stage to the extent that Fielding abandoned writing for it. He wrote with a great sense of irony and satirized the manners and values of his time (especially those extolled by Richardson). He would certainly not be the last to use the novel to poke fun at his contemporaries, something enjoyed later by Tobias Smollett, Laurence Sterne, and Jane Austen .</p> <p>With <b>Tom Jones</b> (1746) Fielding displayed an entirely new degree of skill in plot development and technical innovation. Further, Tom Jones himself was a new kind of hero: flawed, ordinary, weak and un-heroic in spite of his good looks and bravery. Smollett took this a stage further with his many novels centred around caricatured, despicable and dehumanized heroes (in the adventures of Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle and so on). Smollett was a curmudgeon and an appalling grouch (see his hilariously grumpy <b> Travels Through France and Italy</b> (1766) for proof) and his sociopathic attitudes infiltrated his fiction. Even in his best and most humane novel, <b>The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker</b> (1771), the character Lismaho is described as resembling a rather unpleasant-looking insect. Smollett depicted his characters as he saw the world: as a vulgar and absurd parade. Everyone was exaggerated and caricatured. Nothing was sacred.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Haunted Castles versus Small Town Romance </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Radcliffe and Austen</p> </b> <p>In 1765, Horace Walpole published the <b>Castle of Otranto</b> and, in doing so, instigated the vogue in so- called ‘Gothic’ writing. It was a bit brief and insubstantial to be called a novel, but it successors would be longer, subtler and more complex. The Gothic was a fundamentally populist, even artless, form. Beckford’s <b>Vathek</b> (translated from French into English in 1786) was something of a detour as it is the only English ‘oriental’ tale of note apart from <b>Rasselas</b>. Its combination of extremely black humour, settings in imaginatively otherworldly foreign places, and Gothic towers places it in the transitional phase of English fiction, between the realistic novel and the flights of imaginative fancy that were to come. The latter type, again largely Gothic, was to be found in the writings of Ann Radcliffe, Matthew Lewis and, later, Mary Shelley.</p> <p>Novels had previously been, to a great extent, the playing out of possibilities and were now to become for an exciting period the playing out of improbabilities. Simultaneously with the great days of Gothic fiction, of castles, ragged landscapes and mystery in strange lands, and a public fascination with the incest, devilry and horror of Lewis’s <b>The Monk</b> (1796) came a backlash that would shape novel writing for the entire 19<sup>th</sup> century. That backlash came in human form and with the name Jane Austen. From the 1790s onwards Austen wrote tales of small town uneventfulness, tending to explore character rather than event. Hers was a non-judgemental but sensitive eye for detail. <b>Northanger Abbey</b> (published 1818 but written much earlier), probably her first completed extant novel directly ridiculed Ann Radcliffe’s popular Gothic novel, <b>The Mysteries of Udolpho</b> (1794). Austen’s other famous novels such as <b>Sense and Sensibility</b> (1811) and <b>Pride and Prejudice</b> (1813) left the ‘sublime’ foreign locations and landscapes of Radcliffe behind, and were complex and often extremely amusing and subtle investigations of English manners and society.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Popular Novels With a Social Conscience </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Dickens and Eliot</p> </b> <p>Apart from the self-centred but compellingly exaggerated autobiographies of de Quincey’s <b>Confessions of an English Opium Eater</b> (1822) and Borrow’s <b>Lavengo</b> (1851), the novel tended to retain its predominantly fictional basis. The horror within everyday life was also to be investigated by Dickens and George Eliot, the former in, almost without exception, urban settings and the latter in bleak, out of the way, nowhere towns. Dickens’s early work was both unrealistic and by-and-large humorous without being as satirical as his more complex later fiction. <b>The Pickwick Papers</b> (1835-7) is a joy of a novel, but its characters have no weight that is not derived from their downright lazy lifestyle. Even the sinister characters are more ridiculous than ominous. This was to change, however, when the freedom bought by popular success allowed him to begin to depict the real and miserable underside of the metropolis: the criminals, vagabonds and dispossessed, while never losing sight of the rotten core of the rich. Mrs. Jellyby in <b>Bleak House</b> (1852-3) is, for instance, an example of the danger of snobbish idiocy, ignoring and neglecting her family while selfishly making a name for herself rushing around supporting philanthropic enterprises in far away lands. Miss Havisham in <b>Great Expectations</b> (1860-1) is similarly disturbing with her bitter enmity for all men due to a single man’s cruelty to her.</p> <p>While Dickens was essentially a populist with a conscience, George Eliot seemed to care not a jot about entertaining her reader. Rather she presented a world of dire occurrences in rural backwaters and littered her novels with uniquely didactic authorial interjections. Thus, in her first novel, <b>Adam Bede</b> (1859), Hetty Sorrell falls pregnant to Arthur Donnithorne before betrothal to Adam, is convicted of infanticide, is imprisoned and is preached at by a Methodist. This is typical of the Eliot humour, as is <b>The Mill on the Floss</b> (1860) where the heroine’s family falls apart through death and bad luck - everybody of consequence dying horribly or turning out to be wretched and dislikeable. Critically acclaimed, often brilliant but equally often sanctimonious or wholly absurd (see the entire Jewish plot of <b>Daniel Deronda</b> (1876)), Eliot is at her best when bearing polite witness to misery.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> The Later Nineteenth Century </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <p>In America, the transition from James Fenimore Cooper’s straight-laced adventure <b>The Last of the Mohicans</b> (1826) to Mark Twain’s seminal <b>The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn</b> (1884), with its satire and social conscience, showed the irreversible movement away from idealistic and naïve fictions that would culminate in the 20<sup>th</sup> century writings of the Beats such as Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs. In mid-19<sup>th</sup> century Russia, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy concurrently investigated the possibility of presenting a life entirely without hope and leading inevitably to suicide and spells in prison. Here, though, the sheer scale of the novels and their vision of an entire society put them in a separate – if not necessarily superior – league to George Eliot.</p> <p>In the latter half of the 19<sup>th</sup> century the novel became ubiquitous. From around 1810, public lending libraries had opened up literature to the masses (very controversially at the time) and, with the serializations of Dickens and other authors in popular journals, novels became the popular entertainment of choice. This not only goes to explain the didacticism of George Eliot but also the outright populism of works such as Blackmore’s wonderfully romantic and – unusually for the 19<sup>th</sup> century – optimistic novel <b>Lorna Doone</b> (1869). Further, it explains the rise of the mystery novel as founded by Wilkie Collins in the 1860s. <b>The Moonstone</b> (1868) and <b>The Woman in White</b> (1860) were exciting tales of devious goings on, mysterious Indians prowling the grounds of mansions, and strange doppelgangers that enthralled and perplexed. Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Arthur Conan Doyle and the rest would carry this baton into the next century. Scotsman Robert Louis Stevenson’s <b>Treasure Island</b> (1883), <b>Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde</b> (1886) and <b>Kidnapped</b> (1886) were in the same vein as Collins’s novels and were similarly appealing to adults and children alike with their swashbuckling adventures. Around the same time, H. Rider Haggard’s many novels such as <b>King Solomon’s Mines</b> (1886) and <b>She</b> (1887) explored distant lands, again with great popular success.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul><li><span class="textb17"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Modernism</span> </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Joyce, Woolf and Lawrence</p> </b> <p>With the emergence of Modernism in the 1910s and 1920s came an entirely new way of writing novels. The so-called ‘stream of consciousness’ style innovated by James Joyce in <b>Ulysses</b> (1922) and Virginia Woolf in <b>Mrs Dalloway</b> (1925) imagined characters as living beings whose entire thought-processes might be explored on the page via linguistic invention and unconventional style (Molly Bloom’s soliloquy in the last chapter of <b>Ulysses</b> is one long sentence and follows an internal logic representing the thought process in progress). Both Joyce and Woolf’s masterpieces follow their main characters through a single day. This would have been quite impossible in the traditional novel because character and event tended previously to pan out over months or even years. They established a literary version of 20<sup>th</sup> century individualism (later taken to extremes by Kerouac and other solipsists). The logical extension of the Sternean shaggy dog tale, these Modernist novels – like <b>Tristram Shandy</b> earlier – were playful, inventive and serious at the same time. They were also controversial, but <b>Ulysses</b> is high in many ‘favourite book’ lists to this day (perhaps not least because it is such a challenging work and therefore seems to bestow a certain academic prestige upon its readers). By this time the novel, and fiction in general, seemed to have inverted and was looking in on itself via random characters on the outside. Highly academic writers in fiction (as in poetry – see Ezra Pound and T S Eliot) took the novel back from the masses and "into the classroom" again as William Carlos Williams explained. Rarely passionate (Molly Bloom aside), not genuinely tragic or particularly funny in any traditional sense, and never deigning to focus on anything actually happening, these novels revel in the sheer ordinariness of their subject matter and the newness of the way they are explaining it.</p> <p>If we say that fiction was written initially to stimulate the mind, to entertain, to consider possibilities, and /or to educate then Modernist writing can be seen as a freak occurrence. It does none of these things directly and all of them extremely indirectly (or not at all as some would have it). Their appeal cannot be explained easily, but they were extremely influential. The importance of the tiny details in life was what they dragged up, and the novels of D H Lawrence, especially <b>Sons and Lovers</b> (1913), were very much of this school. They investigated the minutiae of life, the irrelevancies that become the most important parts of life: in many ways they can be claimed to be the origin of the fly-on-the-wall documentaries so popular on television. Like Joyce’s beautiful and influential short stories, <b>Dubliners</b> (1914), Lawrence’s work is poignant but exceptionally unhappy. They were, in Lawrence’s case, though, unusual for being set in the unfashionable North of England and with working class characters: for once the novel was actually displaying novelty.</p><p><br /></p></span><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span><ul style="font-weight: bold;"><li><span class="textb17"> Dystopian Fiction </span></li></ul><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p><span class="textni12"><p> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> <b> <p>Orwell, Huxley and Golding</p> </b> <p>As the twentieth century wore on, torn apart by war, new technologies advancing at an unprecedented rate, greed, selfishness and the emergence of sinister theories such as that of eugenics that were not limited to Germany by any means (‘kill all stupid and imperfect people’ was the effective plan), new writers emerged who spurned the concept of the novelist as artist. Backlash followed backlash and new media accelerated movements from decades to five or ten years. The novel was by the 1940s well accepted as a literary form as worthy as any other and as such artistry in the process of writing began to be taken for granted. Rhetoric was shunned (especially and brilliantly by Orwell) and the novel with a precise social message or purpose emerged (see Huxley’s <b>Brave New World</b> (1932) and Orwell’s <b>Nineteen Eight-four</b> (1949)).</p> <p>As well as the dystopian novelists, we find in this category many writers not reveling in the joys of life or the <i>status quo</i> but endeavouring to undermine cosy middle-class assumptions and general human arrogance. Foremost among these was William Golding, whose <b>Lord of the Flies</b> (1954) is considered to be one of the very finest novels of the century and also one of the most pessimistic with its implication that human evil is innate and not learnt. In <b>The Inheritors</b> (1955) and later novels, Golding continued to debunk various theories about man’s superiority and greatness: viewing his enterprises as pointless and his beliefs as almost always vain and worthless. Since the Second World War there has been an explosion in the number of people writing novels in England, America and elsewhere, seemingly undiminished by the popularity of the cinema and television. It is claimed that there are now almost as many people writing novels as there are people buying and reading them. For this reason it is near impossible to trace significant movements or even single novelists in the second half of the 20<sup>th</sup> century. That will be left to readers in centuries to come to sort out.</p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span></p></span>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-1679973044092264212009-08-08T13:13:00.000-07:002009-08-08T13:13:00.244-07:00The Picture of Dorian Gray<div style="text-align: justify;">Oscar Wild is a well known writer and poet throughout the world, especially for his masterpiece <span style="font-style: italic;">The Picture of Dorian Gray</span>. It's one of the best books I've ever read, wishing I'd read this book earlier before. It's absolutely a worth reading work and the language of course is easy to read. I present you with the preface of the book, a thorough analysis and the book to download.<br /><br /><br /><span class="textni12"><p> <span style="font-weight: bold;" class="textb17"> Preface </span> </p> <!-- End of ...org/paneris/bibliomania/html/page1Header.wm --> The artist is the creator of beautiful things. <p>To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.</p> <p>The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.</p> <p>The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.</p> <p>This is a fault.</p> <p>Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.</p> <p>They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.</p> <p>There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.</p> <p>That is all.</p> <p>The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.</p> <p>The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.</p> <p>The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.</p> <p>No artist has ethical sympathies.</p> <p>An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.</p> <p>Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.</p> <p>Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.</p> <p>From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.</p> <p>From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.</p> <p>All art is at once surface and symbol.</p> <p>Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.</p> <p>Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.</p> <p>It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.