# data[].attributes.body
- bad things associate with the snow/winter in both stories
- cold setting reflects the cold hearts of the village

# data[].attributes.body
- there aren't any men in the story the little girl doesn't need someone ( a man) to protect her she is comfortable doing it herself
- society vs women and encouraging rivalry between women
- association between the devil and presence of witches who can only be women

# data[].attributes.body
in the case that grandma turning into a wolf is a metaphor and not real, what does that represent?

- based on the way society perceives witches they are evil and must be rid from society
- often victims of violence
- cutting off the hand is symbolic of cutting off the burden of the grandma?
- pitting women against women, child is jealous of the grandmas house?

# data[].attributes.body
- her way of securing a solid future for herself?
- initially an act of self defense (wolf is coming at her)
- covering up for herself? (doesn't being a witch run by blood? does she not want to meet the fate that her grandma did so she tries to cover up her lineage)
- but she didn't have to tell everyone and get her killed by the village
- last line "she prospered" did she just want her grandmas house
- not clearly delineated remorse

# data[].attributes.body
not a hero but not necessarily a villain = 2
villain = 1
hero = 0

# data[].attributes.body
Midwinter — invincible, immaculate. The Count and his wife go riding, he on a grey mare and she on a black one, she wrapped in the glittering pelts of black foxes; and she wore high, black, shining boots with scarlet heels, and spurs. Fresh snow fell on snow already fallen; when it ceased, the whole world was white. “I wish I had a girl as white as snow,” says the Count. They ride on. They come to a hole in the snow; this hole is filled with blood. He says: “I wish I had a girl as red as blood.” So they ride on again; here is a raven, perched on a bare bough. “I wish I had a girl as black as that bird’s feathers.”

As soon as he completed her description, there she stood, beside the road, white skin, red mouth, black hair and stark naked; she was the child of his desire and the Countess hated her. The Count lifted her up and sat her in front of him on his saddle but the Countess had only one thought:how shall I be rid of her?

The Countess dropped her glove in the snow and told the girl to get down to look for it; she meant to gallop off and leave her there but the Count said: “I’ll buy you new gloves.” At that, the furs sprang off the Countess’s shoulders and twined round the naked girl. Then the Countess threw her diamond brooch through the ice of a frozen pond: “Dive in and fetch it for me,” she said; she thought the girl would drown. But the Count said: “Is she a fish to swim in such cold weather?” Then her boots leapt off the Countess’s feet and on to the girl’s legs. Now the Countess was bare as a bone and the girl furred and booted; the Count felt sorry for his wife. They came to a bush of roses, all in flower. “Pick me one,” said the Countess to the girl. “I can’t deny you that,” said the Count.

So the girl picks a rose; pricks her finger on the thorn; bleeds; screams; falls.

Weeping, the Count got off his horse, unfastened his breeches and thrust his virile member into the dead girl. The Countess reined in her stamping mare and watched him narrowly; he was soon finished.

Then the girl began to melt. Soon there was nothing left of her but a feather a bird might have dropped; a blood stain, like the trace of a fox’s kill on the snow; and the rose she had pulled off the bush. Now the Countess had all her clothes on again. With her long hand, she stroked her furs. The Count picked up the rose, bowed and handed it to his wife; when she touched it, she dropped it. “It bites!” she said.

