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K. Ishiguro, one of the most famous contemporary British Asian writers, decided to deal with a current scientific issue, which reserved some conflicting point of views: the cloning. It decided to promote themes such as the undervaluation of the human being and scientific progress. It is usually considered as a dystopian novel told through some flashbacks, in order to make the narrator, called Kathy, have a more conscious opinion about what happened to her and the co-protagonists, Ruth and Tommy, and to reflect better about the advantages and disadvantages that cloning could bring to the society and the future of the world. Memory has also a deep relevance, because it is represented as the only thing that can remain in everyone’s mind, although people and events can change and be in our life no more, as the case of Kathy, who know can’t be with the people she loves, because of their death.

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This poem is centred on hope, in this case compared to a bird, who always sings despite every event that can happen. Dickinson expressed her personal experience of life: although she had to face some important difficulties, the value that she highlighted has never left her, and helped her to overcome her problems. She finally communicates how simple being hopeful is, saying that "it asked a crumb" of her.

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Notes:

Note to POL students: The inclusion or omission of the numeral in the title of the poem should not affect the accuracy score. It is optional during recitation.

Originally titled "'Hope' is the thing with feathers - (314)"

Emily Dickinson, "'Hope' is the Thing with Feathers" from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University press, Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Reprinted by permissions of the publishers and Trustees of Amherst College.

Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)

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"Hope" is the thing with feathers by Emily... | Poetry Foundation

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The writer transmits one of the most important values to have in life: altruism; she tries to explain that even something that seems a simple action to do to help someone else can get life better. Having a great purpose to reach is not so necessary, help the people close to you is enough.

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The writer focused on the world of theatre, describing his one as static and unchangeable, where the protagonists are usually poor and invested by a strong sense of inappropriateness, but at the same time they don't do anything to improve their situation, whereas they wait for someone else to do it. The structure is circular, there is no chronological order or a specific goal to reach durind life, past and future don't exist. All these aspects compound the Theatre of the Absurd, as the universe presented.

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This collection of poems is totally original and different from the classic texts of literature. The writer decided to present the characters of the stories using the form of the epitaph, so a method that makes the reader understand all the life of a person. Indeed, these inhabitants of the little town called Spoon River are all dead and talk about their existence with more freedom and less worry; they represent the classical provincial community which, in its microcosme, symbolizes the universe.

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This four-stanza poem, written by the American poet R. Frost, metaphorically describes two roads, different but at the same time similar one to each other, and lastly he tells the reader his choice and what it brought in his life. Consequently, it can be considered an invite not to conform yourself to the rest of the world, but on the contrary to reflect well on your wills and what is the best option to select, withouth any external conditions or conceptions. Deciding to undertake the least followed way is not always the worst thing to do.

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The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost | Poetry Foundation

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“On the Road” is the most famous work of the American writer Jack Kerouac, who represents the emblem of the “Beat Generation”, a movement developed during the second half of the XX century, that promoted an anti-conformist ideology and values such as freedom and rejection of traditions. The novel is frequently compared to a personal diary, because it is about an autobiographical experience: a road trip that Kerouac and his friend Cassidy had around The United States and over. Reading it is the best way to understand their lifestyle and the right carelessness to adopt.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beat_Generation

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“The Great Gatsby” is Fitzgerald’s best known novel and it has been written in 1920s. It is set between Long Island and New York, and it tells the story of a self-made man called J. Gatsby, who lives around the luxury and wealth, thanks to his work, that permitted him to become rich. He is profoundly in love with a girl who knew when he was younger, called Daisy; now that he had found her again, he doesn’t want to make her leave. Consequently, everything he does is for her, but at the end he doesn’t obtain his “goal”. The most important themes are love, sins and excess, and the failure of the famous “American dream”: wealth and money can’t be the right means to be happy, and at the end the only value or feeling that they can bring is solitude, as Gatsby.