</p> <p>Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.</p> <p>When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.</p> <p>We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.</p><p><span class="textni12"><p>All art is quite useless.</p> <p align="right"> <i>OSCAR WILDE</i></p></span></p></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Plot Overview</span><br /><br />In the stately London home of his aunt, Lady Brandon, the well-known artist Basil Hallward meets Dorian Gray. Dorian is a cultured, wealthy, and impossibly beautiful young man who immediately captures Basil's artistic imagination. Dorian sits for several portraits, and Basil often depicts him as an ancient Greek hero or a mythological figure. When the novel opens, the artist is completing his first portrait of Dorian as he truly is, but, as he admits to his friend Lord Henry Wotton, the painting disappoints him because it reveals too much of his feeling for his subject. Lord Henry, a famous wit who enjoys scandalizing his friends by celebrating youth, beauty, and the selfish pursuit of pleasure, disagrees, claiming that the portrait is Basil's masterpiece. Dorian arrives at the studio, and Basil reluctantly introduces him to Lord Henry, who he fears will have a damaging influence on the impressionable, young Dorian.<br /><br />Basil's fears are well founded; before the end of their first conversation, Lord Henry upsets Dorian with a speech about the transient nature of beauty and youth. Worried that these, his most impressive characteristics, are fading day by day, Dorian curses his portrait, which he believes will one day remind him of the beauty he will have lost. In a fit of distress, he pledges his soul if only the painting could bear the burden of age and infamy, allowing him to stay forever young. In an attempt to appease Dorian, Basil gives him the portrait.<br /><br />Over the next few weeks, Lord Henry's influence over Dorian grows stronger. The youth becomes a disciple of the “new Hedonism” and proposes to live a life dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. He falls in love with Sibyl Vane, a young actress who performs in a theater in London's slums. He adores her acting; she, in turn, refers to him as “Prince Charming” and refuses to heed the warnings of her brother, James Vane, that Dorian is no good for her. Overcome by her emotions for Dorian, Sibyl decides that she can no longer act, wondering how she can pretend to love on the stage now that she has experienced the real thing. Dorian, who loves Sibyl because of her ability to act, cruelly breaks his engagement with her. After doing so, he returns home to notice that his face in Basil's portrait of him has changed: it now sneers. Frightened that his wish for his likeness in the painting to bear the ill effects of his behavior has come true and that his sins will be recorded on the canvas, he resolves to make amends with Sibyl the next day. The following afternoon, however, Lord Henry brings news that Sibyl has killed herself. At Lord Henry's urging, Dorian decides to consider her death a sort of artistic triumph—she personified tragedy—and to put the matter behind him. Meanwhile, Dorian hides his portrait in a remote upper room of his house, where no one other than he can watch its transformation.<br /><br />Lord Henry gives Dorian a book that describes the wicked exploits of a nineteenth-century Frenchman; it becomes Dorian's bible as he sinks ever deeper into a life of sin and corruption. He lives a life devoted to garnering new experiences and sensations with no regard for conventional standards of morality or the consequences of his actions. Eighteen years pass. Dorian's reputation suffers in circles of polite London society, where rumors spread regarding his scandalous exploits. His peers nevertheless continue to accept him because he remains young and beautiful. The figure in the painting, however, grows increasingly wizened and hideous. On a dark, foggy night, Basil Hallward arrives at Dorian's home to confront him about the rumors that plague his reputation. The two argue, and Dorian eventually offers Basil a look at his (Dorian's) soul. He shows Basil the now-hideous portrait, and Hallward, horrified, begs him to repent. Dorian claims it is too late for penance and kills Basil in a fit of rage.<br /><br />In order to dispose of the body, Dorian employs the help of an estranged friend, a doctor, whom he blackmails. The night after the murder, Dorian makes his way to an opium den, where he encounters James Vane, who attempts to avenge Sibyl's death. Dorian escapes to his country estate. While entertaining guests, he notices James Vane peering in through a window, and he becomes wracked by fear and guilt. When a hunting party accidentally shoots and kills Vane, Dorian feels safe again. He resolves to amend his life but cannot muster the courage to confess his crimes, and the painting now reveals his supposed desire to repent for what it is—hypocrisy. In a fury, Dorian picks up the knife he used to stab Basil Hallward and attempts to destroy the painting. There is a crash, and his servants enter to find the portrait, unharmed, showing Dorian Gray as a beautiful young man. On the floor lies the body of their master—an old man, horribly wrinkled and disfigured, with a knife plunged into his heart.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Analysis of Major Characters</span><br /><br />Dorian Gray<br /><br />At the opening of the novel, Dorian Gray exists as something of an ideal: he is the archetype of male youth and beauty. As such, he captures the imagination of Basil Hallward, a painter, and Lord Henry Wotton, a nobleman who imagines fashioning the impressionable Dorian into an unremitting pleasure-seeker. Dorian is exceptionally vain and becomes convinced, in the course of a brief conversation with Lord Henry, that his most salient characteristics—his youth and physical attractiveness—are ever waning. The thought of waking one day without these attributes sends Dorian into a tailspin: he curses his fate and pledges his soul if only he could live without bearing the physical burdens of aging and sinning. He longs to be as youthful and lovely as the masterpiece that Basil has painted of him, and he wishes that the portrait could age in his stead. His vulnerability and insecurity in these moments make him excellent clay for Lord Henry's willing hands.<br /><br />Dorian soon leaves Basil's studio for Lord Henry's parlor, where he adopts the tenets of “the new Hedonism” and resolves to live his life as a pleasure-seeker with no regard for conventional morality. His relationship with Sibyl Vane tests his commitment to this philosophy: his love of the young actress nearly leads him to dispense with Lord Henry's teachings, but his love proves to be as shallow as he is. When he breaks Sibyl's heart and drives her to suicide, Dorian notices the first change in his portrait—evidence that his portrait is showing the effects of age and experience while his body remains ever youthful. Dorian experiences a moment of crisis, as he weighs his guilt about his treatment of Sibyl against the freedom from worry that Lord Henry's philosophy has promised. When Dorian decides to view Sibyl's death as the achievement of an artistic ideal rather than a needless tragedy for which he is responsible, he starts down the steep and slippery slope of his own demise.<br /><br />As Dorian's sins grow worse over the years, his likeness in Basil's portrait grows more hideous. Dorian seems to lack a conscience, but the desire to repent that he eventually feels illustrates that he is indeed human. Despite the beautiful things with which he surrounds himself, he is unable to distract himself from the dissipation of his soul. His murder of Basil marks the beginning of his end: although in the past he has been able to sweep infamies from his mind, he cannot shake the thought that he has killed his friend. Dorian's guilt tortures him relentlessly until he is forced to do away with his portrait. In the end, Dorian seems punished by his ability to be influenced: if the new social order celebrates individualism, as Lord Henry claims, Dorian falters because he fails to establish and live by his own moral code.<br /><br /><br />Lord Henry Wotton<br /><br />Lord Henry is a man possessed of “wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories.” He is a charming talker, a famous wit, and a brilliant intellect. Given the seductive way in which he leads conversation, it is little wonder that Dorian falls under his spell so completely. Lord Henry's theories are radical; they aim to shock and purposefully attempt to topple established, untested, or conventional notions of truth. In the end, however, they prove naïve, and Lord Henry himself fails to realize the implications of most of what he says.<br /><br />Lord Henry is a relatively static character—he does not undergo a significant change in the course of the narrative. He is as coolly composed, unshakable, and possessed of the same dry wit in the final pages of the novel as he is upon his introduction. Because he does not change while Dorian and Basil clearly do, his philosophy seems amusing and enticing in the first half of the book, but improbable and shallow in the second. Lord Henry muses in Chapter Nineteen, for instance, that there are no immoral books; he claims that “[t]he books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.” But since the decadent book that Lord Henry lends Dorian facilitates Dorian's downfall, it is difficult to accept what Lord Henry says as true.<br /><br />Although Lord Henry is a self-proclaimed hedonist who advocates the equal pursuit of both moral and immoral experience, he lives a rather staid life. He participates in polite London society and attends parties and the theater, but he does not indulge in sordid behavior. Unlike Dorian, he does not lead innocent youths to suicide or travel incognito to the city's most despised and desperate quarters. Lord Henry thus has little notion of the practical effects of his philosophy. His claim that Dorian could never commit a murder because “[c]rime belongs exclusively to the lower orders” demonstrates the limitations of his understanding of the human soul. It is not surprising, then, that he fails to appreciate the profound meaning of Dorian's downfall.<br /><br /><br />Basil Hallward<br /><br />Basil Hallward is a talented, though somewhat conventionally minded, painter. His love for Dorian Gray, which seems to reflect Oscar Wilde's own affection for his young lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, changes the way he sees art; indeed, it defines a new school of expression for him. Basil's portrait of Dorian marks a new phase of his career. Before he created this masterwork, he spent his time painting Dorian in the veils of antiquity—dressed as an ancient soldier or as various romantic figures from mythology. Once he has painted Dorian as he truly is, however, he fears that he has put too much of himself into the work. He worries that his love, which he himself describes as “idolatry,” is too apparent, and that it betrays too much of himself. Though he later changes his mind to believe that art is always more abstract than one thinks and that the painting thus betrays nothing except form and color, his emotional investment in Dorian remains constant. He seeks to protect Dorian, voicing his objection to Lord Henry's injurious influence over Dorian and defending Dorian even after their relationship has clearly dissolved. Basil's commitment to Dorian, which ultimately proves fatal, reveals the genuineness of his love for his favorite subject and his concern for the safety and salvation of Dorian's soul.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Themes, Motifs & Symbols</span><br /><br />Themes<br /><br />Themes are the fundamental and often universal ideas explored in a literary work.<br />The Purpose of Art<br /><br />When The Picture of Dorian Gray was first published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine in 1890, it was decried as immoral. In revising the text the following year, Wilde included a preface, which serves as a useful explanation of his philosophy of art. The purpose of art, according to this series of epigrams, is to have no purpose. In order to understand this claim fully, one needs to consider the moral climate of Wilde's time and the Victorian sensibility regarding art and morality. The Victorians believed that art could be used as a tool for social education and moral enlightenment, as illustrated in works by writers such as Charles Dickens and George Gissing. The aestheticism movement, of which Wilde was a major proponent, sought to free art from this responsibility. The aestheticists were motivated as much by a contempt for bourgeois morality—a sensibility embodied in Dorian Gray by Lord Henry, whose every word seems designed to shock the ethical certainties of the burgeoning middle class—as they were by the belief that art need not possess any other purpose than being beautiful.<br /><br />If this philosophy informed Wilde's life, we must then consider whether his only novel bears it out. The two works of art that dominate the novel—Basil's painting and the mysterious yellow book that Lord Henry gives Dorian—are presented in the vein more of Victorian sensibilities than of aesthetic ones. That is, both the portrait and the French novel serve a purpose: the first acts as a type of mysterious mirror that shows Dorian the physical dissipation his own body has been spared, while the second acts as something of a road map, leading the young man farther along the path toward infamy. While we know nothing of the circumstances of the yellow book's composition, Basil's state of mind while painting Dorian's portrait is clear. Later in the novel, he advocates that all art be “unconscious, ideal, and remote.” His portrait of Dorian, however, is anything but. Thus, Basil's initial refusal to exhibit the work results from his belief that it betrays his idolization of his subject. Of course, one might consider that these breaches of aesthetic philosophy mold The Picture of Dorian Gray into something of a cautionary tale: these are the prices that must be paid for insisting that art reveals the artist or a moral lesson. But this warning is, in itself, a moral lesson, which perhaps betrays the impossibility of Wilde's project. If, as Dorian observes late in the novel, the imagination orders the chaos of life and invests it with meaning, then art, as the fruit of the imagination, cannot help but mean something. Wilde may have succeeded in freeing his art from the confines of Victorian morality, but he has replaced it with a doctrine that is, in its own way, just as restrictive.<br /><br />The Supremacy of Youth and Beauty<br /><br />The first principle of aestheticism, the philosophy of art by which Oscar Wilde lived, is that art serves no other purpose than to offer beauty. Throughout The Picture of Dorian Gray, beauty reigns. It is a means to revitalize the wearied senses, as indicated by the effect that Basil's painting has on the cynical Lord Henry. It is also a means of escaping the brutalities of the world: Dorian distances himself, not to mention his consciousness, from the horrors of his actions by devoting himself to the study of beautiful things—music, jewels, rare tapestries. In a society that prizes beauty so highly, youth and physical attractiveness become valuable commodities. Lord Henry reminds Dorian of as much upon their first meeting, when he laments that Dorian will soon enough lose his most precious attributes. In Chapter Seventeen, the Duchess of Monmouth suggests to Lord Henry that he places too much value on these things; indeed, Dorian's eventual demise confirms her suspicions. For although beauty and youth remain of utmost importance at the end of the novel—the portrait is, after all, returned to its original form—the novel suggests that the price one must pay for them is exceedingly high. Indeed, Dorian gives nothing less than his soul.