# data[].attributes.headline
“The Werewolf,” A Short Fable by Angela Carter

# data[].attributes.subject
“The Werewolf,” A Short Fable by Angela Carter

# data[].attributes.body
It is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts. Cold; tempest; wild beasts in the forest. It is a hard life. Their houses are built of logs, dark and smoky within. There will be a crude icon of the virgin behind a guttering candle, the leg of a pig hung up to cure, a string of drying mushrooms. A bed, a stool, a table. Harsh, brief, poor lives. To these upland woodsmen, the Devil is as reals as you or I. More so; they have not seen us nor even know that we exist, but the Devil they glimpse often in the graveyards, those bleak and touching townships of the dead where the graves are marked with portraits of the deceased in the naif style and there are no flowers to put in front of them, no flowers grow there, so they put out small votive offerings, little loaves, sometimes a cake that the bears come lumbering from the margins of the forests to snatch away. At midnight, especially on Walpurgisnacht, the Devil holds picnics in the graveyards and invites the witches; then they dig up fresh corpses, and eat them. Anyone will tell you that. Wreaths of garlic on the doors keep out the vampires. A blue-eyed child born feet first on the night of St. John’s Eve will have second sight. When they discover a witch – some old woman whose cheeses ripen when her neighbours’ do not, another old woman whose black cat, oh, sinister! follows her about all the time, they strip the crone, search for her marks, for the supernumerary nipple her familiar sucks. They soon find it. Then they stone her to death.

Winter and cold weather.

Go and visit grandmother, who has been sick. Take her the oatcakes I’ve baked for her on the hearthstone and a little pot of butter.

The good child does as her mother bids – five miles’ trudge through the forest; do not leave the path because of the bears, the wild boar, the starving wolves. Here, take your father’s hunting knife; you know how to use it.

The child had a scabbby coat of sheepskin to keep out the cold, she knew the forest too well to fear it but she must always be on her guard. When she heard that freezing howl of a wolf, she dropped her gifts, seized her knife, and turned on the beast.

It was a huge one, with red eyes and running, grizzled chops; any but a mountaineer’s child would have died of fright at the sight of it. It went for her throat, as wolves do, but she made a great swipe at it with her father’s knife and slashed off its right forepaw.

The wolf let out a gulp, almost a sob, when it saw what had happened to it; wolves are less brave than they seem. It went lolloping off disconsolately between the trees as well as it could on three legs, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The child wiped the blade of her knife clean on her apron, wrapped up the wolf’s paw in the cloth in which her mother had packed the oatcakes and went on towards her grandmother’s house. Soon it came on to snow so thickly that the path and any footsteps, track or spoor that might have been upon it were obscured.

She found her grandmother was so sick she had taken to her bed and fallen into a fretful sleep, moaning and shaking so that the child guessed she had a fever. She felt the forehead, it burned. She shook out the cloth from her basket, to use it to make the old woman a cold compress, and the wolf’s paw fell to the floor.

But it was no longer a wolf’s paw. It was a hand, chopped off at the wrist, a hand toughened with work and freckled with old age. There was a wedding ring on the third finger and a wart in the index finger. By the wart, she knew it for her grandmother’s hand.

She pulled back the sheet but the old woman woke up, at that, and began to struggle, squawking and shrieking like a thing possessed. But the child was strong, and armed with her father’s hunting knife; she managed to hold her grandmother down long enough to see the cause of her fever. There was a bloody stump where her right hand should have been, festering already.

The child crossed herself and cried out so loud the neighbours heard her and come rushing in. They know the wart on the hand at once for a witch’s nipple; they drove the old woman, in her shift as she was, out into the snow with sticks, beating her old carcass as far as the edge of the forest, and pelted her with stones until she fell dead.

Now the child lived in her grandmother’s house; she prospered.

# data[].attributes.body
show not tell. changes in dialect and innuendo show her growing frustration and dissimilation as the poem progresses.

# data[].attributes.body
green plantation, silver sugar cane. The plantation grows money, being so profitable, it rules the islands. In truth, the people who own the plantations rule the islands.

# data[].attributes.body
knowledge is given to race rather than intelligence

# data[].attributes.body
intensity increases as the poem continues. The song and dance feels more like an uprising of a culture rather than a celebration

# data[].attributes.body
brother?

# data[].attributes.body
rhetorical questions serve to explain his own insecurity of the subject, and introduce these concerns in a way that feels natural to the poem

# data[].attributes.body
The African is closer related to nature than the British, who has ascended in strength beyond what is natural

# data[].attributes.body
there is no right answer

# data[].attributes.body
salient

[ˈsālyənt]

NOUN

salients (plural noun)

1. a piece of land or section of fortification that juts out to form an angle.

an outward bulge in a line of military attack or defense.

