There were no roads then, just trails, though we had horses and wagons, and for the winter sled.
SLED: A small vehicle consisting of a platform mounted on runners for use in travelling over snow or ice.
from The Shawl
There were no roads then, just trails, though we had horses and wagons, and for the winter sled.
SLED: A small vehicle consisting of a platform mounted on runners for use in travelling over snow or ice.
from The Shawl
There were no roads then, just trails, though we had horses and wagons, and for the winter sleds.
WAGON: A wagon is a heavy four-wheeled vehicle pulled by draught animals, used for transporting goods, commodities, agricultural materials, supplies, and sometimes people. Wagons are distinguished from carts, which have two wheels, and from lighter four-wheeled vehicles primarily for carrying people, such as carriages. Wagons are pulled by animals such as horses, mules or oxen. They may be pulled by one animal or by several, often in pairs or teams
The father bounded forward when he saw the tracks. He could see where the pack, desperate, had tried to slash the tendons of the horsesâ legs.
TENDON: A tendon is a fibrous connective tissue which attaches muscle to bone. Tendons may also attach muscles to structures such as the eyeball.
from The Shawl
The was a board. A willow wand. And there was himself
WILLOW: any tree or shrub of the genius Salix, characterized by narrow, lance-shaped leaves and dense catkins bearing flowers.
From The Shawl
We have the need to forget. We are always walking on oblivionâs edge.
OBLIVION : The condition or quality of being completely forgotten.
from The Shawl
On Teatime With Spinsters and Drowning Traditions
by Damaris Lliso
And Iâll tell you this much, the only reason why Iâd ever go down to this rotting town full of the prim living past their prime is because I need to get away.
Chased out of town by some rabble-rousers who had it out for me, I swear, nothing ever stays quiet, even in a big city like Baltimore. Disproportionate retribution is what it wasâget into a few disagreements, a shouting match here and there, he said this and I did what? And suddenly they see it fit to back me into a corner so deep I had no choice but to turn my whole damn life upside down.
So now Iâm here past the border separating us from them. It was well known to everyone that I never thought much of the folks down south, but hell, I figure they wouldnât think much of me either, not with my skin or my mannerisms or my family filled to the brim with Union vets. Canât help who I am, and if they refuse to see past that then I can give them just the same. But letâs look at the positives: at least I managed to find work.
So Iâm not expecting much. Iâll get what I get. I just came into town yesterday, and I still havenât been out to see much. Donât quite care to, only problem is work starts the day after tomorrow and I hardly know where the hell I am. Apparently where Iâm to meet the others isnât too far from where Iâm staying now, but I know I gotta get to exploring this place sooner or later. Iâd rather later, but Iâll do it now.
The world is damn bright outside, and mighty hot. The roads are dusty and hazy, enough to make a perfectly well man go blind, but I suppose Iâm here to fix that now, arenât I? Paving the roads and such. They donât even have paved roads here! But Iâm walking down now and folks are still giving me the eye. A few of them nod in acknowledgement and I nod back, but all the same, I have yet to feel too welcome. Beinâ looked down upon by folks who ainât even got their roads paved, what a trip.
As I walk along, the road starts emptying out. Up in the distance thereâs this big house you can tell once belonged to someone great, someone whose wealth was built upon the backs of others. I get closer and I see thereâs this woman sitting up on the porch, all alone, looking out into nothinâ⊠or maybe not, maybe sheâs seeing it all. Who knows, Iâm not inside her head.
But mother of God, is she a beaut. Gorgeous skin, wavy chestnut colored hair and a figure to die for, and Iâm wondering wow, does she have a husband? But I already know the answer to that one, cause looker or not, itâs obvious sheâs just past her prime, maybe around her early thirties or so. Northern girls marry youngâSouthern belles, even younger. Sheâs probably already popped out a few kids. Sheâs probably on that porch right now waiting for her husband to come home from work. Sheâs probably got a life wound up so tight that she wouldnât ever give someone like me a second glance.
But it fees like hours that Iâve been starting at her like this, and occasionally sheâll turn her head up towards the sky and her lips will move, almost like sheâs mumbling up something towards the sky. She bats her eyes like sheâs half asleep, like her world is a dream and all of us, weâre nothing more that whatâs in it. Her long, bony fingers reach up and she touches her collarbone real delicate. The wind rushes past her.
And sheâs looking at me. Sheâs looking at me and past me and she smiles in that dreamy way of hers. She drags her fingers through her hair.
Man, oh man, this broad. Sheâll be the end of me, mark my words.
Iâll admit it. I was wrong.