<br /><br />The Superficial Nature of Society<br /><br />It is no surprise that a society that prizes beauty above all else is a society founded on a love of surfaces. What matters most to Dorian, Lord Henry, and the polite company they keep is not whether a man is good at heart but rather whether he is handsome. As Dorian evolves into the realization of a type, the perfect blend of scholar and socialite, he experiences the freedom to abandon his morals without censure. Indeed, even though, as Basil warns, society's elite question his name and reputation, Dorian is never ostracized. On the contrary, despite his “mode of life,” he remains at the heart of the London social scene because of the “innocence” and “purity of his face.” As Lady Narborough notes to Dorian, there is little (if any) distinction between ethics and appearance: “you are made to be good—you look so good.”<br /><br />The Negative Consequences of Influence<br /><br />The painting and the yellow book have a profound effect on Dorian, influencing him to predominantly immoral behavior over the course of nearly two decades. Reflecting on Dorian's power over Basil and deciding that he would like to seduce Dorian in much the same way, Lord Henry points out that there is “something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence.” Falling under the sway of such influence is, perhaps, unavoidable, but the novel ultimately censures the sacrifice of one's self to another. Basil's idolatry of Dorian leads to his murder, and Dorian's devotion to Lord Henry's hedonism and the yellow book precipitate his own downfall. It is little wonder, in a novel that prizes individualism—the uncompromised expression of self—that the sacrifice of one's self, whether it be to another person or to a work of art, leads to one's destruction.<br /><br />Motifs<br /><br />Motifs are recurring structures, contrasts, or literary devices that can help to develop and inform the text's major themes.<br />The Picture of Dorian Gray<br /><br />The picture of Dorian Gray, “the most magical of mirrors,” shows Dorian the physical burdens of age and sin from which he has been spared. For a time, Dorian sets his conscience aside and lives his life according to a single goal: achieving pleasure. His painted image, however, asserts itself as his conscience and hounds him with the knowledge of his crimes: there he sees the cruelty he showed to Sibyl Vane and the blood he spilled killing Basil Hallward.<br /><br />Homoerotic Male Relationships<br /><br />The homoerotic bonds between men play a large role in structuring the novel. Basil's painting depends upon his adoration of Dorian's beauty; similarly, Lord Henry is overcome with the desire to seduce Dorian and mold him into the realization of a type. This camaraderie between men fits into Wilde's larger aesthetic values, for it returns him to antiquity, where an appreciation of youth and beauty was not only fundamental to culture but was also expressed as a physical relationship between men. As a homosexual living in an intolerant society, Wilde asserted this philosophy partially in an attempt to justify his own lifestyle. For Wilde, homosexuality was not a sordid vice but rather a sign of refined culture. As he claimed rather romantically during his trial for “gross indecency” between men, the affection between an older and younger man places one in the tradition of Plato, Michelangelo, and Shakespeare.<br /><br />The Color White<br /><br />Interestingly, Dorian's trajectory from figure of innocence to figure of degradation can be charted by Wilde's use of the color white. White usually connotes innocence and blankness, as it does when Dorian is first introduced. It is, in fact, “the white purity” of Dorian's boyhood that Lord Henry finds so captivating. Basil invokes whiteness when he learns that Dorian has sacrificed his innocence, and, as the artist stares in horror at the ruined portrait, he quotes a biblical verse from the Book of Isaiah: “Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow.” But the days of Dorian's innocence are over. It is a quality he now eschews, and, tellingly, when he orders flowers, he demands “as few white ones as possible.” When the color appears again, in the form of James Vane's face—“like a white handkerchief”—peering in through a window, it has been transformed from the color of innocence to the color of death. It is this threatening pall that makes Dorian long, at the novel's end, for his “rose-white boyhood,” but the hope is in vain, and he proves unable to wash away the stains of his sins.<br /><br />Symbols<br /><br />Symbols are objects, characters, figures, or colors used to represent abstract ideas or concepts.<br />The Opium Dens<br /><br />The opium dens, located in a remote and derelict section of London, represent the sordid state of Dorian's mind. He flees to them at a crucial moment. After killing Basil, Dorian seeks to forget the awfulness of his crimes by losing consciousness in a drug-induced stupor. Although he has a canister of opium in his home, he leaves the safety of his neat and proper parlor to travel to the dark dens that reflect the degradation of his soul.<br /><br />James Vane<br /><br />James Vane is less a believable character than an embodiment of Dorian's tortured conscience. As Sibyl's brother, he is a rather flat caricature of the avenging relative. Still, Wilde saw him as essential to the story, adding his character during his revision of 1891. Appearing at the dock and later at Dorian's country estate, James has an almost spectral quality. Like the ghost of Jacob Marley in Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol, who warns Scrooge of the sins he will have to face, James appears with his face “like a white handkerchief” to goad Dorian into accepting responsibility for the crimes he has committed.<br /><br />The Yellow Book<br /><br />Lord Henry gives Dorian a copy of the yellow book as a gift. Although he never gives the title, Wilde describes the book as a French novel that charts the outrageous experiences of its pleasure-seeking protagonist (we can fairly assume that the book in question is Joris-Karl Huysman's decadent nineteenth-century novel Rebours, translated as “Against the Grain” or “Against Nature”). The book becomes like holy scripture to Dorian, who buys nearly a dozen copies and bases his life and actions on it. The book represents the profound and damaging influence that art can have over an individual and serves as a warning to those who would surrender themselves so completely to such an influence.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Download </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/174/174-h.zip"><span style="font-style: italic;">the Picture of Dorian Gray</span></a><br /></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-39175102853575596272009-08-05T13:03:00.000-07:002009-08-05T13:03:00.087-07:00Marlowe's Dr Faustus<span style="font-weight: bold;">Synopsis</span><br /><br />Set in Germany, the play relates the quest of John Faustus for knowledge and power beyond normal human capabilities. Frustrated by his inability to uncover the mysteries of the universe, he makes a contract with a demon, Mephastophilis, in exchange for twenty-four years of luxury, and magical access to illicit secrets. Faustus turns his back on God and embraces a life of little more than dubious shallow trickery. No grand revelations await the doctor.<br /><br />The play ends back in Wittenberg. Faustus shows his friends a vision of Helen of Troy. An Old Man tries to make him repent, but Faustus refuses. As the time draws near for Mephastophilis to take him to hell, Faustus grows more desperate, his anguish propelling him to an understanding of what heaven means. However, whether incapable or unwilling, he turns away from God and is dragged screaming to hell.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Scene Summaries</span><br /><br />Prologue<br /><br />The Chorus tells us that the play is about an ordinary man, a scholar called Faustus. His intellect has made him arrogant, and extremely ambitious. The story will open as he embarks on a study of magic, the only domain of knowledge he has yet to conquer.<br /><br />Scene 1<br /><br />Faustus is seen sitting amongst his books, and he begins to tell us about the authors. He derides them, rejecting each of their disciplines in turn. Theology is his last hope, but labels it useless, declaring it is inevitable that all men must sin and die. But Faustus believes that applying his considerable intellect to the study of magic will make him immortal. Admitting that he is still a novice in the subject, he sends his servant, Wagner, to fetch the magicians Valdes and Cornelius. They will teach him how to gain power over the spirit world.<br /><br />The Good and Evil Angel appear. The Good Angel threatens Faustus with God’s anger if he continues; the Evil Angel counters this by telling Faustus his course will lead to greater power on earth. This prompts Faustus to aspire and dream, and he shares his ideas with Valdes and Cornelius. The two magicians promise to help him achieve his ambitions and the scene closes with Faustus attempting his first spell.<br /><br />Scene 2<br /><br />Two of Faustus’ old friends are seen wondering where he is now. Wagner, Faustus’ servant, passes them, and makes fun of typical scholarly discourse. Eventually he tells them that Faustus is dining with Valdes and Cornelius. The two men realize their friend is learning black magic and resolve to help.<br /><br />Scene 3<br /><br />Faustus has learned the art of magic and conjures up a devil called Mephastophilis. Faustus is arrogant but when he gives orders to the demon, he is told that his requests will only be granted if Lucifer, Mephastophilis’ master, consents. They discuss Lucifer and the account of his exile from heaven. Faustus proposes a contract with the devil - in exchange for his soul Lucifer should give him twenty-four years where he may live "in all voluptuousness". They arrange to meet and confirm the agreement after Mephastophilis has consulted his master.<br /><br />Scene 4<br /><br />Wagner meets a "clown" in the street and bribes him to become his servant. When the man hesitates, Wagner conjures up two devils, Baliol and Belcher, who frighten him into submission.<br /><br />Scene 5<br /><br />We see Faustus in his study, thinking about damnation. The Good and Bad Angel appear and plead with him. When they leave, Mephastophilis enters and tells Faustus that Lucifer has agreed to the bargain as long as the contract is signed in blood. The doctor questions Mephastophilis about hell, and then attempts to write his name. However, the blood will not flow, and when a message appears on his arm urging him to flee, the demon distracts him from hesitation by a group of dancing devils.<br /><br />When the bargain is sealed, Faustus at once begins to pester Mephastophilis for the secrets of the universe. All of his requests are met with dissatisfaction. He thinks of heaven, and the Good and Bad Angels appear again. Faustus declares that he cannot repent, and calls on Mephastophilis to discuss the nature of the world. The information given seems limited, and the devil is not allowed to talk about theological matters. Faustus dismisses him and the Angels return. Just as the doctor seems to be on the verge of repenting, the most powerful devils, Lucifer and Belzebub, appear with Mephastophilis and issue threats with a display of the Seven Deadly Sins. Faustus is impressed and decides to visit Hell.<br /><br /><br />Scene 6<br /><br />Time passes and Faustus is now famous. Two ostlers, Robin and Rafe, plan to use one of the doctor’s book of spells to seduce a kitchen woman and get free drink.<br /><br />Chorus 2<br /><br />Wagner describes how Faustus is proceeding in his study of black magic. He tells us that the doctor has ridden in a chariot pulled by dragons to the top of Mount Olympus, the home of the Ancient Greek gods. Faustus will next try out his new powers at a papal feast in Rome.<br /><br />Scene 7<br /><br />Mephastophilis informs Faustus about the layout of Rome. He makes Faustus invisible and when the Pope enters with the Cardinal of Lorraine and attendant friars, the doctor plays tricks on them, disrupting the feast. Some friars curse Faustus, causing him to set off fireworks and beat them.<br /><br />Scene 8<br /><br />Robin and Rafe use the book of magic to steal a silver goblet. They accidentally call up Mephastophilis, and he transforms them into an ape and a dog for having brought him all the way from Constantinople.<br /><br />Chorus 3<br /><br />Faustus returns home to Wittenberg and immerses himself in his old friendships and entertainments. His skill is noticible, and he is summoned to the court of Emperor Charles V.<br /><br />Scene 9<br /><br />The Emperor tells Faustus that he may practise magic safely in his court, and the doctor is humble towards him. He gives a magic show, invoking devils in the image of Alexander the Great and Alexander’s Queen. A knight is sceptical, and leaves the stage, but everyone else believes the show to be genuine. Faustus asks for the knight to be sent for, and when he appears we see that the doctor has caused horns to sprout from his head. The Emperor and his court leave, and Faustus tells Mephastophilis that his twenty- four years of power are nearly over. He will spend the close of his life in Wittenberg.<br /><br />Scene 10<br /><br />Faustus proceeds to play tricks on a horse-trader. He turns a bundle of hay into a horse and sells it to a horse-courser for forty dollars, warning him not to ride the horse into water. The man accidentally insults Faustus by suggesting that he would do well as a horse-doctor. This prompts him to doubt his identity.<br /><br />The horse-courser returns soaking wet and tells us that the horse turned into hay when rode into a pond. He tries to wake the sleeping Faustus to get a refund, shouting and pulling on his leg. This comes off in his hand and Mephastophilis lets him escape as long as he pays a further forty dollars. When he leaves we find out that the detachable leg was a trick. At the end Wagner appears with news of an invitation from the Duke of Vanholt.<br /><br />Scene 11<br /><br />Faustus is in the middle of entertaining the court of Vanholt. The pregnant Duchess craves grapes, and despite it being the middle of winter Faustus provides her with a bunch from the other side of the world. He is promised a reward and they depart to continue the conversation elsewhere.<br /><br />Chorus 4<br />Wagner reminds us of Faustus’ imminent death. He is back in Wittenberg enjoying a drunken life of revels. Wagner is unable to understand why the doctor should still choose to go to these student parties.<br /><br />Scene 12<br /><br />Three scholars have been arguing over who was the most beautiful woman ever. Faustus conjures up a vision of Helen of Troy and she crosses the stage in silence. The scholars praise her beauty and the skill of Faustus, and leave. An Old Man unexpectedly enters and declares these actions to be evil. He urges the doctor to repent, and when Faustus despairs, he prevents his suicide.<br /><br />The departure of the Old Man sees Mephastophilis appear with threats of torture if the doctor does not fulfil the bargain made. Faustus gives in and asks two favours - for devils to torture the Old Man and to be able to sleep with Helen of Troy. The Old Man enters as Faustus is kissing Helen. They leave the stage together and devils torment him. We see him defy hell and welcome death.<br /><br />Scene 13<br /><br />Faustus is wretched, and miserably greets his scholarly friends, informing them that he must soon go to hell. They tell him that he should repent, but he says that invisible devils hold his tongue and hands. They go to an adjacent room to pray for him. The play ends with a long anguished monologue by Faustus. He longs for time to stand still, alternately resolving to call on God and then hide from his wrath. He ends with wishing that he had not been born with a soul. Faced with God’s rejection and Lucifer’s embrace, Faustus is taken to hell.<br /><br />Epilogue<br /><br />The Chorus describes the tragedy of Doctor Faustus as a lost opportunity for honour and education. We are asked to learn from the story and not try to rebel against divine law.