# data[].attributes.body
only nature cares about the dead bodies on the battlefield, left by man to rot without respect or burial

# data[].attributes.body
people are savage and violent creatures

# data[].attributes.body
Poem is a response to a native African uprising against the British, who responded with violence and supression

# data[].attributes.body
how can he embrace British culture when it so so harmful and disrespectful to the African people

# data[].attributes.body
Being borne of two separate and sometimes antagonistic cultures creates existential concern for individuals

# data[].attributes.body
Rachel Alexander
Isabelle Toler
Raven-Lynn Lipford
Lila Ferraro
Stephanie Karnosh
Samuel Young - recorder
Josie Shanklin

# data[].attributes.body
1

The stone had skidded arc'd and bloomed into islands:

Cuba and San Domingo

Jamaica and Puerto Rico

Grenada Guadeloupe Bonaire

curved stone hissed into reef

wave teeth fanged into clay

white splash flashed into spray

Bathsheba Montego Bay

bloom of the arcing summers...

2

The islands roared into green plantations

ruled by silver sugar cane

sweat and profit

cutlass profit

islands ruled by sugar cane

And of course it was a wonderful time

a profitable hospitable well-worth-you-time

when captains carried receipts for rices

letters spices wigs

opera glasses swaggering asses

debtors vices pigs

O it was a wonderful time

an elegant benevolent redolent time--

and young Mrs. P.'s quick irrelevant crine

at four o'clock in the morning...

3

But what of black Sam

with the big splayed toes

and the shoe black shiny skin?

He carries bucketfulls of water

'cause his Ma's just had another daughter.

And what of John with the European name

who went to school and dreamt of fame

his boss one day called him a fool

and the boss hadn't even been to school...

4

Steel drum steel drum

hit the hot calypso dancing

hot rum hot rum

who goin' stop this bacchanalling?

For we glance the banjoy

dance the limbo

grow our crops by maljo

have loose morals

gather corals

father out neighbour's quarrels

perhaps when they come

with their cameras and straw

hats:  sacred pink tourists from the frozen Nawth

we should get down to those

white beaches

where if we don't wear breeches

it becomes an island dance

Some people doin' well

while others are catchin' hell

o the boss gave our Johnny the sack

though we beg him please

please to take 'im back

so now the boy nigratin' overseas...

# data[].attributes.headline
A Far Cry from AfricaDerek Walcott - 1930-2017

# data[].attributes.subject
A Far Cry from AfricaDerek Walcott - 1930-2017

# data[].attributes.body
A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies,
Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.
Corpses are scattered through a paradise.
Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:
"Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"
Statistics justify and scholars seize
The salients of colonial policy.
What is that to the white child hacked in bed?
To savages, expendable as Jews?

Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break
In a white dust of ibises whose cries
Have wheeled since civilization's dawn
From the parched river or beast-teeming plain.
The violence of beast on beast is read
As natural law, but upright man
Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain.
Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars
Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum,
While he calls courage still that native dread
Of the white peace contracted by the dead.

Again brutish necessity wipes its hands
Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again
A waste of our compassion, as with Spain,
The gorilla wrestles with the superman.
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?

# data[].attributes.body
Contrast of praise for going to church, while he is going to visit the church
More like an outing, casual
Like going to a movie rather than attending church
Double meaning - thinking about church going away some day (church becomes obsolete)

# data[].attributes.body
End of each stanza is connected to the first line of the next stanza to keep the poem going

# data[].attributes.body
Meshing of politics and religion
Poem was prophesizing the end of religion as the world was coming together after defeat of the Nazis
Religion does unite us
Conflict between different religions
Persecution based upon religion

# data[].attributes.body
Scandals and corruption
Those that preach how to act violate their own rules

# data[].attributes.body
Church has been weaponized
Doing something in the name of God, but are not actually doing good
Bragging about doing something right
Want to prove that they are better than others, but in doing so, show that they are not doing what is good for the right reason

# data[].attributes.body
Organized religion is not always positive - necessary evil?
In America: Evangelical churches
Fearmongering
If you don't do x,y, and z, then you will go to hell and be punished forever
Fear of god to force people to act a certain way instead of focusing on the positive aspects of religion or support