This town is a few types of alright! Everyone here knows everybody else and after work, they all love to follow me down to the bar. And all I gotta do to keep all eyes on me is start reminiscing about Baltimore. North or not, these are the types of folks you can tell have never been anywhere. They love hearing my stories.
Especially the younger guys! They crowd around me and hang off my every word, and some of them I can swear get a little too close, if you get what I mean. Not that I have any moral objections, but thatâs what got me in trouble in the first place. When I came down here I told myself, as much as I would hate it, that Iâd have to leave that life in another place and time. Well, they ainât makinâ it easy, Iâll tell you that much.
So anytime one of those guys comes too close for comfort, I start thinking about that woman on the porch. Iâve asked around, and apparently her name is Emily. From what Iâve been told, she is as old as she looks, but joy oâ joy! sheâs never been married. Her old man died a couple of years ago, but while he was still alive, he didnât let anyone so much as look at his daughter, let alone marry her. I figure her to still be a virgin, still filled with girlhood dreams. Seeing as sheâs all alone in that huge house of hers, sheâs probably been aching for some man to come and sweep her off her feet. Iâve come across spinsters before, and Iâll tell you, theyâre all the same.
So I leave her roses. Every night, late enough so that she has to be asleep, I sneak right on up and tape one to her door. I donât know why I do it. I canât be this girlâs savior. Iâll never be the marrying type. But it canât hurt to bring a little sunshine into someoneâs life, right?
Tonight feels different.
I canât quite put my finger on it, but somethingâs off. The air feels different, not the same as always, and Iâm trying to write it off but somehow, I just canât. All day itâs been like this. Maybe I just stood out too late last night. Yeah, that must be it. Maybe all I need it some rest. I tell the boys down at the bar that Iâm leavinâ early.
No, Homer, no. Donât go, my temptations say.
But I tell âem, no boys, I gotta go. They all look so disappointed, but I try and ignore it. This creeping feeling, itâs got a grip on me, and I swear if I donât get some peace from it soon Iâm likely to start screaming and crashinâ around like a madman. Sure, theyâd probably just write it off as me being a silly Northerner, but why would I willingly debase my region like that?
So I leave. I start walkin towards the direction of my place when I remember, damn. Emily. I gota leave a rose for her. Iâve made a habit of leaving her one every night for the past few weeks and if I stop, even for tonight only, I know itâll shatter her little heart. This is probably the most attention sheâs gotten from a man in her whole life. I canât just screw her over by now coming through.
I turn back around and start walking towards Emilyâs house. The roads are dark and empty, and I can hardly see past my own two feet. I narrow my eyes, try to hone in my senses.
Iâm getting close to that one house I always steal my roses from. This older widow with her little lady garden, she never even notices a thing. What she doesnât know canât hurt her, right? As Iâm walking past, I snatch up a rose, never breaking stride. The thorns dig into my hand a little, but I ignore it.
Iâm getting close to Emilyâs door. Everythingâs all dark, all her lights are out. It ainât even past 10 and sheâs already asleep. Spinsters, sheesh. I get up to the front of her house and, since I got no tape with me, I pick up the doorknocker real gentle and place the rose there. I turn on my heel to leave.
âYouâre early tonight.â
Damn, I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of that. I turn my head up to where the sound came and thereâs Emily, sticking her head out the window, leaning up against the frame.
She knew all along. She knew the whole damn time and wow, thatâs as romantic as it is creepy.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. That creepinâ feeling is stronger than ever. I think she may be smiling.
âWould you like some tea?â she waits a moment for me to respond, before deciding for me. âIâll have Tobe make you some tea.â
âYour husband?â I ask, all stupid. I know damn well sheâs never been married, whyâd I ask that? But these southern broads, you know, they all have secret lives on the down low. Tobe could be her secret lover-man or something. But I couldnât even get away with it up in the city; sheâd have to have some backbreaking skill to hide something like that in a place like this.
Despite my speculation, I can almost feel her shaking her head. âHeâs the help.â
Heâs the help? Heâs the help! Joy oâ joy!
âGive me a moment, Iâll be right down,â she says.
Spinsters. How desperate can you get?
Emily is such a trip.
Silk hiding steel, thatâs what she is. One hundred percent. She makes it a point not to hide what weâve got goinâ on, doesnât give any types of damns over it. Every Sunday, we go around town together and this is her, holding her head up high, her nose pointed up in the air like sheâs looking down on everyone else instead of the other way around. I see the way folks look at us. Seeing us together, they canât hardly stand it.
The boys down at work and at the bar, they ask me:
âWhat you doing with that old spinster, anyway?â
âDonât you know how strange she is?â
âThereâs a reason why sheâs alone.â
And I tell âem, none of your business, I know, and because her old man wouldnât entertain the notion of his little girl growing up. Is that all, orâŠ?