<br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Themes</span><br /><br />Belief<br /><br />The conflict between belief and unbelief dominates Marlowe’s play. In the sixteenth century the concept of atheism could be defined as both a denial of the existence of God and also a denial of the goodness of God. Faustus uses the idea of ‘a mighty god’ as an alternative to the Christian God. So while modern audiences wouldn’t consider him an atheist, an Elizabethan audience would. In addition, while he is sceptical about God, he seems to believe that he has a soul. Paradoxically this aligns him with some aspects of conventional theology but not others. His belief system is shaky and suspect; he is constantly moving from one opinion to another, unable to root himself. His sense of identity wavers, shown in his use of his own name instead of the personal pronoun, as if he is standing outside himself looking helplessly on.<br /><br />Religion<br /><br />The succession of Queen Elizabeth to Mary in 1558 saw Catholicism outlawed in England. The Pope was described as the Antichrist, the Catholic Church as the ‘Whore of Babylon’, and Catholic forms of worship, in particular the Latin Mass, treated with disgust and terror. Repressive laws and taxes were introduced in order to re-educate the public and turn them towards Protestantism. The fear of invasion and the war with Spain intensified the revulsion. Priests who failed to attend Protestant services were arrested - if they were caught administering the forbidden Catholic rites they could be tortured to death. However, the reign of Elizabeth did not feature more violence than Mary’s; religious dissent was met with execution in both.<br /><br />Marlowe placed Faustus in the Martin Luther’s home university of Wittenberg, whose teachings were the basis for the formation of early sixteenth century Protestant Anglicanism. That Faustus should mock the Pope suggests Marlowe is satirizing Catholicism; an Elizabethan audience would quickly be ready to laugh at these jokes. His use of Latin in his spells suggests the Latin of the Catholic Mass, and that Marlowe is setting up the idea that Catholicism is no more than a trick of the Devil’s. In consideration the play certainly seems to be a diatribe against the Catholic religion.<br /><br />The dominance of mainstream Anglicanism during Elizabeth’s reign was put under stress by the Puritan religion. The Puritan sect, with its emphasis on free speech and independent thought, undermined the officially prescribed homilies and services set down in the Book of Prayer, ordained by Elizabeth’s Government. Rather than conformity to authority, the religion preached individual obedience to one’s own conscience instead. This was deemed dangerously subversive, and was a source of anxiety to those in positions of power. Shepherd draws attention to the way Marlowe’s plays "often show scenes or stories in which …individual speech is repressed or in which official speech making is viewed critically". Faustus is seen as struggling between an ideal of Puritan individualism, and the need to conform to imposed structures.I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-20216905007381934252009-08-05T12:55:00.000-07:002009-08-05T12:55:00.923-07:00Blank Verse<div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Blank Verse</span> consists of lines of iambic pentameter (five-stress iambic verse) which are unrhymed—hence the term "blank." Of all English metrical forms it is closest to the natural rhythms of English speech, and at the same time flexible and adaptive to diverse levels of discourse; as a result it has been more frequently and variously used than any other type of versification. Soon after blank verse was introduced by the Earl of Surrey in his translations of Books 2 and 4 of Virgil's The Aeneid (about 1540), it became the standard meter for Elizabethan and later poetic drama; a free form of blank verse is still the medium in such twentieth-century verse plays as those by Maxwell Anderson and T. S. Eliot. John Milton used blank verse for his epic Paradise Lost (1667), James Thomson for his descriptive and philosophical Seasons (1726-30), William Wordsworth for his autobiographical Prelude (1805), Alfred, Lord Tennyson<br />for the narrative Idylls of the King (1891), Robert Browning for The Ring and the Book (1868-69) and many dramatic monologues, and T. S. Eliot for much of The Waste Land (1922). A large number of meditative lyrics, from the Romantic Period to the present, have also been written in blank verse, including Coleridge's "Frost at Midnight," Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey," Tennyson's "Tears, Idle Tears" (in which the blank verse is divided into five-line stanzas), and Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning." Divisions in blank verse poems, used to set off a sustained passage, are called verse paragraphs. See, for example, the great verse paragraph of twenty-six lines which initiates Milton's Paradise Lost, beginning with "Of man's first disobedience" and ending with "And justify the ways of God to men"; also, the opening verse paragraph of twenty-two lines in Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey" (1798), which begins:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Five years have past; five summers, with the length<br />Of five long winters! and again I hear<br />These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs<br />With a soft inland murmur.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; font-family: webdings;"><ul><li> Adapted from M. H. Abram's <span style="font-style: italic;">A Glossary of Literary Terms</span></li></ul></div></div></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-37427042020462425322009-08-03T08:23:00.000-07:002009-08-03T08:23:00.608-07:00The Use of ForceBy: William Carlos Williams<br /><br />They were new patients to me, all I had was the name, Olson. Please come down as soon as you can, my daughter is very sick.<br /><br />When I arrived I was met by the mother, a big startled looking woman, very clean and apologetic who merely said, Is this the doctor? and let me in. In the back, she added. You must excuse us, doctor, we have her in the kitchen where it is warm. It is very damp here sometimes.<br /><br />The child was fully dressed and sitting on her father's lap near the kitchen table. He tried to get up, but I motioned for him not to bother, took off my overcoat and started to look things over. I could see that they were all very nervous, eyeing me up and down distrustfully. As often, in such cases, they weren't telling me more than they had to, it was up to me to tell them; that's why they were spending three dollars on me.<br /><br />The child was fairly eating me up with her cold, steady eyes, and no expression to her face whatever. She did not move and seemed, inwardly, quiet; an unusually attractive little thing, and as strong as a heifer in appearance. But her face was flushed, she was breathing rapidly, and I realized that she had a high fever. She had magnificent blonde hair, in profusion. One of those picture children often reproduced in advertising leaflets and the photogravure sections of the Sunday papers.<br /><br />She's had a fever for three days, began the father and we don't know what it comes from. My wife has given her things, you know, like people do, but it don't do no good. And there's been a lot of sickness around. So we tho't you'd better look her over and tell us what is the matter.<br /><br />As doctors often do I took a trial shot at it as a point of departure. Has she had a sore throat?<br /><br />Both parents answered me together, No . . . No, she says her throat don't hurt her.<br /><br />Does your throat hurt you? added the mother to the child. But the little girl's expression didn't change nor did she move her eyes from my face.<br /><br />Have you looked?<br /><br />I tried to, said the mother, but I couldn't see.<br /><br />As it happens we had been having a number of cases of diphtheria in the school to which this child went during that month and we were all, quite apparently, thinking of that, though no one had as yet spoken of the thing.<br /><br />Well, I said, suppose we take a look at the throat first. I smiled in my best professional manner and asking for the child's first name I said, come on, Mathilda, open your mouth and let's take a look at your throat.<br /><br />Nothing doing.<br /><br />Aw, come on, I coaxed, just open your mouth wide and let me take a look. Look, I said opening both hands wide, I haven't anything in my hands. Just open up and let me see.<br /><br />Such a nice man, put in the mother. Look how kind he is to you. Come on, do what he tells you to. He won't hurt you.<br /><br />At that I ground my teeth in disgust. If only they wouldn't use the word "hurt" I might be able to get somewhere. But I did not allow myself to be hurried or disturbed but speaking quietly and slowly I approached the child again.<br /><br />As I moved my chair a little nearer suddenly with one catlike movement both her hands clawed instinctively for my eyes and she almost reached them too. In fact she knocked my glasses flying and they fell, though unbroken, several feet away from me on the kitchen floor. <br /><br /> Both the mother and father almost turned themselves inside out in embarrassment and apology. You bad girl, said the mother, taking her and shaking her by one arm. Look what you've done. The nice man . . .<br /><br />For heaven's sake, I broke in. Don't call me a nice man to her. I'm here to look at her throat on the chance that she might have diphtheria and possibly die of it. But that's nothing to her. Look here, I said to the child, we're going to look at your throat. You're old enough to understand what I'm saying. Will you open it now by yourself or shall we have to open it for you)<br /><br />Not a move. Even her expression hadn't changed. Her breaths however were coming faster and faster. Then the battle began. I had to do it. I had to have a throat culture for her own protection. But first I told the parents that it was entirely up to them. I explained the danger but said that I would not insist on a throat examination so long as they would take the responsibility.<br /><br />If you don't do what the doctor says you'll have to go to the hospital, the mother admonished her severely.<br /><br />Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself. After all, I had already fallen in love with the savage brat, the parents were contemptible to me. In the ensuing struggle they grew more and more abject, crushed, exhausted while she surely rose to magnificent heights of insane fury of effort bred of her terror of me.<br /><br /> The father tried his best, and he was a big man but the fact that she was his daughter, his shame at her behavior and his dread of hurting her made him release her just at the critical times when I had almost achieved success, till I wanted to kill him. But his dread also that she might have diphtheria made him tell me to go on, go on though he himself was almost fainting, while the mother moved back and forth behind us raising and lowering her hands in an agony of apprehension.<br /><br />Put her in front of you on your lap, I ordered, and hold both her wrists.<br /><br />But as soon as he did the child let out a scream. Don't, you're hurting me. Let go of my hands. Let them go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop it! Stop it! You're killing me! <br />Do you think she can stand it, doctor! said the mother.<br /><br />You get out, said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to die of diphtheria?<br /><br />Come on now, hold her, I said.<br /><br />Then I grasped the child's head with my left hand and tried to get the wooden tongue depressor between her teeth. She fought, with clenched teeth, desperately! But now I also had grown furious--at a child. I tried to hold myself down but I couldn't. I know how to expose a throat for inspection. And I did my best. When finally I got the wooden spatula behind the last teeth and just the point of it into the mouth cavity, she opened up for an instant but before I could see anything she came down again and gripping the wooden blade between her molars she reduced it to splinters before I could get it out again.<br /><br />Aren't you ashamed, the mother yelled at her. Aren't you ashamed to act like that in front of the doctor?<br /><br />Get me a smooth-handled spoon of some sort, I told the mother. We're going through with this. The child's mouth was already bleeding. Her tongue was cut and she was screaming in wild hysterical shrieks. Perhaps I should have desisted and come back in an hour or more. No doubt it would have been better. But I have seen at least two children lying dead in bed of neglect in such cases, and feeling that I must get a diagnosis now or never I went at it again. But the worst of it was that I too had got beyond reason. I could have torn the child apart in my own fury and enjoyed it. It was a pleasure to attack her. My face was burning with it.<br /><br />The damned little brat must be protected against her own idiocy, one says to one's self at such times. Others must be protected against her. It is a social necessity. And all these things are true. But a blind fury, a feeling of adult shame, bred of a longing for muscular release are the operatives. One goes on to the end.<br /><br />In a final unreasoning assault I overpowered the child's neck and jaws. I forced the heavy silver spoon back of her teeth and down her throat till she gagged. And there it was--both tonsils covered with membrane. She had fought valiantly to keep me from knowing her secret. She had been hiding that sore throat for three days at least and lying to her parents in order to escape just such an outcome as this.<br /><br />Now truly she was furious. She had been on the defensive before but now she attacked. Tried to get off her father's lap and fly at me while tears of defeat blinded her eyes.I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-50771813634191476792009-08-02T08:13:00.000-07:002009-08-02T08:13:00.358-07:00A Beautiful Poem About Life<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link style="font-family: lucida grande;" rel="File-List" href="file:///G:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CIman%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link style="font-family: lucida grande;" rel="themeData" href="file:///G:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CIman%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link style="font-family: lucida grande;" rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///G:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CIman%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> 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table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: lucida grande;" class="MsoNormal">"Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
<br />he wrote a poem
<br />And he called it "Chops"
<br />because that was the name of his dog
<br />And that's what it was all about
<br />And his teacher gave him an A
<br />and a gold star
<br />And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
<br />and read it to his aunts
<br />That was the year father Tracy
<br />took all the kids to the zoo
<br />And he let them sing on the bus
<br />And his little sister was born
<br />with tiny toenails and no hair
<br />And his mother and father kissed a lot
<br />And the girl around the corner sent him a
<br />valentine signed with a row of x's
<br />and he had to ask his father what the x's meant
<br />And his father always tucked him in bed at night
<br />And was always there to do it
<br />
<br />Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
<br />he wrote a poem
<br />And called it "Autumn"
<br />because that was the name of the season
<br />And that's what it was all about
<br />And his teacher gave him an A
<br />and asked him to write more clearly
<br />And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
<br />because of its new paint
<br />And the kids told him
<br />that father Tracy smoked cigars
<br />And left butts on the pews
<br />And sometimes they would burn holes
<br />That was the year his sister got glasses
<br />with thick lenses and black frames
<br />And the girl around the corner laughed
<br />when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
<br />And the kids told him why
<br />his mother and father kissed a lot
<br />And his father never tucked him in at night
<br />And his father got mad
<br />when he asked him to do it.