# data[].attributes.body
Mentions all the dead around the church
Might think it's good to have all the dead around because they learned something from the church/religion, but the church itself has caused so much death

# data[].attributes.body
Churches should be preserved because religion is an outlet that unites us

# data[].attributes.body
Does have a purpose, should not mock it (yet he spent the previous six stanzas semi-mocking the institution)

# data[].attributes.body
Someone that decides to go to church on Christmas (attend church only on holidays - ironic if they are the last one to attend)
Could mean they are addicted to church and the idea of it (Christmas is the birth of Jesus, beginning of Christianity)

# data[].attributes.body
He came to understand the church, but also mock it
Thinks religion is a sham

# data[].attributes.headline
Who will be the last person to enter the church?

# data[].attributes.subject
Who will be the last person to enter the church?

# data[].attributes.body
Wonders if they will be a believer or more like him
Very odd choices for the last person - ignores the typical people that attend church, instead chooses niche people (more of a mocking tone)

# data[].attributes.headline
Will a church still hold meaning if we transition away from in person?

# data[].attributes.subject
Will a church still hold meaning if we transition away from in person?

# data[].attributes.body
Like a museum's objects still hold meaning and power, the church will still have the same influence
Could become more of a historical landmark rather than a religious place
Still feel the presence of what used to take place there

# data[].attributes.body
It might go away, but it will come back in a certain way
Cyclical
Organized religion may change, but spirituality or believing in a higher power will persist
Offers answers to the questions that people have about life
Will evolve as knowledge changes over time
As long as there are people, there will be some form of religion

# data[].attributes.body
Humans crave answers and want to understand
Religion has been used as a source of explanations
Feels drawn to church because he knows a lot of people use religion to explain and understand the world around them
Attempt to understand the allure of the church to others
Appreciate the quiet - won't have to think about religion

# data[].attributes.body
Will people truly forget what churches even represent?

# data[].attributes.body
What will happen to churches when/if Christianity dies out?
Will continue to hold some power/influence over society even when original intention has gone

# data[].attributes.body
What is he looking for?
Why does he stop at churches so often?

# data[].attributes.body
Humbling - taking a bike ride and decides to stop at a church
Has no hat, so he takes off his cycle clips instead out of reverence

# data[].attributes.body
Sixpence is worthy a penny - ironic

# data[].attributes.body
Feels a lack of belonging in the church
Outsider

# data[].attributes.body
Ensures that church is empty before entering (no mass)
Wants to take in all the different aspects
Describes what he sees without knowing what some of them truly are

# data[].attributes.body
Author has cynical view of Christianity/organized religion
Open-minded ending

# data[].attributes.body
Does our generation have a distrust of organized religion?

# data[].attributes.body
Optimistic - positive message, but melancholy at the same time
Relate to questioning

# data[].attributes.body
Leader: Lila
Notetaker: Linda
Sam
Josie
Isabelle
Stephanie
Rachel
Raven

# data[].attributes.body
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

# data[].attributes.body
3rd part
let the irish vessel lie emptied of its poetry
separating yeats and his work and himself
dehumanizing him, used as something to bring poetry and nothing more
or positive, vessel as in only through him

# data[].attributes.body
keats, ode-art lives on even after death of artist or poet
james joyce inspired by ireland to write the short stories, Ireland bleak place that makes people turn to writing

# data[].attributes.body
nightmare of the dark
dogs of Europe bark-people, politicians
tension
showing feelings of people
living nations wait-moment of peace before
let your work make us feel better before dark time

# data[].attributes.body
I write poetry but it won't change things later
that's why you should have kids
poetry can withstand and survive time bc we are sti;l talking about it
immortality of literature

# data[].attributes.body
Ireland was crazy before and made him turn to poetry
but it is still crazy after
unaffected

# data[].attributes.body
perish? death
also women held power over him
rich women as a parish-separate group with own structure and administration
religion
political references to Ireland, class rank

# data[].attributes.body
the way we view famous people has changed a lot
physical appearance vs work, something of substance
yeats famous for poetry, politics

# data[].attributes.body
has written poems about other poets
takes views from other people
different perspectives than his own
which are his perspectives?