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The text tells about a love story during WWI, and it reminds of Hemingway’s personal experience as a reporter during that horrible period. It focuses on themes like disillusion, terror, realism, so as to make people understand that nothing can be as terrifying as war, and no one can realize the real sensations and feelings if it is not experienced firsthand. Tanks also to the simple but concise style, it shows the ideology and opinion of the writer: the world is mean and following the traditional values will not solve or get the situation better.

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It is the parodic text of the Homeric “Ulysses”, indeed he proposed opposite values and changes in terms of time and space. Characters behave also differently, being disrespectful, selfish and unfaithful. The chronological order is not followed, and it is possible to notice how Joyce used his new and principal technique, the stream of consciousness.

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It is a collection of short stories, presenting Dubliners, the population that Joyce knew the most. He showed their habits and problems, introducing also one of the major themes he treated: paralysis, which is the i capability to move and go on, to face problems and find a solution for changing an involute lifestyle. One example can be “Eveline”, a girl who wants to change life and escape from her town, but at the moment when she can do it, she finds herself unable.

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One of Joyce’s most famous short stories

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After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees[42]
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?[43]
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
-But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air[44]
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico[45]
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given?[46]
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider[47]
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key[48]
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial[49] rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me[50]
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina[51]
Quando fiam ceu[52] chelidon - O swallow swallow[53]Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie[54]
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.[55]
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih[56]

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After the torchlight red on sweaty facesAfter the frosty silence in the gardensAfter the agony in stony placesThe shouting and the cryingPrison and palace and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountainsHe who was living is now deadWe who were living are now dyingWith a little patience Here is no

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The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot | Poetry Foundation

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I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,

My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

'They called me the hyacinth girl.'

-Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Oed' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson!

'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,

'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!

'You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!"

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Glowed on the marble, where the glass

Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines

From which a golden Cupidon peeped out

(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)

Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra

Reflecting light upon the table as

The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,

From satin cases poured in rich profusion;

In vials of ivory and coloured glass

Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,

Unguent, powdered, or liquid-troubled, confused

And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air

That freshened from the window, these ascended

In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,

Flung their smoke into the laquearia,

Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

Huge sea-wood fed with copper

Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,

In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.

Above the antique mantel was displayed

As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene

The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king

So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale

Filled all the desert with inviolable voice

And still she cried, and still the world pursues,

'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.

And other withered stumps of time

Were told upon the walls; staring forms

Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.

Footsteps shuffled on the stair.

Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair

Spread out in fiery points

Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

'My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.

What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?

I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I think we are in rats' alley

Where the dead men lost their bones.

The wind under the door.

'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'

'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag-

'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'

'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

'With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?

The hot water at ten.

And if it rains, a closed car at four.

And we shall play a game of chess,

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said-

I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,

Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.

He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you

To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.

You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,

He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.

And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,

He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,

And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.

Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.

Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.

If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.

Others can pick and choose if you can't.

But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.

You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.

(And her only thirty-one.)

I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,

It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.

(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)

The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.

You are a proper fool, I said.

Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,

What you get married for if you don't want children?

Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,

And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot-

Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.

Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf

Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind

Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,

Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends

Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.

And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;

Departed, have left no addresses.

By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

But at my back in a cold blast I hear

The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation

Dragging its slimy belly on the bank

While I was fishing in the dull canal

On a winter evening round behind the gashouse

Musing upon the king my brother's wreck

And on the king my father's death before him.

White bodies naked on the low damp ground

And bones cast in a little low dry garret,

Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.

But at my back from time to time I hear

The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

They wash their feet in soda water

Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Under the brown fog of a winter noon

Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant

Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

Asked me in demotic French

To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel

Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

Like a taxi throbbing waiting,

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights

Her stove, and lays out food in tins.

Out of the window perilously spread

Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,

On the divan are piled (at night her bed)

Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest-

I too awaited the expected guest.