<br />
<br />Once on a paper torn from his notebook
<br />he wrote a poem
<br />And he called it "Innocense: A Question"
<br />because that was the question about his girl
<br />And that's what it was all about
<br />And his professor gave him an A
<br />and a strange steady look
<br />And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
<br />because he never showed her
<br />That was the year father Tracy died
<br />And he forgot how the end
<br />of the Apostle's Creed went
<br />And he caught his sister
<br />making out on the back porch
<br />And his mother and father never kissed
<br />or even talked
<br />And the girl around the corner
<br />wore too much makeup
<br />That made him cough when he kissed her
<br />but he kissed her anyway
<br />because that was the thing to do
<br />And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
<br />his father snoring soundly
<br />
<br />That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
<br />he tried another poem
<br />And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
<br />Because that's what it was really all about
<br />And he gave himself an A
<br />And a slash on each damned wrist
<br />And he hung it on the bathroom door
<br />because he didn't think
<br />he could reach the kitchen."
<br />
<br />By: Dr. Earl Reum</p> I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-43376988053278217842009-07-30T01:30:00.000-07:002009-07-30T01:30:00.724-07:00The Lady of Shallot<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///G:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CIman%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///G:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CIman%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///G:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CIman%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> 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line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} /* List Definitions */ @list l0 {mso-list-id:2056347517; mso-list-type:hybrid; mso-list-template-ids:-319551734 67698699 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;} @list l0:level1 {mso-level-number-format:bullet; mso-level-text:; mso-level-tab-stop:none; mso-level-number-position:left; text-indent:-.25in; font-family:Wingdings;} ol {margin-bottom:0in;} ul {margin-bottom:0in;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p>An absolutely great poem by the poet laureate Alfred Lord Tennyson; we've read this poem in our class and I like you too read and enjoy it by yourself. Some good points are presented at the bottom.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://charon.sfsu.edu/tennyson/images/shallot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 490px; height: 330px;" src="http://charon.sfsu.edu/tennyson/images/shallot.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p>On either side the river lie
<br />Long fields of barley and of rye,
<br />That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
<br />And thro' the field the road runs by
<br />To many-tower'd Camelot;
<br />And up and down the people go,
<br />Gazing where the lilies blow
<br />Round an island there below,
<br />The island of Shalott. </p> <p>Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
<br />Little breezes dusk and shiver
<br />Through the wave that runs for ever
<br />By the island in the river
<br />Flowing down to Camelot.
<br />Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
<br />Overlook a space of flowers,
<br />And the silent isle imbowers
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>By the margin, willow veil'd,
<br />Slide the heavy barges trail'd
<br />By slow horses; and unhail'd
<br />The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
<br />Skimming down to Camelot:
<br />But who hath seen her wave her hand?
<br />Or at the casement seen her stand?
<br />Or is she known in all the land,
<br />The Lady of Shalott? </p> <p>Only reapers, reaping early,
<br />In among the bearded barley
<br />Hear a song that echoes cheerly
<br />From the river winding clearly;
<br />Down to tower'd Camelot;
<br />And by the moon the reaper weary,
<br />Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
<br />Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
<br />Lady of Shalott." </p> <p>There she weaves by night and day
<br />A magic web with colours gay.
<br />She has heard a whisper say,
<br />A curse is on her if she stay
<br />To look down to Camelot.
<br />She knows not what the curse may be,
<br />And so she weaveth steadily,
<br />And little other care hath she,
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>And moving through a mirror clear
<br />That hangs before her all the year,
<br />Shadows of the world appear.
<br />There she sees the highway near
<br />Winding down to Camelot;
<br />There the river eddy whirls,
<br />And there the surly village churls,
<br />And the red cloaks of market girls
<br />Pass onward from Shalott. </p> <p>Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
<br />An abbot on an ambling pad,
<br />Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
<br />Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
<br />Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
<br />And sometimes through the mirror blue
<br />The knights come riding two and two.
<br />She hath no loyal Knight and true,
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>But in her web she still delights
<br />To weave the mirror's magic sights,
<br />For often through the silent nights
<br />A funeral, with plumes and lights
<br />And music, went to Camelot;
<br />Or when the Moon was overhead,
<br />Came two young lovers lately wed.
<br />"I am half sick of shadows," said
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
<br />He rode between the barley sheaves,
<br />The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
<br />And flamed upon the brazen greaves
<br />Of bold Sir Lancelot.
<br />A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
<br />To a lady in his shield,
<br />That sparkled on the yellow field,
<br />Beside remote Shalott. </p> <p>The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
<br />Like to some branch of stars we see
<br />Hung in the golden Galaxy.
<br />The bridle bells rang merrily
<br />As he rode down to Camelot:
<br />And from his blazon'd baldric slung
<br />A mighty silver bugle hung,
<br />And as he rode his armor rung
<br />Beside remote Shalott. </p> <p>All in the blue unclouded weather
<br />Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
<br />The helmet and the helmet-feather
<br />Burn'd like one burning flame together,
<br />As he rode down to Camelot.
<br />As often thro' the purple night,
<br />Below the starry clusters bright,
<br />Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
<br />Moves over still Shalott. </p> <p>His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
<br />On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
<br />From underneath his helmet flow'd
<br />His coal-black curls as on he rode,
<br />As he rode down to Camelot.
<br />From the bank and from the river
<br />He flashed into the crystal mirror,
<br />"Tirra lirra," by the river
<br />Sang Sir Lancelot. </p> <p>She left the web, she left the loom,
<br />She made three paces through the room,
<br />She saw the water-lily bloom,
<br />She saw the helmet and the plume,
<br />She look'd down to Camelot.
<br />Out flew the web and floated wide;
<br />The mirror crack'd from side to side;
<br />"The curse is come upon me," cried
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>In the stormy east-wind straining,
<br />The pale yellow woods were waning,
<br />The broad stream in his banks complaining.
<br />Heavily the low sky raining
<br />Over tower'd Camelot;
<br />Down she came and found a boat
<br />Beneath a willow left afloat,
<br />And around about the prow she wrote
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>And down the river's dim expanse
<br />Like some bold seer in a trance,
<br />Seeing all his own mischance --
<br />With a glassy countenance
<br />Did she look to Camelot.
<br />And at the closing of the day
<br />She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
<br />The broad stream bore her far away,
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>Lying, robed in snowy white
<br />That loosely flew to left and right --
<br />The leaves upon her falling light --
<br />Thro' the noises of the night,
<br />She floated down to Camelot:
<br />And as the boat-head wound along
<br />The willowy hills and fields among,
<br />They heard her singing her last song,
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
<br />Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
<br />Till her blood was frozen slowly,
<br />And her eyes were darkened wholly,
<br />Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
<br />For ere she reach'd upon the tide
<br />The first house by the water-side,
<br />Singing in her song she died,
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>Under tower and balcony,
<br />By garden-wall and gallery,
<br />A gleaming shape she floated by,
<br />Dead-pale between the houses high,
<br />Silent into Camelot.
<br />Out upon the wharfs they came,
<br />Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
<br />And around the prow they read her name,
<br />The Lady of Shalott. </p> <p>Who is this? And what is here?