# data[].attributes.body
all different
easier to have moments of contradiction
1st- about his life/death
2nd- adressing him
3rd- impact, to the future readers, legacy
writing to different people in the different sections

# data[].attributes.body
he didn't make the impact he wanted

# data[].attributes.body
world war II

# data[].attributes.body
poetry passing through but did change Ireland politically
movement
frozen vs healing fountain
water ripples when you touch it, you can see the change
frozen-can't see the changes, death?

# data[].attributes.body
political figure in Ireland
patriotic
wanted to make a difference
obsessed with a cult
women rejected him, and he turned to her daughter
-again very strange guy
no kids-legacy is in his writing
criticized at the end of his life, this is negative

# data[].attributes.headline
for poetry makes nothing happen, it survives

# data[].attributes.subject
for poetry makes nothing happen, it survives

# data[].attributes.body
doesn't mean anything in the moment, it is just there
but we are reading and studying now, so it is affecting us
contradict later part "still persuade to rejoice"

# data[].attributes.body
strangeness
luckiness
gift
his gift-poetry, which survived himself
yeats was a strange person lol

# data[].attributes.body
Immortality of poetry
this part makes him seem more human, more normal, more real
glimpse of light

# data[].attributes.body
being in prison
trapped within ourselves
author again with their death can't change how people read the work
prison at the end- teach
the author still teaches through the poetry that lives on

# data[].attributes.body
people keep reading the dead author's work, but the readers experience in their own way
relates to third stanza
after he's dead his fan are the people who decide who he was
immortality of poets
will their work survive?
-relies on people who read the work bc the author can't defend himself

# data[].attributes.body
lots of darkness in the first part
sadness
"the day of his death was a dark cold day"
he actually did die on a cold dark day
no one really remembers him, no one cares
his poems live on but no one cares about him

# data[].attributes.body
Isabelle Toler-recorder
josie shanklin- leader
Stephanie Karnosh- presenter
Sam Young- reader
rachel alexander
raven-lynn lipford
lila ferraro

# data[].attributes.headline
In Memory of W. B. Yeats - W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

# data[].attributes.subject
In Memory of W. B. Yeats - W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

# data[].attributes.body
I

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

# data[].attributes.body
- the snail is natural and the nail is not; the snail puts an end to her tangents, brings her comfort, and puts her brain at ease
-  nature will always be there, despite all the strifes and struggles an ever-changing  society throws at you
- personification of nature, it has "a game"
- she says nature neither exists to excite or to pain, it is neutral and something that you can always fall back on to assure your sanity
- nature acts as an escape from the anxiety and stress of rapidly changing society and a mortal life
- she turns the mark on the wall into a manifestation of her anxieties and all the problems in her life, the snail which represents nature solves this issue / internal battle she is dealing with about the mark's origin

# data[].attributes.body
- contrasts greatly with her, he is stark and blunt vs her whimsical and artistic mind and thought process
- should we believe him? why should we take his word undoubtedly?
- she automatically does so the audience is led to
- we believe what we want to?
- do we believe the man because of societal norms and the persistent dominance of the patriarchy?
- do we believe him over her because the stigma that mental health carries, do we naturally assume she's wrong because of this?
- he was highly confident, she questioned it for pages worth of text
- the audience really desired an answer and closure, so they run with what they got from the husband

# data[].attributes.body
What is the purpose of identifying thew mark, what will she gain?:
between the war and all the other things she has no control over, understanding and being sure of the mark's origin and meaning will give her a feeling of control and piece of mind

# data[].attributes.body
relates to that text: comments on gender roles, feminism, the new woman
remarks on these things but ultimately detemzines she doesn't see how these things could change, so it's a waste of time/energy

# data[].attributes.body
- can't identify it = can't understand everything purely based on observation
- she tries to determine its history purely based on its existence
- evolves into her global anguish outside of the nail, symbol of conflict in the world?
- mantelpiece is mentioned again (like in "Blue and Green"), heart of the home, dust on it = dissatisfied with gender roles?
- is there something to note about the fact that "nail" and "snail" differ only by the one letter "s"