I know people talk to her, too, whisper in her ear even worse about me. She never wants to tell me exactly what they say to her, but what she fails to realize is Iâm savvier than I let on. I know damn well what they say, that no matter which way they word it, it all leads back to the same deal: Iâm from another world, and Iâm no good for her. She doesnât care, and hell, the idea of people talking about me doesnât quite make me as mad as it should.
I guess you could say sheâs my woman now. Always wanted one of those. I always gotta remind myself, women are special and they need a different type of treatment; I canât go treating her like a man, it ainât right.
But I swear, she sure does treat me like a man would treat his broad. Sometimes. At least when it comes to all the gifts she gives me. I stole roses for her, and in return she gives me a buggy, along with a bunch of other things I could never hope to afford on my own. She tells me not to worry about it.
âMoney is no object,â she tells me, with a wink. Her saying that makes me all warm and gets me riled up at the same time, itâs the queerest thing. Everything about her makes me topsy-turvy!
What gets to me the most is that she never wants me to leave.
Time marches on, and every day she gets more and more clingy. First, it started off with our Sunday drives: she told me she just wasnât satisfied with only seeing me once a week anymore. To satisfy her, I started skipping out on going to the bar a few times a week so I could go visit her instead. But then a few times a week turned into every loving day of my goddamned life, and when it comes time for me to leave she yells at me to stay, stay, stay, sheâll miss me too much! I end up sleeping over more often than not, but then when I try and bed her she says no, no, sheâs not like that. And thatâs when I feel like throwing myself on the floor in frustration because this broad wants to have it her way, always.
She doesnât seem to realize that I have a life of my own, too. Ainât like we married. Iâm starting to think I might wanna leave, but something inside me whispers, you better not.
I may be in a bit over my head.
I go over to Emilyâs, like always, but today is different. Sheâs leaning against the door, her pretty little mouth twisted up into a bitter frown, and right soon as I get up to her she spares all greetings and says, âYou mustnât come visit me for the next three days.â
Joy oâ joy! I finally get a break!
She explains further. âA few of my relatives will be visiting me, and I donât want them seeing you here. If you think the town thinks ill of you for seeing me, ha! You donât want to know how these women will view you.â
She keeps talking, but Iâm already thinking of how Iâm gonna spend these next few days off.
âThe pavement gig is almost doneâŠâ one of the boyâs grunts my way.
He keeps on talking, but I barely hear him. Todayâs the last day of my vacation, and after two days prowlinâ around town, chasing skirts, they decided we should take it slow on this last day. I suggested we go fishing, something I havenât gotten to do since I was a boy. My old man used to take me. He made his living off of fishing, and thinking back Iâm sure he was sick of the water and of tryinâ to catch those damn things, but he always made time to take me out to his worksite whenever he had the odd day off. Weâd wake up at three in the morning, get all our supplies up and ready, and then weâd spend the whole day out on the open water. And on these trips, weâd take the opportunity to bond and talk about life and its meaning and âwhy are we hereâ and all that garbage that my lifeâs since run out of room for. He made all that nonsense seem so important.
When I wasnât no older than fourteen years old, he got into a physical scuffle with one of the guys he worked with, and the bastard knocked my pops one good on the side of the head, rendering him immobile. And thenâthenâthe son of a bitch couldnât just leave it at that. He pushed him over the side of the boat. My old man couldnât swim back to shore. They never found his body.
I wonder what it was like for him, drowning. He had to have seen the reaper coming, had to have known he couldnât get out of it this time. He mustâve been terrified.
âYou listening, Homer?â
âWhatâd you say?â
âSaid the pavement job is almost done. Where you headed off to after this?â
âDonât be stupid,â another one of the boys answers. âHeâs gettingâ hitched with Emily âsoon as the job is done, ainât ya! Move into that olâ haunted mansion of hers!â he slaps my knee all jolly-like, and it takes everything in my heart, soul and mind not to punch him in the throat.
âBe quiet,â I mumble instead.
âWhatâs the matter? You arenât thinking about leaving olâ Emily, are you?â
âPerhaps heâs thinking of taking her up to Baltimore.â
I shake my head. âIâm ainât goinâ back to Baltimore.â
âNever?â
âNever.â I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. âKeep this between us, alright? Emily is⊠God in heaven, how do I word this? Sheâsââ
âToo clingy?â
âDriving you bonkers?â
âClinically insane?â
âTries to murder you every time you try anâ leave âer house?â
âCome now, boys,â I grin, âI ainât dead yet.â
âIf sheâs really makinâ you feel so down, just dump âer!â
You better not.