<br />And in the lighted palace near
<br />Died the sound of royal cheer;
<br />And they crossed themselves for fear,
<br />All the Knights at Camelot;
<br />But Lancelot mused a little space
<br />He said, "She has a lovely face;
<br />God in his mercy lend her grace,
<br />The Lady of Shalott."</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Notes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">Ø<span style=";font-family:";" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR" style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >The story of the Lady of Shalott is a version of "Elaine the fair maid of Astolat", from Thomas Malory's <u>Morte d'Arthur</u>. Elaine's naive love for Lancelot was unrequited.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">Ø<span style=";font-family:";" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR" style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >The key line, "I am half-sick of shadows", says the Lady's mind, and probably the poet's mind, is divided about the right choice.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">Ø<span style=";font-family:";" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR" style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >"Tirra lirra" comes from "The Winter's Tale" by Shakespeare. The red-cross knight is the hero of the beginning of Spenser's "Faery Queene".</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">Ø<span style=";font-family:";" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR" style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >You've probably already thought about how the Lady's castle and mirror compares with Plato's Cave. In Plato, the reflections are the phenomenal world; in Tennyson, the phenomenal world casts the reflections. Leaving both cave and castle supposedly results in disaster.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">Ø<span style=";font-family:";" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR" style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Funeral barges and dead bodies going down rivers are some sort of archetype. Ophelia, Buoconte di Montefeltro (Dante Purg. V), and Boromir ("Lord of the Rings") are three other favorites from classic literature.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">Ø<span style=";font-family:";" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span dir="LTR" style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Because the Lady of Shalott is an allegorical figure, she has no given name.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-38574140180913410652009-07-28T09:45:00.000-07:002009-07-28T09:55:56.591-07:00Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret<div style="text-align: justify;">Have you recently read a worth reading novel? Here I'm going to make it happen for you! Judy Blume is one of the best-seller writers of America and her novels mainly concerns social problems of children and youths like menstruation or divorce. The novel <span style="font-style: italic;">Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret</span>, is about eleven-going-on-twelve Margaret who has problems with her period and tries to find God through different religions. The novel was always in the list of books which were discussed to be banished in America.<br />I strongly recommend this book to bookworms and anyone who has not read a proper novel these days.<br /></div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-30723304765026585802009-03-03T12:17:00.000-08:002009-03-03T12:21:23.286-08:00The Early Seventeenth Century<p><em><strong>Introduction</strong></em></p> <p>The earlier seventeenth century, and especially the period of the English Revolution (1640–60), was a time of intense ferment in all areas of life — religion, science, politics, domestic relations, culture. That ferment was reflected in the literature of the era, which also registered a heightened focus on and analysis of the self and the personal life. However, little of this seems in evidence in the elaborate frontispiece to Michael Drayton's long "chorographical" poem on the landscape, regions, and local history of Great Britain (1612), which appeared in the first years of the reign of the Stuart king James I (1603–1625). The frontispiece appears to represent a peaceful, prosperous, triumphant Britain, with England, Scotland, and Wales united, patriarchy and monarchy firmly established, and the nation serving as the great theme for lofty literary celebration. Albion (the Roman name for Britain) is a young and beautiful virgin wearing as cloak a map featuring rivers, trees, mountains, churches, towns; she carries a scepter and holds a cornucopia, symbol of plenty. Ships on the horizon signify exploration, trade, and garnering the riches of the sea. In the four corners stand four conquerors whose descendants ruled over Britain: the legendary Brutus, Julius Caesar, Hengist the Saxon, and the Norman William the Conqueror, "whose line yet rules," as Drayton's introductory poem states.</p> <p>Yet this frontispiece also registers some of the tensions, conflicts, and redefinitions evident in the literature of the period and explored more directly in the topics and texts in this portion of the NTO Web site. It is Albion herself, not King James, who is seated in the center holding the emblems of sovereignty; her male conquerors stand to the side, and their smaller size and their number suggest something unstable in monarchy and patriarchy. Albion's robe with its multiplicity of regional features, as well as the "Poly" of the title, suggests forces pulling against national unity. Also, Poly-Olbion had no successors: instead of a celebration of the nation in the vein of Spenser's Faerie Queene or Poly-Olbion itself, the great seventeenth-century heroic poem, Paradise Lost, treats the Fall of Man and its tragic consequences, "all our woe."</p> <p>The first topic here, "Gender, Family, Household: Seventeenth-Century Norms and Controversies," provides important religious, legal, and domestic advice texts through which to explore cultural assumptions about gender roles and the patriarchal family. It also invites attention to how those assumptions are modified or challenged in the practices of actual families and households; in tracts on transgressive subjects (cross-dressing, women speaking in church, divorce); in women's texts asserting women's worth, talents, and rights; and especially in the upheavals of the English Revolution.</p> <p> "Paradise Lost in Context," the second topic for this period, surrounds that radically revisionist epic with texts that invite readers to examine how it engages with the interpretative traditions surrounding the Genesis story, how it uses classical myth, how it challenges orthodox notions of Edenic innocence, and how it is positioned within but also against the epic tradition from Homer to Virgil to Du Bartas. The protagonists here are not martial heroes but a domestic couple who must, both before and after their Fall, deal with questions hotly contested in the seventeenth century but also perennial: how to build a good marital relationship; how to think about science, astronomy, and the nature of things; what constitutes tyranny, servitude, and liberty; what history teaches; how to meet the daily challenges of love, work, education, change, temptation, and deceptive rhetoric; how to reconcile free will and divine providence; and how to understand and respond to God's ways.</p> <p>[Click on image to enlarge] The third topic, "Civil Wars of Ideas: Seventeenth-Century Politics, Religion, and Culture," provides an opportunity to explore, through political and polemical treatises and striking images, some of the issues and conflicts that led to civil war and the overthrow of monarchical government (1642–60). These include royal absolutism vs. parliamentary or popular sovereignty, monarchy vs. republicanism, Puritanism vs. Anglicanism, church ritual and ornament vs. iconoclasm, toleration vs. religious uniformity, and controversies over court masques and Sunday sports. The climax to all this was the highly dramatic trial and execution of King Charles I (January 1649), a cataclysmic event that sent shock waves through courts, hierarchical institutions, and traditionalists everywhere; this event is presented here through contemporary accounts and graphic images.</p> <p><em><strong>Notes:</strong></em></p> <p> * After more than four decades on the throne, Elizabeth I died in 1603. James VI of Scotland succeeded her,<br /> becoming James I and establishing the Stuart dynasty.<br /> * Political and religious tensions intensified under James’s son, Charles I, who succeeded to the throne in 1625.<br /> * As ideas changed, so did the conditions of their dissemination.<br /> * In the early seventeenth century, John Donne, Ben Jonson, and George Herbert led the shift towards “new” poetic genres.<br /> * Many leading poets were staunch royalists, or Cavaliers, who suffered heavily in the war years. Yet two of the best writers of the period, John Milton and Andrew Marvell, sided with the republic.</p> <p><em><strong>Summaries</strong></em></p> <p>After more than four decades on the throne, Elizabeth I died in 1603. James VI of Scotland succeeded her without the attempted coups that many had feared. Writers jubilantly noted that the new ruler had literary inclinations. Yet both in his literary works and on the throne James expounded authoritarian theories of kingship that seemed incompatible with the English tradition of "mixed" government. Kings, James believed, derived their power from God rather than from the people. James was notorious for his financial heedlessness, and his disturbing tendency to bestow high office on good-looking male favorites. The period had complex attitudes to same-sex relationships, and James’s susceptibility to lovely, expensive youths was seen as more a political than a moral calamity. Yet James was successful in keeping England out of European wars, and encouraging colonial projects in the New World and economic growth at home. The most important religious event of James’s reign was a newly commissioned translation of the Bible.</p> <p>Political and religious tensions intensified under James’s son, Charles I, who succeeded to the throne in 1625. Between 1629 and 1638, Charles attempted to rule without Parliament. Charles married the French princess Henrietta Maria, who promoted a conversion back to Catholicism. The appointment of William Laud as the archbishop of Canterbury further alienated Puritans, as Laud aligned the doctrine and ceremonies of the English church with Roman Catholicism. In 1642 a Civil War broke out between the king’s forces and armies loyal to the House of Commons. The conflict ended with Charles’s defeat and beheading in 1649. In the 1650s, as “Lord Protector,” Oliver Cromwell wielded power nearly as autocratically as Charles had done. In 1660, Parliament invited the old king’s son, Charles II, home from exile. Yet the twenty-year period between 1640 and 1660 had seen the emergence of concepts that would remain central to bourgeois thought for centuries to come: religious toleration, separation of church and state, freedom from press censorship, and popular sovereignty. Among the more radical voices to emerge in the period were those of Roger Williams, who advocated religious toleration, the Leveller, John Lilburne, who advocated universal male suffrage, and the Digger, Gerrard Winstanley, who advocated Christian communism.</p> <p>Early seventeenth-century writers such as John Donne, Ben Jonson, and Robert Burton inherited a system of knowledge founded on analogy, order, and hierarchy. In this system, a monarch was like God, the ruler of the universe, and also like a father, the head of the family. Yet this conceptual system was beginning to crumble in the face of the scientific and empirical approach to knowledge advocated by Francis Bacon. William Harvey’s discovery of the circulation of blood and Galileo’s demonstration that the earth revolved around the sun disrupted long-held certainties. As ideas changed, so did the conditions of their dissemination. Although elite poets like John Donne often preferred to circulate their works in manuscript, the printing of all kinds of literary works was becoming more common. Printers and acting companies were obliged to submit works to the censor before public presentation, and those who flouted the censorship laws were subject to heavy punishment. Since overt criticism or satire of the great was dangerous, political writing before the Civil War was apt to be oblique and allegorical.</p> <p>In the early seventeenth century, John Donne, Ben Jonson, and George Herbert led the shift towards “new” poetic genres. These included classical elegy and satire, epigram, verse epistle, meditative religious lyric, and the country-house poem. Jonson distinguished himself as an acute observer of urban manners. He mentored a group of younger poets, including Herrick and Carew, known as the Tribe or Sons of Ben. Donne’s poetry concerns itself not with a crowded social panorama, but with a dyad—the speaker and either a woman, or God. Donne delights in making the overlap between sexual and religious love seem new and shocking, and he has been regarded as a founder of “Metaphysical” poetry. Among the “Metaphysical poets” Herbert, with his complex religious sensibility wedded to great artistic sensibility, had a profound influence on younger poets like Crashaw and Vaughan. The reigns of the first two Stuart kings also marked the entry of women in some numbers into authorship and publication. </p> <p>The Civil War was disastrous for the English theater, with the closure of the playhouses in 1642. Many leading poets were staunch royalists, or Cavaliers, who suffered heavily in the war years. Yet two of the best writers of the period, John Milton and Andrew Marvell, sided with the republic. Marvell’s conflictual world-view is unmistakably a product of the Civil War decades. Milton’s loyalty to the revolution remained unwavering despite his disillusion when it failed to realize his ideals. The revolutionary era also gave new impetus to women’s writing on both sides of the political divide.</p> <p style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: Palatino,Palatino Linotype,Book Antiqua,serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> * Adapted from: Norton Anthology of English Literature</span></span></span></p>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-70876076484261291372009-03-03T12:14:00.000-08:002009-03-03T12:15:59.755-08:0050 Great Novels of All Time<p><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size: 28px;">A</span>s I presented you the list of "5o Great Short Stories", now I'm going to present the list of "50 Great Novels of All Time". Browsing among 5 different surveys about the best novels, I decided to pick the most famous and of course the richest in literature of all and enlisted them for you. Later on we will read and discouse these novels here. I assure you that these novels are UNPUTDOWNABLE. Here's the list:</span></span></span></p> <ol><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw1"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don%20Quixote" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Don Quixote</a></span> Miguel De Cervantes</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Madame Bovary Gustave Flaubert</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw2"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One%20Hundred%20Years%20of%20Solitude" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">One Hundred Years Of Solitude</a></span> Gabriel Garcia Marquez</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw3"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robinson%20Crusoe" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Robinson Crusoe</a></span> Daniel Defoe</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw4"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gulliver%27s%20Travels" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Gulliver’s Travels</a></span> Jonathan Swift</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw5"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emma" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Emma</a></span> Jane Austen</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw6"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adventures%20of%20Huckleberry%20Finn" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Huckleberry Finn</a></span> Mark Twain</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw7"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Scarlet%20Letter" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Scarlet Letter</a></span> Nathaniel Hawthorne</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw8"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frankenstein" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Frankenstein</a></span> Mary Shelley</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw9"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To%20Kill%20a%20Mockingbird" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">To Kill A Mockingbird</a></span> Harper Lee</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw10"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wuthering%20Heights" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Wuthering Heights</a></span> Emily Bronte</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw11"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane%20Eyre" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Jane Eyre</a></span> Charlotte Bronte</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw12"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little%20Women" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Little Women</a></span> Louisa M. Alcott</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw13"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Count%20of%20Monte%20Cristo" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Count Of Monte Cristo</a></span> Alexandre Dumas</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw14"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David%20Copperfield%20%28novel%29" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">David Copperfield</a></span> Charles Dickens</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw15"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strange%20Case%20of%20Dr%20Jekyll%20and%20Mr%20Hyde" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde</a></span> Robert Louis Stevenson</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw16"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice%27s%20Adventures%20in%20Wonderland" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland</a></span> Lewis Carroll</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Moby-Dick Herman Melville</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw17"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna%20Karenina" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Anna Karenina</a></span> Leo Tolstoy</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw18"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel%20Deronda" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Daniel Deronda</a></span> George Eliot</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw19"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Brothers%20Karamazov" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Brothers Karamazov</a></span> Fyodor Dostoevsky</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw20"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Men%20Without%20Women" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Men Without Women</a></span> Ernest Hemingway</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw21"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nineteen%20Eighty-Four" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Nineteen Eighty-Four</a></span> George Orwell</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw22"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Grapes%20of%20Wrath" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Grapes Of Wrath</a></span> John Steinbeck</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw23"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Animal%20Farm" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Animal Farm</a></span> George Orwell</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw24"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Portrait%20of%20a%20Lady" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Portrait Of A Lady</a></span> Henry