He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,

A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,

One of the low on whom assurance sits

As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

The time is now propitious, as he guesses,

The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,

Endeavours to engage her in caresses

Which still are unreproved, if undesired.

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;

Exploring hands encounter no defence;

His vanity requires no response,

And makes a welcome of indifference.

(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all

Enacted on this same divan or bed;

I who have sat by Thebes below the wall

And walked among the lowest of the dead.)

Bestows one final patronising kiss,

And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,

Hardly aware of her departed lover;

Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:

'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'

When lovely woman stoops to folly and

Paces about her room again, alone,

She smooths her hair with automatic hand,

And puts a record on the gramophone.

'This music crept by me upon the waters'

And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.

O City city, I can sometimes hear

Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,

The pleasant whining of a mandoline

And a clatter and a chatter from within

Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls

Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.

Past the Isle of Dogs.

'Trams and dusty trees.

Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew

Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees

Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart

Under my feet. After the event

He wept. He promised a 'new start.'

I made no comment. What should I resent?'

The broken fingernails of dirty hands.

My people humble people who expect

Burning burning burning burning

O Lord Thou pluckest me out

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss.

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his age and youth

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

Here is no water but only rock

Rock and no water and the sandy road

The road winding above among the mountains

Which are mountains of rock without water

If there were water we should stop and drink

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

If there were only water amongst the rock

Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit

Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit

There is not even silence in the mountains

But dry sterile thunder without rain

There is not even solitude in the mountains

But red sullen faces sneer and snarl

From doors of mudcracked houses

If there were the sound of water only

But sound of water over a rock

Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees

Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

-But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air

Murmur of maternal lamentation

Who are those hooded hordes swarming

Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth

Ringed by the flat horizon only

What is the city over the mountains

Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air

Jerusalem Athens Alexandria

A woman drew her long black hair out tight

And fiddled whisper music on those strings

And bats with baby faces in the violet light

Whistled, and beat their wings

And crawled head downward down a blackened wall

And upside down in air were towers

Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel

There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.

It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree

In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves

Waited for rain, while the black clouds

Gathered far distant, over Himavant.

The jungle crouched, humped in silence.

Datta: what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment's surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

Dayadhvam: I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

Damyata: The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina

Quando fiam uti chelidon-O swallow swallow

Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

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The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot | Poetry Foundation

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KEY-WORDS:
-Allucination
-Different personalities
-Limits of space and time
-Paralysis

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It is considered the work which represents the modernism at the best and it shows in which conditions people had to live after WW1; it is divided in 5 sections which don’t follow a logical order, and they transmit a desolated atmosphere and nihilism (ruin and desolation). The fragmentation of the text is connected to the fragmentation of the contemporary culture, its dryness and its lack of communication. The style is simple but not classical, in fact it belongs to different styles, and it is enriched by French quotations and figures.

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This anti-utopian story tells of societies and governments during totalitarianism, when everyone and everything is constantly controlled by the authorities through medias and hidden cameras. Indeed, during this period the expression “Big Brother is watching you” starts to appear among the streets of a city. The protagonist is called Winston Smith, a classic English who is the only person in his city (London) to still believe in values, so, with the help of a colleague, named Julia, starts a rebellion. The main aspect that Orwell wants to show is the progressive enslavement of the human being.

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The political fable, written by George Orwell, mainly represents a parody of the farms and factories developed during the Soviet Union, in order to transmit a critic to socialism, the Soviet revolution, and the general Russian system, which had always revealed to be disastrous. Although the protagonists are all animals, they metaphorically show the treatment of worker during that period, and the phenomenon of exploitation. In a society based on a totalitarian regime and inequality, there is no social consciousness, and every revolution is destined to fail, because everyone who achieves the power is exactly as his predecessors, who had been previously judged by the person himself.