âThatâs right. You arenât married, you donât need to forsake your entire life for her. The decision is yours, whether or not to continue this relationship.â
No, itâs not.
I shake my instincts away. âYouâre right.â I spit into the water. âI donât owe Emily a damn thing!â
One of the boys lets out this sad, ornery sounding laugh. âYou do owe her one thing. You ought to at least break up with her properly, and give her a decent goodbye.â
I mull it over in my head. I proper breakup, a decent goodbye. I shrug. âSure, why the hell not?â
Youâre going to wish you hadnât done that.
Iâm walking up to Emilyâs front door, and Iâm expecting to have to knock like I always do, like any decent man living in a sane world, when all of a sudden Emily comes rushing out. Broad nearly tackles me down with her bear-strength hug of death.
âHomer!â she cries out, all dramatic. âI missed you!â
I pat her on the back. The spinster ainât gonna make this one easy on me.
She drags me inside, leads me on and on until weâre in the living room. We sit down on one of the couches.
âTobe! Tobe!â her man-servant comes shufflinâ on in. âBring us some tea, will you? And brew Homerâs with the special blend I made for him.â
âRight away, Miss Grierson.â
I raise an eyebrow. âSpecial blend?â
She chuckles and waves me off a bit. âI remember how you told me your back was aching, so I bought some special herbs for you from the market. I donât want to see you in pain, ever.â
Oh, wow.
She gives me a quick peck on the lips. âHow did you spend the three days we were separated? Counting down the minutes, as I was?â
I try and smile. I know it must look painful from her end. âI tried to occupy my mind. Spent some time with the boys and whatnotâŠâ
She frowned, and touched my shoulder. âAre you alright? Something on your mind?â
I take a deep breathâ
You. Better. Not.
âEmily, my⊠my work here is almost doneâŠâ
She nods. âIâm aware.â
âAnd you know how it is for men like me. Once the job is done, I gotta get goinâ to the next work site.â
âI know. SoâŠâ she took a look around. âI suppose Iâll be able to carry a few of my things with me, perhaps sell the rest.â She looked back at me. âDo you have at least a general idea of where weâll be headed?â
âWhat.â
âIâll need to let my relatives know,â she goes on, like her entire plan is anywhere near okay. âTheyâll most likely disown me, but itâll be alright so long as weâre togethâ.â
âEmily!â I shout. She stops talking, and now sheâs looking at me with those eyes of hers. Damn, damn, damn. âYou ainât cominâ with me. Iâm going alone. This⊠is where the road ends, for you and me.â
Her bottom lip quivers a little. âPlease donât,â she whispers.
âDonât make this any harder than itâs gotta be.â
âI want to marry you. I want to be with you forever.â
âEmily, I ainât the marrying type. I canât be your savior. You gotta let me go, for both our sakes.â
She looks at me for a long time; it feels like hours and hours. Her eyes narrow, just the tiniest bit. Sheâs looking at me and past me andâŠ
Tobe comes in with the tea. âHereâs yours, Miss Grierson,â he places her mug in front of her, then turns to me. âAnd for you, Master Barron.â
âThatâs alright,â I tell him, getting up from my seat. âI gotta get goinâ anyway.â
âPlease, Homer! At least⊠stay with me these last few moments. One final cup of tea.â
Run run run run run run run ruâ
âOkay. Just one.â
She smiles in that sweet, wide way of hers and it almost makes me regret what I just did. But I tell myself, I did it for me. I own my life; I have the final say in what happens in it.
I take a sip. Itâs bitter as hell. My lips pucker up and Emily laughs, despite the situation.
âDrink it all, sweetie.â Who in the world ever called their ex sweetie? âThe herbalist told me the faster itâs consumed, the stronger the effect.â
âI never heard anything like that.â
âTrust me.â
I think about it. Trust her? Do I trust Emily? She may be clingy and strange as hell, but the girl never did anything that really sent me over the edge. I put the mug to my lips and take two large gulps, swallowing them down before the taste can get to me. She smiles and nods. Go on, go on.
Youâll get what you get.
Even as Iâm finishing the tea, Iâm startinâ to feel a little off. Itâs different from the creeping feeling⊠no, no, this time, the world is definitely spinning.
I think Emily might be saying something, I can hear the sound of her voice but I canât make out⊠almost⊠not quite. I try and take a step forward, heading for the door. If I can make it to the door, Iâve made it outside, and from there I can go anywhere. My life is mine. My life isâ
I stumble forward and fall straight on my face. Emily is laughing, that I donât need words for that. Thereâs something different about her voice now. Itâs higher than usual, way higher but more sinister. Almost squeaky. Wholly demonic.