James</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw25"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Picture%20of%20Dorian%20Gray" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Picture Of Dorian Gray</a></span> Oscar Wilde</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw26"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jude%20the%20Obscure" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Jude The Obscure</a></span> Thomas Hardy</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw27"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Call%20of%20the%20Wild" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Call Of The Wild</a></span> Jack London</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw28"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nostromo" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Nostromo</a></span> Joseph Conrad</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw29"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulysses%20%28novel%29" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Ulysses</a></span> James Joyce</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw30"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mrs%20Dalloway" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Mrs Dalloway</a></span> Virginia Woolf</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw31"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Great%20Gatsby" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Great Gatsby</a></span> F. Scott Fitzgerald</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw32"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Sun%20Also%20Rises" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Sun Also Rises</a></span> Ernest Hemingway</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw33"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Trial" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Trial</a></span> Franz Kafka</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw34"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/As%20I%20Lay%20Dying%20%28novel%29" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">As I Lay Dying</a></span> William Faulkner</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw35"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Heart%20of%20Darkness" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Heart Of Darkness</a></span> Joseph Conrad</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw36"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A%20Farewell%20to%20Arms" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">A Farewell To Arms</a></span> Ernest Hemingway</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Lolita Vladimir Nabokov</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw37"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atonement%20%28novel%29" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Atonement</a></span> Ian Mcewan</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw38"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Things%20Fall%20Apart" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Things Fall Apart</a></span> Chinua Achebe</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw39"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sons%20and%20Lovers" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Sons And Lovers</a></span> D.H. Lawrence</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw40"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To%20the%20Lighthouse" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">To The Lighthouse</a></span> Virginia Woolf</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw41"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gone%20with%20the%20Wind" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Gone With The Wind</a></span> Margaret Mitchell</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw42"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All%20the%20King%27s%20Men" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">All The King's Men</a></span> Robert Penn Warren</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw43"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord%20of%20the%20Flies" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Lord Of The Flies</a></span> William Golding</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw44"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women%20in%20Love" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">Women In Love</a></span> D.H. Lawrence</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw45"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Death%20of%20the%20Heart" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Death Of The Heart</a></span> Elizabeth Bowen</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="aptureLink" id="apture_prvw46"><span style="background-position: right -1348px;" class="aptureLinkIcon"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%20Lord%20of%20the%20Rings" class="aptureLink snap_noshots">The Lord Of The Rings</a></span> J. R. R. Tolkien</span></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The Bfg Roald Dahl</span></span></span></li></ol>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-77130009012172817492009-03-03T12:12:00.000-08:002009-03-03T12:16:24.418-08:00The 16th Century Literature<h4><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Introduction<img style="float: right;" src="http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nael/images/16thC/allegory2.jpg" alt="" width="151" height="200" /></span></span></h4> <p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Literary works in sixteenth-century England were rarely if ever created in isolation from other currents in the social and cultural world. The boundaries that divided the texts we now regard as aesthetic from other texts were porous and constantly shifting. It is perfectly acceptable, of course, for the purposes of reading to redraw these boundaries more decisively, treating Renaissance texts as if they were islands of the autonomous literary imagination. One of the greatest writers of the period, Sir Philip Sidney, defended poetry in just such terms; the poet, Sidney writes in <em>The Defence of Poetry</em> (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.953–74), is not constrained by nature or history but freely ranges "only within the zodiac of his own wit." But Sidney knew well, and from painful personal experience, how much this vision of golden autonomy was contracted by the pressures, perils, and longings of the brazen world. And only a few pages after he imagines the poet orbiting entirely within the constellations of his own intellect, he advances a very different vision, one in which the poet's words not only imitate reality but also actively change it. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We have no way of knowing to what extent, if at all, this dream of literary power was ever realized in the world. We do know that many sixteenth-century artists, such as Christopher Marlowe, Edmund Spenser, and William Shakespeare, brooded on the magical, transforming power of art. This power could be associated with civility and virtue, as Sidney claims, but it could also have the demonic qualities manifested by the "pleasing words" of Spenser's enchanter, Archimago (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.714–902), or by the incantations of Marlowe's <em>Doctor Faustus</em> (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.1022–1057). It is significant that Marlowe's great play was written at a time in which the possibility of sorcery was not merely a theatrical fantasy but a widely shared fear, a fear upon which the state could act — as the case of Doctor Fian vividly shows — with horrendous ferocity. Marlowe was himself the object of suspicion and hostility, as indicated by the strange report filed by a secret agent, Richard Baines, professing to list Marlowe's wildly heretical opinions, and by the gleeful (and factually inaccurate) report by the Puritan Thomas Beard of Marlowe's death.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><img class="lftthumb" src="http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nael/images/16thC/demon2.jpg" alt="[Click on image to enlarge]" align="left" border="0" width="136" height="200" /> Marlowe's tragedy emerges not only from a culture in which bargains with the devil are imaginable as real events but also from a world in which many of the most fundamental assumptions about spiritual life were being called into question by the movement known as the Reformation. Catholic and Protestant voices struggled to articulate the precise beliefs and practices thought necessary for the soul's salvation. One key site of conflict was the Bible, with Catholic authorities trying unsuccessfully to stop the circulation of the unauthorized Protestant translation of Scripture by William Tyndale, a translation in which doctrines and institutional structures central to the Roman Catholic church were directly challenged. Those doctrines and structures, above all the interpretation of the central ritual of the eucharist, or Lord's Supper, were contested with murderous ferocity, as the fates of the Protestant martyr Anne Askew and the Catholic martyr Robert Aske make painfully clear. The Reformation is closely linked to many of the texts printed in the sixteenth-century section of the Norton Anthology: Book 1 of Spenser's <em>Faerie Queene</em> (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.719–856), for example, in which a staunchly Protestant knight of Holiness struggles against the satanic forces of Roman Catholicism, or the Protestant propagandist Foxe's account of Lady Jane Grey's execution (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.674-75), or the Catholic Robert Southwell's moving religious lyric, "The Burning Babe" (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.640-41).</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><img class="rgtthumb" src="http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nael/images/16thC/sink.jpg" alt="[Click on image to enlarge]" align="right" border="0" width="218" height="200" /> If these windows on the Reformation offer a revealing glimpse of the inner lives of men and women in Tudor England, the subsection entitled "The Wider World" provides a glimpse of the huge world that lay beyond the boundaries of the kingdom, a world that the English were feverishly attempting to explore and exploit. Ruthless military expeditions and English settlers (including the poet Edmund Spenser) struggled to subdue and colonize nearby Ireland, but with very limited success. Farther afield, merchants from cities such as London and Bristol established profitable trading links to markets in North Africa, Turkey, and Russia. And daring seamen such as Drake and Cavendish commanded voyages to still more distant lands. The texts collected here, which supplement the selections from Ralegh's <em>Discoverie of Guiana</em> (<em>NAEL</em> 8, 1.923-26) and Hariot's <em>Brief and True Report</em> (<em>NAEL</em> 1.938-43) in the Norton Anthology, are fascinating, disturbing records of intense human curiosity, greed, fear, wonder, and intelligence. And lest we imagine that the English were only the observers of the world and never the observed, "The Wider World" includes a sample of a foreign tourist's description of London. The tourist, Thomas Platter, had the good sense to go to the theater and to see, as so many thousands of visitors to England have done since, a play by Shakespeare.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></p> <h4><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The Sixteenth Century: Summary</span></span></h4> <h4 class="title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Notes:</span></span></h4> <ul><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">By 1600, though English remained somewhat peripheral on the continent, it had been transformed into an immensely powerful expressive medium, as employed by Shakespeare, Marlowe, and the translators of the Bible. </span></span></li><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The development of the English language is linked to the consolidation and strengthening of the English state. </span></span></li><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Rather than the flowering of visual arts and architecture that had occurred in Italy, the Renaissance emerged in Britain through an intellectual orientation to humanism. </span></span></li><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The Protestant Reformation, with its emphasis on the authority of scripture (<em>sola scriptura</em>) and salvation by faith alone (<em>sola fide</em>), came to England as a result of Henry VIII’s insistence on divorcing his wife, Catherine of Aragon, against the wishes of the Pope. </span></span></li><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">A female monarch in a male world, Elizabeth ruled through a combination of adroit political maneuvering and imperious command, enhancing her authority by means of an extraordinary cult of love. </span></span></li><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Renaissance literature is the product of a rhetorical culture, a culture steeped in the arts of persuasion and trained to process complex verbal signals. </span></span></li><li class="list"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Around 1590, an extraordinary change came over English drama, pioneered by Marlowe’s mastery of unrhymed iambic pentameter, or blank verse.</span></span></li></ul> <h4 class="title"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Summaries:</span></span></h4> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a name="1"></a> The English language had almost no prestige abroad at the beginning of the sixteenth century. One of the earliest sixteenth-century works of English literature, Thomas More's <em>Utopia</em>, was written in Latin for an international intellectual community. It was only translated into English during the 1550s, nearly a half-century after its original publication in Britain. <span class="note">By 1600, though English remained somewhat peripheral on the continent, it had been transformed into an immensely powerful expressive medium, as employed</span> <span class="note">by Shakespeare, Marlowe, and the translators of the Bible.</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="note"> The development of the English language is linked to the consolidation and strengthening of the English state.</span> The Wars of the Roses ended with Henry VII’s establishment of the Tudor dynasty that would rule England from 1485 to 1603. The Tudors imposed a much stronger central authority on the nation. The royal court was a center of culture as well as power, finding expression in theater, masques, fashion, and taste in painting, music, and poetry. The court fostered paranoia, and in this anxious atmosphere courtiers became highly practiced at crafting and deciphering graceful words with double or triple meanings. For advice on the cultivation and display of the self, they turned to Castiglione's <em>Il Cortigiano</em> (<em>The Courtier</em>). Beyond the court, London was the largest and fastest-growing city in Europe, and literacy increased throughout the century, in part due to the influence of Protestantism as well as the rise of the printing press. Freedom of the press did not exist, and much literature, especially poetry, still circulated in manuscript. </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="note"><a id="3" name="3"></a> The movement now known as the Renaissance unleashed new ideas and new social, political and economic forces that gradually displaced the spiritual and communal values of the Middle Ages.</span> The Renaissance came to England through the spiritual and intellectual orientation known as humanism. Humanism, whose adherents included Sir Thomas More, John Colet, Roger Ascham, and Sir Thomas Elyot, was bound up with struggles over the purposes of education and curriculum reform. Education was still ordered according to the medieval <em>trivium</em> (grammar, logic, rhetoric) and <em>quadrivium</em> (arithmetic, geometry, astrology, and music), and it emphasized Latin, the language of diplomacy, professions, and higher learning. But the focus of education shifted from training for the Church to the general acquisition of “literature,” in the sense both of literacy and of cultural knowledge. </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a id="4" name="4"></a> Officially at least, England in the early sixteenth century had a single religion, Catholicism. <span class="note">The Protestant Reformation, with its emphasis on the authority of scripture (<em>sola scriptura</em></span><span class="note">) and salvation by faith alone (<em>sola fide</em></span><span class="note">), came to England as a result of Henry VIII’s insistence on divorcing his wife, Catherine of Aragon, against the wishes of the Pope.</span> Henry declared himself supreme head of the Church of England (through the Act of Supremacy). Those like Thomas More who refused the oath acknowledging the king’s supremacy were held guilty of treason and executed. Henry was an equal-opportunity persecutor, hostile to Catholics and zealous reformers alike. His son Edward VI was more firmly Protestant, whilst Mary I was a Catholic. Elizabeth I, though a Protestant, was cautiously conservative, determined to hold religious zealotry in check. </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="note"><a id="5" name="5"></a> A female monarch in a male world, Elizabeth ruled through a combination of adroit political maneuvering and imperious command, enhancing her authority by means of an extraordinary cult of love.</span> The court moved in an atmosphere of romance, with music, dancing, plays, and masques. Leading artists like the poet Edmund Spenser and the miniaturist Nicholas Hilliard celebrated Elizabeth’s mystery and likened her to various classical goddesses. A source of intense anxiety was Mary Queen of Scots, a Catholic with a plausible claim to the English throne, whom Elizabeth eventually had executed. When England faced an invasion from Catholic Spain in 1588, Elizabeth appeared in person before her troops wearing a white gown and a silver breastplate; the incident testifies to her self-consciously theatrical command of the grand public occasion as well as her strategic appropriation of masculine qualities. By the 1590s, virtually everyone was aware that Elizabeth’s life was nearing an end, and there was great anxiety surrounding the succession to the throne.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="note"><a id="6" name="6"></a> Renaissance literature is the product of a rhetorical culture, a culture steeped in the arts of persuasion and trained to process complex verbal signals. </span>Aesthetically, Elizabethan literature reveals a delight in order and pattern conjoined with a profound interest in the mind and heart. In his <em>Defense of Poesy</em>, Sir Philip Sidney argued that poetry’s magical power to create perfect worlds was also a moral power, encouraging readers to virtue. The major literary modes of the Elizabethan period included pastoral, as exemplified in Marlowe’s <em>The Passionate Shepherd to his Love</em>, andheroic/epic, as in Spenser’s <em>Faerie Queene</em>. </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A permanent, freestanding public theater in England dates only from 1567. There was, however, a rich and vital theatrical tradition, including interludes and mystery and morality plays. <span class="note">Around 1590, an extraordinary change came over English drama, pioneered by Marlowe’s mastery of unrhymed iambic pentameter, or blank verse. </span>The theaters had many enemies; moralists warned that they were nests of sedition, and Puritans charged that theatrical transvestism excited illicit sexual desires, both heterosexual and homosexual. Nonetheless, the playing companies had powerful allies, including Queen Elizabeth, and continuing popular support.