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This story, by a contemporary author called Salman Rushdie, is centered around a main event: the obtaining of independence in India. So he decided to write about it, filling it with magic tone, telling the life of some children born at midnight of that important day, and everyone owns a power that permits them to be special. 2 boys in particular can be considered the protagonists, Saleem and Shiva, a poor and a rich babies who are swapped by the midwife in order to make them understand how the life of the other could have been.

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Midnight's Children TRAILER 1 (2012) - Satya Bhabha Drama HD

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Forster’s masterpiece called “A Passage to India” shows one of the main topic of that time: British colonization. As the other poets did, he presented his position, which is firmly against imperialism and colonization itself; so, he wanted to transmit the nonexistent good relationships between the British and the natives, the prejudices and the level of submission that brought to terror.

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A ppt about the life and career of E.M. Forster

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“The Scarlet Letter” is a famous and well-known novel, written by N. Hawthorne. It is centered around the life of an independent and open-minded woman, called Hester Prynne, who, unfortunately for her, has been brought up in a Puritan society. She gets pregnant of a reverend, believing her husband dead. Whereas they never reveal their love story, and she is forced to war an “A”, embroidered in her clothes, sign of adultery, until the end, when he finds the courage to tell everyone the truth. By some events strictly related to the major one, it is possibile to understand Hester’s point of view and strength, capable to make her overcome every obstacle that was presented to her.

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“Kim” is generally considered Kipling’s masterpiece. It tells the story of an orphan, son of an Irish soldier, who, after the loss of his father, is brought up in India by a native woman, where he was born. Growing up, he discovers every aspect of the place and the customs of that population. By a third-person narrator, Kipling wanted to communicate his point of view about the British colonization, in that case of India: natives need the British, in order to have rules and better life conditions. Consequently, colonization is not only justified, but also considered fundamental.

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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And floundering like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.

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Glory of Women by Siegfried Sassoon | Poetry Foundation

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Glory of Women by Siegfried Sassoon | Poetry Foundation

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You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,

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The Soldier (Testo) - Rupert Brooke - MTV Testi e canzoni

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The Soldier (Testo) - Rupert Brooke - MTV Testi e canzoni

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Leggi il testo completo The Soldier di Rupert Brooke tratto dall'album Listen To Britain. Cosa aspetti? Entra e non perderti neanche una parola!

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O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman | Poetry Foundation

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O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

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O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman | Poetry Foundation

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O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

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Take up the White Man's burden

send forth the best ye breed

go bind your sons to exile

to serve your captives' need;

to wait in heavy harness,

on fluttered folk and wild

your new-caught, sullen peoples,

half-devil and half-child.

Take up the White Man's burden

in patience to abide,

to veil the threat of terror

and check the show of pride;

by open speech and simple,

an hundred times made plain

to seek another's profit,

and work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden

the savage wars of peace

fill full the mouth of Famine

and bid the sickness cease;

and when your goal is nearest

the end for others sought,

watch sloth and heathen Folly

bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden

no tawdry rule of kings,

but toil of serf and sweeper

the tale of common things.

the ports ye shall not enter,

the roads ye shall not tread,

go mark them with your living,

and mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man's burden

and reap his old reward:

the blame of those ye better,

the hate of those ye guard

the cry of hosts ye humour

(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:

"Why brought he us from bondage,

our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden

ye dare not stoop to less

nor call too loud on Freedom

to cloke your weariness;

by all ye cry or whisper,

by all ye leave or do,

the silent, sullen peoples

shall weigh your gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden

have done with childish days

the lightly proferred laurel,

the easy, ungrudged praise.

comes now, to search your manhood

through all the thankless years

cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,

the judgment of your peers!

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I Hear America Singing by Walt Whitman - Poems | poets.org

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I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day-at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

This poem is in the public domain.

Born on May 31, 1819, Walt Whitman is the author of Leaves of Grass and, along with Emily Dickinson, is considered one of the architects of a uniquely American poetic voice.