I try and take a deep breath but woah, all I can feel is a rushing gurgle running through my chest. I take in about half the amount of air I need. I try again, and itâs even harder, so I cough to get out whateverâs got itself stuck in my chest. Is this what it feels like to drown? My visionâs gone real blurry but I can still make out the bright, bright red of what comes out of my mouth. I try again. No improvement.
Someone turns me onto my back. I can make out her outline. Tall and willowy, with her gorgeous skin and wavy chestnut hair and a smile that could rip the skin off any living man. She cackles. Makes the same sound and jerking movement over and over and over and over and itâs like my brain is a record gone broke. I try and scream, but all that comes out of my mouth is more of that warm liquid I know with all my soul is a bright ruby red. It trickles down the side of my cheek.
Was it worth it?
Another figure comes into my line of vision. Tobe. He takes my arms and starts dragging me away, past the hallway. I turn my head to the side, and thereâs the door. Itâs closed.
Youâll never know.
William Faukner’s âA Rose for Emilyâ tells the story of a young southern woman in the early 20th century who, while leading a rather peculiar life, murders the man that she loves and keeps his body in her home for more than 40 years, in order to keep him with her forever. The story is told through the rarely used 2nd person narration (implied to be the collective voice of the community in which the woman lives). And while this offers a unique perspective to how the events of the story play out, it leaves just as many questions as it does answers, concerning both the titular Emily and Homer (the man that she murders). In order to shed some light on the two, for my retelling I chose to shift the narration from 2nd person objective to 1st person, from Homer Barronâs point of view. Though the original story offers the perspective of the townspeople and sheds some light on what the opinion of the group can drive a young woman to do, this retelling provides both a possible explanation as to why Emily did what she did, as well as an insight into the relationship which existed between Emily and Homer.
Though the works differ in a number of ways, they both tie together similarly in a few key elements. One being the presence of dust: Emilyâs home is described as being close off and dank ââŠthey could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighsâ (Faukner); in the retelling, Homer observes that a layer of dust seems to have settled upon the entire town âThe roads are dusty and hazy, enough to make a perfectly well man go blindâŠâ. This transforms the house into a microcosm of the town at large. Emilyâs home is dark, dank, dusty, and reeking of decay, while the town itself is not much better (though, the townspeople like to believe the contrary). Another example in which the retelling illuminates a specific detail of the original can be seen in the (rather ambiguous) line regarding Homers perceived preferences: ââŠHomer himself had remarkedâhe liked men,â(Faulkner) which, though a modern lenses, hints to a sexual preference for the same gender. However, considering the time period in which the original was written, the line can be just as easily interpreted to mean that Homer simply preferred the plutonic companionship of men. Through my retelling, I chose to interpret the line through a modern lenses, not to disregard Faulknerâs likely intention, but to bring forth a possible explanation as to why Homer is in the south in the first place: âEspecially the younger guys! They crowd around me and hang off my every word, and some of them I can swear get a little too close, if you get what I mean. Not that I have any moral objections, but thatâs what got me in trouble in the first place.â, the line implying that he did indeed pursue relationships with men, but was discovered and chased away from his community. One more important instance in which both the original and the retelling are the same comes from the buggy that Emily and Homer drive around in on Sundaysâ. In the original, not much is said about it, but because the retelling is from Homers perspective, a possible explanation can be offered: âI stole roses for her, and in return she gives me a buggyâ. This makes sense, as Homer, a day laborer and implied drifter, most likely wouldnât have the money to splurge on much of anything, let alone a buggy.
Along with the similarities, several liberties have also been taken to allow for the story to be at itâs most believable. One such instance is in how Homer and Emily first meet. It is never explicitly revealed in the original, because the style of narration prevents it. However, now from Homerâs point of view, the narrator can say how they met with the utmost certainty âso I leave her roses. Every night, late enough so that she has to be asleep, I sneak right on up and tape one to her door⊠I turn my head up to where the sound came and thereâs Emily, sticking her head out the window, leaning up against the frame. She knew all along.â This scenario not only provides a possibility, but it also ties back in to the title of the story, adding just a but more to an already symbolically-packed title. Another instance in which the retelling takes some liberties is in Homer describing the way in which his father died: âHe pushed him over the side of the boat. My old man couldnât swim back to shore; he died.â Though Homers father isnât mentioned in the original story at all and therefore has no significance in it, I wanted to tie his fatherâs death back to his own, as they both do end up drowning (the father out at sea, the son in his own blood). And one last significant liberty which is taken the âvoicesâ which Homer hears, his âintuitionâ which serves to continuously warn him through the retelling (âYou better notâ). The voices can be interpreted in any number of ways: theyâre Homerâs conscious speaking to him, they could be audio hallucinations, or they could be of supernatural origin. The voices are there to foreshadow Homerâs eventual demise.