</span></span></p> <ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;">Adapted from</span> <em><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;">The Norton Anthology of English Literature</span></em></span></span></li></ul>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-11332996301415487762009-03-03T12:08:00.001-08:002009-03-03T12:11:24.902-08:0050 Great Short Stories<div class="gmail_quote"><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The book "50 Great Short Stories" is a collection of the best short stories, written by the best authors of this genre. I present you the list of these short stories and later on we will read them one by one and get through them, and of course read some analysis on them. Here's the list: </span></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> </span></span></span></p> <ul><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Garden Party </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Katherine Mansfield</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Three-Day Blow </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Ernest Hemingway</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Standard of Living </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Dorothy Parker</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Saint </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by V. S. Pritchett</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Other Side of the Hedge </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by E. M. Forster</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Brooksmith </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Henry James</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Jockey </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Carson McCullers</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Courting of Dinah Shadd </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Rudyard Kipling</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Shot </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Alexander Poushkin</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Graven Image </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by John O'Hara</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Putois </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Anatole France</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Only the Dead Know Brooklyn </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Thomas Wolfe</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">A.V. Laider </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Max Beerbohm</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Lottery </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Shirley Jackson</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Masque of the Red Death </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Edgar Allan Poe</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Looking Back </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Guy de Maupassant</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Man Higher Up </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by O. Henry</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Summer of the Beautiful White Horse </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by William Saroyan</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Other Two </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Edith Wharton</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Theft </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Katherine Anne Porter</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">For Esmé, with Love and Squalor </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by J. D. Salinger</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Man of the House </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Frank O'Connor</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Man Who Shot Snapping Turtles </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Edmund Wilson</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Gioconda Smile </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Aldous Huxley</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Curfew Tolls </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Stephen Vincent Benét</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Father Wakes up the Village </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Clarence Day</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Ivy Day in the Committee Room </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by James Joyce</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Chrysanthemums </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by John Steinbeck</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Door </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by E. B. White</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">An Upheaval </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Anton Chekhov</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">How Beautiful with Shoes </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Wilbur Daniel Steele</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">A Haunted House </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Virginia Woolf</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Catbird Seat </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by James Thurber</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Schartz-Metterklume Method </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Saki</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Death of a Bachelor </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Arthur Schnitzler</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Apostate </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by George Milburn</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Phoenix </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Sylvia Townsend Warner</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">That Evening Sun </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by William Faulkner</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Law </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Robert M. Coates</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Tale </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Joseph Conrad</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">A Girl from Red Lion, P.A. </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by H. L. Mencken</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Main Currents of American Thought </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Irwin Shaw</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Ghosts </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Lord Dunsany</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Minister's Black Veil </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Nathaniel Hawthorne</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">A String of Beads </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by W. Somerset Maugham</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Golden Honeymoon </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Ring Lardner</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Man Who Could Work Miracles </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by H. G. Wells</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Foreigner </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Francis Steegmuller</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Thrawn Janet </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by Robert Louis Stevenson</span></span></i></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Chaser </span></span><i><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">by John Collier</span></span></i></span></li> </ul> </div>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7448754117180721380.post-70858049407955349522009-03-03T11:53:00.000-08:002009-03-03T11:59:34.817-08:00Short Story<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://booksxyz.com/btcovers/full/14/13/03/1413033903.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 256px;" src="https://booksxyz.com/btcovers/full/14/13/03/1413033903.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:13;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Adapted from: M. H. Abrams; A Glossary of Literary Terms</span><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:13;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A short story is a brief work of prose fiction, and most of the terms for analyzing the component elements, the types, and the various narrative techniques of the </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">novel </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">are applicable to the short story as well. The short story differs from the </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">anecdote</span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">—the unelaborated narration of a single incident—in that, like the novel, it organizes the action, thought, and dialogue of its characters into the artful pattern of a plot. (See </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">nanative and ηαπα-tology.) </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">And as in the novel, the plot form may be comic, tragic, romantic, or satiric; the story is presented to us from one of many available </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">points of view;</span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism, or naturalism. </span></span></span> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> In the </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">tale, </span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">or "story of incident," the focus of interest is on the course and outcome of the events, as in Edgar Allan Poe's </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Gold Bug </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1843) and in other tales of detection, in many of the stories of O. Henry (1862-1910), and in the stock but sometimes well-contrived western and adventure stories in popular magazines. "Stories of character" focus instead on the state of mind and motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities, of the protagonists. In some of the stories of character by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904), the Russian master of the form, nothing more happens than an encounter and conversation between two people. Ernest Hemingway's classic "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" consists only of a curt conversation between two waiters about an old man who each day gets drunk and stays on in the café until it closes, followed by a brief meditation on the part of one of the waiters. In some stories there is a balance of interest between external action and character. Hemingway's "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" is as violent in its packed events as any sensational adventure-tale, but every particular of the action and dialogue is contrived to test and reveal, with a surprising set of </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">reversals,</span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">the moral quality of all three protagonists.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> The short story differs from the novel in the dimension that Aristotle called "magnitude," and this limitation of length imposes differences both in the effects that the story can achieve and in the choice, elaboration, and management of the elements to achieve those effects. Edgar Allan Poe, who is sometimes called the originator of the short story as an established genre, was at any rate its first critical theorist. He defined what he called "the prose tale" as a narrative which can be read at one sitting of from half an hour to two hours, and is limited to "a certain unique or single effect" to which every detail is subordinate (Review of Nathaniel Hawthorne's </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Twice Told Tales, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">1842). Poe's comment applies to many short stories, and points to the economy of management which the tightness of the form always imposes in some degree. We can say that, by and large, the short story writer introduces a very limited number of persons, cannot afford the space for the leisurely analysis and sustained development of character, and cannot undertake to develop as dense and detailed a social milieu as does the novelist. The author often begins the story close to, or even on the verge of, the climax, minimizes both prior exposition and the details of the </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">setting, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">keeps the complications down, and clears up the denouement quickly—sometimes in a few sentences. (See </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">plot)</span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> The central incident is often selected to manifest as much as possible of the protagonist's life and character, and the details are devised to carry maximum import for the development of the plot. This spareness in the narrative often gives the artistry in a good short story higher visibility than the artistry in the more capacious and loosely structured novel.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> Many distinguished short stories depart from this paradigm in various ways. It must be remembered that the name covers a great diversity of prose fiction, all the way from the </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">short short story, </span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">which is a slightly elaborated anecdote of perhaps five hundred words, to such long and complex forms as Herman Melville's </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Billy Budd </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(c. 1890), Henry James' </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Turn of the Screw</span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> (1898), Joseph Conrad's </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Heart of Darkness </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1902), and Thomas Mann's </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Mano and the Magician </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1930). In such works, the status of middle length between the tautness of the short story and the expansiveness of the novel is sometimes indicated by the name </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">novelette, </span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">or </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">novella. </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">This form has been especially exploited in Germany (where it is called the </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Novelle) </span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">after it was introduced by Goethe in 1795 and carried on by Heinrich von Kleist and many other writers; the genre has also been the subject of special critical attention by German theorists (see the list of readings below).</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> The short narrative, in both verse and prose, is one of the oldest and most widespread of literary forms; the Hebrew Bible, for example, includes the stories of Jonah, Ruth, and Esther. Some of the narrative types which preceded the modern short story, treated elsewhere in this </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Glossary, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">are the </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">fable, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">the</span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> exemplum, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">the </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">folktale, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">the </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">fabliau, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">and the </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">parable. </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Early in its history, there developed the device of the </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">frame-story: </span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">a preliminary narrative within which one or more of the characters proceeds to tell a series of short narratives. This device was widespread in the oral and written literature of the East and Middle East, as in the collection of stories called </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Arabian Nights, </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">and was used by a number of other writers, including Boccaccio for his prose </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Decameron</span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> (1353) and by Chaucer for his versified </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Canterbury Tales </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(c. 1387). In the latter instance, Chaucer developed the frame-story of the journey, dialogue, and interactions of the Canterbury pilgrims to such a degree that the frame itself approximated the form of an organized plot. Within Chaucer's frame-plot, each story constitutes a complete and rounded narrative, yet functions also both as a means of characterizing the teller and as a vehicle for the quarrels and topics of argument en route. In its more recent forms, the frame-story may enclose either a single narrative (Henry James' </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Turn of the Saew) </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">or a sequence of narratives (Joel Chandler Harris' stories as told by Uncle Remus, 1881 and later; see under </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">beast fable).</span></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> The form of prose narrative which approximates the present concept of the short story was developed, beginning in the early nineteenth century, in order to satisfy the need for short fiction by the many </span></span><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">magazines </span></span></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(periodical collections of diverse materials, including essays, reviews, verses, and prose stories) that were inaugurated at that time. Among the early practitioners were Washington Irving, Hawthorne, and Poe in America, Sir Walter Scott and Mary Shelley in England, E. T. A. Hoffmann in Germany, Balzac in France, and Gogol, Pushkin, and Turgenev in Russia. Since then, almost all the major novelists in all the European languages have also written notable short stories. The form has flourished especially in America; Frank O'Connor has called it "the national art form," and its American masters include (in addition to the writers mentioned above) Mark Twain, William Faulkner, Katherine Anne Porter, Eudora Welty, Flannery O'Connor, John O'Hara, J. F. Powers, John Cheever, and J. D. Salinger.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> See H. S. Canby, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Short Story in English </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1909); Sean O'Faolain, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Short Story </span></span></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1948, reprinted 1964); Frank O'Connor, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Lonely Voice: A Study </span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">of the Short Story </span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1962); R. L. Pattee, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Development of the American Short Story </span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(rev. 1966); Julie Brown, ed., </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">American Women Short Story Writers </span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1995). On the novella: Ronald Paulson, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Novelette Before 1900 </span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1968); Mary Doyle Springer, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Forms of the Modem Novella </span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">(1976); Martin Swales, </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The German Novelle</span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> (1977). On the frame-story and tales in the ancient collection of Arabic stories, see the Introduction to </span></span><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The Arabian Nights, </span></span></em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">trans. Husain Haddawy (1990).</span></span></span></em></span></p>I. Abbasi A.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09452833345982475259noreply@blogger.com0