# data[].attributes.body
women need to be isolated to deal with mental help
out of sight out of mind
reflected in this piece

# data[].attributes.body
published in 1917, part of the first wave of feminism, a stream of consciousness piece

# data[].attributes.body
work together to show Woolf's writers block and complicated process

# data[].attributes.body
the ocean, a stranded fisherman, at the will of the ocean and its unpredictability

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neither good or bad, just different from the "green"

# data[].attributes.body
snub-nosed monster = tea pot
OR
snub-nosed monster = fish

# data[].attributes.body
mantlepiece = the heart of the home?
all negative thoughts = describing writers block (possibly her own anguish) she's distracted by many things the day time brings, it isn't until night that she can focus and thus write

# data[].attributes.body
highly negative, then there's the white blossom... an oasis but its actually a mirage (because it disappears at night)
so "green" is good

# data[].attributes.body
sense of medium doesn't mean anything (solid drips and oozes, liquids hovers, etc) off putting, potentially a fantasy/not real state?

# data[].attributes.body
PERHAPS IT WAS the middle of January in the present year that I first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.

How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it.... If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a picture, it must have been for a miniature–the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. A fraud of course, for the people who had this house before us would have chosen pictures in that way–an old picture for an old room. That is the sort of people they were–very interesting people, and I think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will never see them again, never know what happened next. They wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.

But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that. I might get up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; The inaccuracy of thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our possessions we have–what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization–let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of losses–what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble–three pale blue canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ–all gone, and jewels, too. Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour–landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying back like the tail of a race-horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard....

But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which are trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by thick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, rose-shaped blots of an indistinct colour–dim pinks and blues–which will, as time goes on, become more definite, become–I don't know what....

And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be caused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, left over from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant housekeeper–look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe.

The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane.... I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes.... Shakespeare.... Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so–A shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through the open door,–for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer's evening–But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn't interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising oneself; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:

"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how I'd seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First?" I asked–(but I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily, not openly adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out, and stretch my hand at once for a book in self-protection. Indeed, it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people–what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror; that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future will realize more and more the importance of these reflections, for of course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; those are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps–but these generalizations are very worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles, cabinet ministers–a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes, and habits–like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths. How shocking, and yet how wonderful it was to discover that these real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country houses, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of those things I wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which sets the standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has become, I suppose, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon, one may hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the Landseer prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom–if freedom exists....

In certain lights that mark on the wall seems actually to project from the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seems to cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descend a small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the South Downs which are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people, and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the turf.... There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up those bones and given them a name.... What sort of a man is an antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the most part, I daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time, gives them a feeling of importance, and the comparison of arrow-heads necessitates cross-country journeys to the county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives, who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himself feels agreeably philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and his last conscious thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowhead there, which is now in the case at the local museum, together with the foot of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a great many Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine-glass that Nelson drank out of–proving I really don't know what.

No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really–what shall we say?–the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain?–Knowledge? Matter for further speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up. And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases.... Yes, one could imagine a very pleasant world. A quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists or house-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could slice with one's thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing the stems of the water-lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs.... How peaceful it is down here, rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters, with their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections–if it were not for Whitaker's Almanack–if it were not for the Table of Precedency!

I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really is–a nail, a rose-leaf, a crack in the wood?

Here is nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a finger against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows somebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature counsels, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can't be comforted, if you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall.

I understand Nature's game–her prompting to take action as a way of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I suppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action–men, we assume, who don't think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.

Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I have grasped a plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure of.... Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree; and trees grow, and we don't know how they grow. For years and years they grow, without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests, and by the side of rivers–all things one likes to think about. The cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to see its feathers all green when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out; and of water-beetles slowly raising domes of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itself: first the close dry sensation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes.... One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take each one separately–but something is getting in the way.... Where was I? What has it all been about? A tree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker's Almanack? The fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's moving, falling, slipping, vanishing.... There is a vast upheaval of matter. Someone is standing over me and saying–

"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."

"Yes?"

"Though it's no good buying newspapers.... Nothing ever happens. Curse this war; God damn this war!... All the same, I don't see why we should have a snail on our wall."