Though both the original story âA Rose for Emilyâ provided a work of insight into the workings of a broken southern town past its prime, this retelling provides insight into the workings behind the story which was so greatly influenced by the whims of society. In my efforts to retell the story, I tried to maintain a level of believability, a way for the two stories to be connected in a plausible way. But I also sought to create a level of separation, so that in this retelling, a new dimension could be added to the story proper.
I always thought that one of Belovedâs main purposes was to force Sethe to stagnate under the weight of her painful past. With that said, the moment I chose was when Paul D first banished the baby ghost from 124 at the novelâs start. Notice that the windows, as well as the open doorway, all burn a strong red, something I did to symbolize the intensity of the struggle between the baby ghost and Paul D. From the windows come vines, wrapping themselves around 124; and from the top right hand window, a giant flower makes itâs way out of the house. The flower represents Beloved, unopened and wilting before she was given the chance to bloom in life. Going with the interpretation that the baby ghost and Beloved are one in the same, the flower which represents Beloved is leaving the house, though not entirely, still holding onto 124 and itâs inhabitants with the vines coming through the windows. The flower is also going off in the opposite direction as the walkway, symbolizing the way Beloved served as a separator of Sethe from her community.
This is where the title comes from. âTwo Roadsâ represents the two choices which Sethe is eventually presented with: Denver, Paul D, and their community down one road, and Beloved down the other.
The further down the walkway, the more the red coming from the house begins to fade, a representation of the therapeutic atmosphere that the community can provide Sethe with.
For this piece, I drew the outline with pencil, then added color and effect using acrylic paints. The different shades of blue in the sky represent the patchwork of different experiences that exist in the world outside of 124, all of which are denied to Sethe and Denver so long as they allow themselves to be confined in 124. The blue, green and brown that make up the dirt floor represent the experiences of those long gone, and how the past can always be felt, as it intermingles with the present.
Through John’s Eyes
Star
It is now the summer, John and his wife move to a beautiful home. As they begin to settle down the wife believes that the house is haunted while John believes itâs just nonsense. Since John is a physician he took it upon himself to nurse his wife who had taken sick, so it is up to him to use his expertise to help her regain her health as long as she continues to take her phosphates and rests. The use of phosphate will provide her with more energy through the day. Her brother has maintained the same profession as John. He also agrees with him that his sister is not well. John insists that he does not want her writing in that silly little journal she has, itâs a big distraction. She begs to differ as âThis dead paper and a great relief to my mind) — perhaps that is one reason I do not get well fasterâ (page 1, paragraph 7). Without her writing, thereâs a big chance she may take longer to recover.
By being stuck in the house all the day, the wife cannot do anything but just wonder as she responds âI sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus â but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel badâ (page 1, paragraph 14). The wife believes that she was more in touch with the world instead of hidden inside a house. John on the other hand believes being worried will make things worse. John seems like he wants only wants the best for her.
The new house they just move into makes the wife very uneasy as she says âthere is something strange about the house — I can feel it [âI even said so to John one moonlight evening but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the windowâ]â (page 1 paragraph 20-21). It seems as though every time the wife attempts to start a conversation with John, she gets shut down. As John remains as the dominate form in the relationship, the wife must obey him âYou may not do any type of work while your ill, I will come check on you after I am finish with workâ. John takes on the role as the leader of the relationship. But as the famous saying before during the marriage ceremony âfor better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherishâ he has been there for his wife and he has stuck to his word.
John may truly love his wife but he will not tolerate a case of foolishness as it states âI donât like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! But John would not hear of itâ (page 1, paragraph 24). Here to improve the house, the wife makes a suggestion that in order for her to even feel comfortable in the house it requires some decorations. John on the other believes it should stay the way it is and doesnât require change. This issue escalates to where the wife argues âI get unreasonably angry with John sometimes Iâm sure I never get used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous conditionâ (page 1, paragraph 22). The wife has witness that she is being unfairly but forgives him for the way he is, because her condition seems to be so serious.