About Walt Whitman

This version of "I Hear America Singing" appeared in the 1867 edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. The original version appeared as number 20 in the section titled Chants Democratic in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass.

Born on May 31, 1819, Walt Whitman is the author of Leaves of Grass and, along with Emily Dickinson, is considered one of the architects of a uniquely American poetic voice.

About Walt Whitman

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd-and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2

O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,

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I Hear America Singing - I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

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This cultural movement had its spread during the second half of the XX century. It is developed the so-called ‘cult of beauty’, and the motto was: “Art is beauty, beauty is art”.
Oscar Wilde also took part in it; belonging to a wealthy family, it was easy for him to show his elegant and fine tastes, and he also loved to be admired by everyone. Everything had to be characterized by beautiful aspects and everything had to be not only beautiful, but also expensive. In Italy one of the main aesthetes was Gabriele D’Annunzio, a famous writer and politician, who lived during the fascism, so che Mussolini ascent.

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The most important themes of Oscar Wilde’s “The picture of Dorian Gray”:
-Revenge
-Ethics
-Morality
-Pleasures
-Redemption
-Guilt
-Loneliness
-Drugs
-Beauty
-Corruption

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Another ppt about Oscar Wilde

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My favourite aphorism among the Oscar Wilde’s:
“A cynic is a person who knows the price of everything, but the value of nothing.”
This quote impressed me so much because I believe it represents at the best the common mentality of nowadays. Today we usually find people who feel like they know everything and they are just a level under the perfection, but actually this is not true. They don’t realize how sloppy, selfish and cocky they are.

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A ppt made by Danilo Fortugno. It is a presentation of the masterpiece written by Oscar Wilde, “The picture of Dorian Grey”

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A ppt made by Danilo Fortugno about the life of Oscar Wilde and his poems

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Bright Star by John Keats

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"Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art"... | Poetry Foundation

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Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-

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Ozymandias by Percy Shelley

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Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those…

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“Beauty is truth, truth beauty’, – that is all

We know on earth , and all we need to know.”

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A magic view of the daffodils

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Ode to a nightingale

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John Keats Ode to a Nightingale final poem in Bright Star

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A walk through John Keats’s house

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A Walk Through the Keats-Shelley House with Giuseppe Albano

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I have changed the format, I think is better organized this way, tell me ..

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I have changed the format, I think is better organized this way, tell me ..

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After having seen all the adaptations of the novel “Frankenstein” the one I found the most impressive is “Frankenstein the 1931”, directed by James Whale and starring Boris Karloff and Colin Clive. I believe although it’s an old film, that is very captive and it makes people understand easily the context and the content. Additionally, in my opinion the latest version by Haifa Al Mansor is useful for teenagers and students because the actors are pretty and well-prepared, so they catch the attention.

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MY FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE FILM “FRANKENSTEIN”

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MY FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE FILM “FRANKENSTEIN”

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The scene I have selected from the film “Frankenstein”, by Kenneth Branagh in the 1994 adaptation is located in the middle-final part of the movie; it shows the moment when the monster meets the family he had spied but also helped many times. I chose this episode because I believe it represents one of the major themes of the story: the fright felt by the cottages. They didn’t mind about how much help Frankenstein gave them, or about what his feelings were, the love he felt for them, because they only focused on his terrible appearence and the way he looked like. Consequently, he has been turned away by the one he cared for, the only one he considered his friends, although they didn’t know him; he proved only anger and the will to revenge.