Ah, the mark on the wall! It was a snail.

# data[].attributes.body
GREEN

THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets–their harsh cries–sharp blades of palm trees–green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It's night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green's out.

BLUE

The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral's different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.

# data[].attributes.body
She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned
against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was
tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard
his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder
path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to
play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field
and built houses in it—not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining
roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field—the Devines, the
Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however,
never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field
with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw
her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so
bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers
and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the
Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like
the others, to leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had
dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from.
Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed 2
of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the
priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the
coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a
school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used
to pass it with a casual word:
“He is in Melbourne now.”
She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh
each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom
she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at
business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run
away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by
advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially
whenever there were people listening.
“Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?”
“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.”
She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then
she would be married—she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not
be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes
felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the
palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for
Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say 3
what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect
her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly
always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on
Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages—
seven shillings—and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any
money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he
wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more,
for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and
ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly
as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she
elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions.
She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had
been left to hr charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard
work—a hard life—but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly
undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, openhearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in
Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time
she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It
seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his
head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each
other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to 4
see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre
with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were
courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly
confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for
her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He
had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to
Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different
services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible
Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the
old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had
forbidden her to have anything to say to him.
“I know these sailor chaps,” he said.
One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover
secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew
indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but
she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.
Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he
had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their
mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her
father putting on her mother’s bonnet to make the children laugh.5
Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head
against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she
could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should come that very
night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as
long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the
close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy.
The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her
father strutting back into the sickroom saying:
“Damned Italians! coming over here!”
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of
her being—that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she
heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:
“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!”
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would
save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she
be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his
arms. He would save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her
hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and
over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of
the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, 6
with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of
a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat
blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea
with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still
draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she
kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
“Come!”
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he
would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.
“Come!”
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas
she sent a cry of anguish.
“Eveline! Evvy!”
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on
but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her
eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition

# data[].attributes.body
His strong criticism of the church would have been detrimental to the perception of this institution and people would not have wanted this to come out.
Also, the boy's focus on the young girl's appearance could have been considered taboo at the time of his writing this.

# data[].attributes.body
In order to make a comment on the role of women in society, he had to become the oppressor of his characters.

# data[].attributes.body
Stephanie Karnosh - reader
Rachel Alexander - recorder
Linda Purdue - leader
Sam Young - presenter
Lila Feraro
Josie Shanklin
Isabelle Toler

# data[].attributes.body
When she prays to God to give her guidance and tell her what to do, she is again looking to someone else to give her instructions. Connects to the let down of the religion because she ultimately does not get what she wants.

# data[].attributes.body
If she were to leave would this be for her benefit or would it be for her lover? It will likely be for her because she wants a better life for herself. However, she doesn't seem to be able to make her own choices. Any time she is forced with a choice, she uses the words of someone else.

Would she really be escaping or would she be under the control of someone else? The inability for her to claim power over her own life. Her lover would still be more powerful and there is a sense of uncomfortableness with this new relation.

# data[].attributes.body
Will her father actually miss her if she moves on? There were times when they were happy as a family but it was plagued by the abuse they suffered.

# data[].attributes.body
When she was able to realize this escape from her life and the pain that she was living in, she was confronted with all her fear and it was too much for her to bear. This moment of epiphany relates to feeling of paralysis; she was like a deer in headlights. There was never a moment when she decided what she wanted to do, but when the boat left without her she was not able to make a choice.

# data[].attributes.body
She is scared to move on because she is so fixated on what her life used to be

# data[].attributes.body
She felt a duty to the people she was taking care of. In addition, she felt a sense of nostalgia for what her life used to be. In her childhood she was happy, and she is not quite ready to let go of that. She is holding on hope for her old life to come back to her

# data[].attributes.body
The longing for escape is quite obvious. She wants to get out because her life is pervaded by death (childhood friend, mother, brother) so she wants to get out.

# data[].attributes.body
Joyce focuses on every minute detail and there is a point where readers want the story to just move forward. It becomes more of a let down when the boy's dreams are not realized.