In âThe Yellow Wallpaperâ by Charlotte Perkins Gilman in 1899 is told in a first person autodiegetic narration with the main character that strangely doesnât have name. Guided by her husband John who believes she is truly sick doesnât want her to lift a finger in the house. All he wants her to do is rest and take her medication on a daily basis and soon after she will regain her health back. Although in the story the wife is portrayed ill throughout the story by the influence of her husband John his concern for her health is overshadowed by his character of over protectiveness and ability of controlling her. It seems like every time the main character tried to talk to her husband he would just ignore any ideas or objections she had. Though the story is told through the main characters eyes, in the retelling you get a better sense of who John really is, as he does love his wife, but the way heâs dealing with the situation of her writing as a bad thing is the wrong way.
Even though John is a physician the wife escape is through writing as she explains that âthis is a dead paper and a great relief to my mind â perhaps that is one reason I do not get well fasterâ( page 1 paragraph 7). Writing in the wifeâs eyes is a sense of belonging. That even though she may be âsickâ she has something she actually wants to do and that she enjoys it. But, in Johnâs eyes it seems as a way of rebellion and power. During these times, women rarely got an education, so by her knowing to read and write gave her a sense of independence. But being in a marriage there is no room for independence as the wife and husband is one. Therefore, but telling his wife that she could no longer write, increased his controlling streak as he managed to keep her in the house all day and had her on medication daily.
Going further into the story it seems as the main character and her husband disagree tremendously because just on the page alone every disagreement that has taken place the husband has won each argument. As the main character starts to express herself âI get unreasonably angry with John sometimes Iâm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous conditionâ (page 1 paragraph 22). The main character has finally realized that she hasnât been getting her way whether it has to do with the wallpaper or the house itself or even trying to change rooms, John has shot down every request sheâs had. But then again, she believes that John is just worried about her and starts to believe that sheâs actually sick. Once again John has managed to even convince his wife that her writing has her life corrupt and in order to stop the corruption she must stop writing.
As John says âYou may not do any type of work while your ill, I will come check on you after I am finish with workâ. This shows that he has a job that requires a lot of commitment, meaning he is not home very often, so now the wife is alone at home and she has no connection with the outside world. It seems that John doesnât want his wife to go anywhere he doesnât know, it seems that heâs a little afraid of what she may become. Itâs obvious that she has potential so I believe he might be threatened.
As the wife remains in the house she observes that âthere is something strange around the house â I can feel it/ I even said so to John one moonlight evening but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the windowâ(page 1 paragraph 20-21). The main character has finally wanted to talk to her husband about a serious issue and he just brushes it off. She expresses her feelings about the house that she felt uncomfortable and he just blames it on the wind that is outside. It seems that John doesnât take her very seriously as if she were a child.
Another suggestion the wife decides to bring up was âI donât like out room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! But John would not hear of itâ (page 1, paragraph 24). The wife doesnât like the room because it is very plain so, she believes that it requires some change and she had ideas of how to decorate it to her liking. But, John doesnât like the idea of change and wants it to stay the same.
Overall, I believe that in the original story most people would see John as a charismatic, hard-working man who is just looking after his wife. But in the retelling some people might change their minds and see the true him which is a controlling and overprotective man who doesnât let him wife anything that she loves. There is no doubt that John loves his wife in both stories but it seems that he knows exactly how to be a physician but he doesnât seem that he knows that much on how to be a good husband.
beloved (pdf)
I used this section of the passage I chose for Essay #2 to become a sort of visual poem. I thought that the language used by Toni Morrison in this section is so full of imagery and metaphors and I wanted to mirror that with an actual visual text. There are so many concrete and significant images in that section of the text I chose and I thought it would be important to highlight them. Some of the words are crossed out, underlined, or italicized for visual and dramatic effect. Each phrase gets bigger in font size by the line because itâs a poetic build up to this horrific realization that such a terrible thing had been done. With this visual text I hope that anyone viewing will realize the emotion in the narration, and can realize how powerful words can jump off a page to become art, news, or evoke feelings like sadness and shock. I also chose the colors to be similar to the cover art on my copy of the book Beloved. I liked that color scheme and I chose to work with it because I thought it would apply and be relevant to this visual project.
The passage I chose for Essay 2 as the moment most crucial to the story of Beloved by Toni Morrison was the death of Mr. Garner, and the coming of schoolteacher. This moment is important in the novel because if it would have not happened, our story would have had a different outcome, specifically, the main characters Paul D and Sethe would have not run away the way that they did in the novel. For the creative part of the assignment, I borrowed the idea of creating an image of the passage using Wordle.net, a website that allows you to create a word cloud with text that one would like to see in a different perspective. I thought this was interesting because the words are placed on the screen in a random order, with random font and color. This allowed me to be creative with the colors and the way the text was presented, the font the background and other interesting things that I was able to play with to make it look better. What I liked the most about using wordle, the way my text was generated and the way the image looks is that the words that stand out the most are in capital letters which are âslaveryâ, ârestedâ, âGarnerâ, and âalive.â These words are very strong and placing emphasis so that they can be seen better was very important.