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'Frankenweenie' 2012 trailer, by Tim Burton

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'Frankenweenie' 2012 trailer, by Tim Burton

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FRANKENWEENIE Trailer 2012 Movie - Official [HD]

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'I. Frankenstein' 2014 trailer, by Stuart Beattie

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'I. Frankenstein' 2014 trailer, by Stuart Beattie

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'Victor Frankenstein' 2016 trailer, by Daniel Radcliffe and James McAvoy

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'Victor Frankenstein' 2016 trailer, by Daniel Radcliffe and James McAvoy

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Victor Frankenstein | Official Trailer [HD] | 20th Century FOX

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'Frankenstein' 1931 version, by James Whale

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'Frankenstein' 1931 version, by James Whale

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It's Alive! - Frankenstein (2/8) Movie CLIP (1931) HD

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Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus - Extra Sci Fi - #1

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Video SparkNotes: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein summary

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MARY SHELLEY (2017) Latest Trailer, directed by Haifaa Al Mansour

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MARY SHELLEY Official Trailer (2018) Elle Fanning, Maisie Williams Movie HD

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Top 10notes: Frankenstein

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Everything you need to know to read ‘Frankenstein’

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Let's Begin...

In 1815, Lord Byron proposed a challenge to a few literary guests he had gathered in his house on Lake Geneva: Who could write the most chilling ghost story? This question sparked an idea in eighteen-year-old Mary Shelley who, over the next few months, crafted the story of "Frankenstein." Iseult Gillespie shares everything you need to know to read Mary Shelley's classic novel.

Create and share a new lesson based on this one.

About TED-Ed Animations

TED-Ed Animations feature the words and ideas of educators brought to life by professional animators. Are you an educator or animator interested in creating a TED-Ed Animation? Nominate yourself here "

Meet The Creators

Educator Iseult Gillespie

Director Silvia Prietov

Animator Silvia Prietov, William Cifuentes

Producer Silvia Prietov

Art Director Silvia Prietov

Storyboard Artist Silvia Prietov

Designer Andrés Felipe Landazábal

Character Designer Andrés Felipe Landazábal

Layout Artist Andrés Felipe Landazábal

Compositor Julian Andrés Sánchez

Sound Designer Andrés Silva, Alejandro Uribe-Holgin

Composer Manuel José Gordillo

Associate Producer Jessica Ruby

Content Producer Gerta Xhelo

Editorial Producer Alex Rosenthal

Narrator Susan Zimmerman

See more creators

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Everything you need to know to read "Frankenstein" - Iseult Gillespie

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In 1815, Lord Byron proposed a challenge to a few literary guests he had gathered in his house on Lake Geneva: Who could write the most chilling ghost story? This question sparked an idea in eighteen-year-old Mary Shelley who, over the next few months, crafted the story of "Frankenstein."

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I found the film "Shakespeare in love" very interesting and informative, particularly because it explains how the real life of that time was. The theatre, called 'Elizabeth's theatre' was made of wood and it could receive some thousands of people of every social rank, from the noblemen to poor peolpe. Love is an important aspect but not the most; although the enemies who hinder Shakespeare, he reaches his goal: to show others how good at writing he was. The role of the woman is one of the main themes, because she fights for equal rights between males and females and to follow her dream and passion; she wants to demonstrate that not only men are able to act or to do anythng else. Finally another important character io the queen, who understands the woman although she had gone against the law. Hoping someone else agrees with me.

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the link here

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Brainstorm online with Bubbl.us. Easily create colorful mind maps to print or share with others. Almost no learning curve. Millions of people are using Bubbl.us worldwide to generate ideas, map out processes and create presentations.

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Brainstorm online with Bubbl.us. Easily create colorful mind maps to print or share with others. Almost no learning curve. Millions of people are using Bubbl.us worldwide to generate ideas, map out processes and create presentations.

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My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

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a ppt to read

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What is literature for me? What are my expectations for my course on literature in English?

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What is literature for me? What are my expectations for my course on literature in English?

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I’m not sure but maybe, literature is a set of literary works,poems, potries belonging to a specific period; it can help us to know the way of thinking of a person or a group of people. We study it to understand better an English lifestyle of the past. Also, how everyone said it is very useful for our culture, to develop or improve our “mind”. I really don’t have some real expectations from this new course; but I love English and everything included in it and I hope I’ll be able to relive those ages and empathize them.