The Story of An Hour
Kate Chopin
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”
“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.
[text taken from http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/hour/]
         In the Story Beloved by Toni Morrison, we see different scenes which lead to the outcome and the climax of the story. My picture basically portrays the summary of my essay. Starting with the babies throat being slit by Sethe, which lead to the ghost hunting 124. The wedding dress portrays what Sethe wore when she was getting married to Halle. Also “124 was spiteful. Full of a babyâs venom”. Basically 124 is being hunted by the ghost of Beloved and 124 is very unstable. The river bank is said to be where Beloved resurrected from. Also the circus is where Beloved, Denver and Sethe went for quality time and it reminded Sethe of what being a family was like. Basically if Beloveds throat was never slit, the outcome of the whole story would’ve changed. And 124 wouldn’t have been hunted by Beloved’s ghost.
 (Sethe being tortured ,this picture stood out for me)
Tony Morrison is one of the most discussed authors who  can describe their entire novel in a word , and sometimes itâs not enough ever writing a entire paragraph. Thatâs how strong her writing is. In he famous Beloved there are various quotes but the one that .But the one that gave me an entire view of the book was the verse from Roman 9:25 where it was stated
âIt was her people
Who were not her people
And her beloved
Which was not beloved â
In this two line everything about the story is told .Sethe use to live in that neighborhood where no one liked her, and he loved Beloved who she had to kill and her ghost harmed her family .So being with the people she couldn’t be their and tough love between her and beloved
This semester, as a class, we read Toni Morrisons Beloved. Beloved has so many great moments and statements that could make a person think really hard about what was said and themselves. The quote that made me feel a sense of âwowâ was, âItâs not evil, just sadâ, which was said by Sethe. She was telling Paul D that the presence of the house was not of anything evil, just full of sadness. I choose this picture to coincide with my quote because this picture has a lot of mystery to it. The cat is black with injury an injury to its front leg; making you wonder what happen to the cat, is the cat sad, who made the cat this way and why. When I first read this quote in Beloved I too asked these questions about the house or the presence of the house. Even as the story went on and answered these questions, it only added to my interest of this statement made by Sethe. This picture came to me when I typed in the Google image search engine âItâs not evil, just sadâ. As soon as I seen this photo I felt it instantly described how I felt when reading this.
“And they took my milk.”
“They beat you and you was pregnant?”
 bought them thataway, raised em thataway. Men every one
Schoolteacher had chastised that nephew,â
But now she’d gone wild, due to nephew who’d overbeat her and made her cut and run.
Y’ALL GOT BOYS, âHE TOLD THEM. âYOUNG BOYS, OLD BOYS, PICKY BOYS, STROPPIN BOYS. NOW AT SWEET HOME, MY NIGGERS IS MEN EVERY ONE OF EM
I told you to put her human characteristics on the left; her animal ones on the right
Them boys found out I told on em. Schoolteacher made one open up my back, and when it closed it made a tree
“We was talking ’bout a tree, Sethe.”
“After I left you, those boys came in there and took my milk.
what would his own horse do if you beat it beyond the point of education
I told Mrs.Garner on em. She had that lump and couldn’t speak but her eyes rolled out
tears.
Â
“They used cowhide on you?”
“And they took my milk!”
Â
TELLING HIM TO JUST THINK
It grows there still.
As I read the novel I kept asking myself what was the motivation for Setheâs acts. This question kept popping up until the moment when Sethe was assaulted by the Schoolteacherâs nephews. Looking at the turn of events, there was nothing more significant than the fact that if Mr. Garner was alive Schoolteacher would not have been involved in the lives of the slaves; to push things in a very traumatic way for the slaves.
As much as Beloved is a bitter experience for the slaves, it “opened our eyes” to the consequence of slavery. It showed what slavery did to innocent people and their community as a whole. Indeed Beloved is really an eye opener; as it opened up a lot of questions that have long been unanswered or in some cases never asked; as it affords the opportunity to think about some critical questions that have never been thought of for a very long time.
On curating Beloved the black and red color signify sorrow and death. In this context it signifies the amount of sorrow Sethe and Sweet Home slaves experienced in the hands of Schoolteacher. The picture on display shows the scars that were on Setheâs back after she was beaten by Schoolteacherâs nephews. The tree Sethe calls it signifies the amount of pain that grow with the scars on her back. It shows how much it traumatize her day in day, which eventually led her to kill her baby.
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