# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Animal Farm  | Chapter 1 Summary and Analysis | George Orwell

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Stay at home

Only go outside for food, health reasons or work (but only if you cannot work from home)

If you go out, stay 2 metres (6ft) away from other people at all times

Wash your hands as soon as you get home

Do not meet others, even friends or family.

You can spread the virus even if you don't have symptoms.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Only go outside for food, health reasons or work (but only if you cannot work from home) If you go out, stay 2 metres (6ft) away from other people at all times Wash your hands as soon as you get home Do not meet others, even friends or family.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Mass Communication Learn with flashcards, games, and more - for free.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The myth of Prometheus - Iseult Gillespie

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The myth of Pandora’s box - Iseult Gillespie

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Iron Maiden - The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Full Length

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Argument

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,

'There was a ship,' quoth he.

'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye-

The Wedding-Guest stood still,

And listens like a three years' child:

The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left,

And he shone bright, and on the right

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon-'

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,

For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Nodding their heads before her goes

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,

Yet he cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he

Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o'ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,

And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-

The ice was here, the ice was there,

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,

At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,

And round and round it flew.

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perched for vespers nine;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!-

Why look'st thou so?'-With my cross-bow

The Sun now rose upon the right:

Still hid in mist, and on the left

And the good south wind still blew behind,

But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play

Came to the mariner's hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work 'em woe:

For all averred, I had killed the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,

That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,

Then all averred, I had killed the bird

That brought the fog and mist.

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow followed free;

We were the first that ever burst

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break

All in a hot and copper sky,

Right up above the mast did stand,

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were

Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us

From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if

We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

There passed a weary time. Each throat

Was parched, and glazed each eye.

A weary time! a weary time!

How glazed each weary eye,

When looking westward, I beheld

At first it seemed a little speck,

And then it seemed a mist;

It moved and moved, and took at last

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!

And still it neared and neared:

As if it dodged a water-sprite,

It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

Agape they heard me call:

Gramercy! they for joy did grin,

And all at once their breath drew in.

As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!

Without a breeze, without a tide,

She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame.

The day was well nigh done!

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright Sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,

(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered

With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)

How fast she nears and nears!

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,

Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the Sun

Did peer, as through a grate?

And is that Woman all her crew?

Is that a DEATH? and are there two?

Is DEATH that woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was as white as leprosy,

The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,

Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,

And the twain were casting dice;

'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'

Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out;

At one stride comes the dark;

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,

Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seemed to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick the night,

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;

From the sails the dew did drip-

Till clomb above the eastern bar

The hornèd Moon, with one bright star

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,

Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,-

They fled to bliss or woe!

And every soul, it passed me by,

Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!

And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

And thy skinny hand, so brown.'-

Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!

This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie:

And a thousand thousand slimy things

I looked upon the rotting sea,

I looked upon the rotting deck,

And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;

But or ever a prayer had gusht,

A wicked whisper came, and made

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky

Lay dead like a load on my weary eye,

And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,

Nor rot nor reek did they:

The look with which they looked on me

An orphan's curse would drag to hell

But oh! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye!

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,

The moving Moon went up the sky,

And a star or two beside-

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread;

But where the ship's huge shadow lay,

The charmèd water burnt alway

Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes:

They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they reared, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue

Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart,

And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray;

The Albatross fell off, and sank

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,

Beloved from pole to pole!

To Mary Queen the praise be given!

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,

The silly buckets on the deck,

That had so long remained,

I dreamt that they were filled with dew;

And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,

My garments all were dank;

Sure I had drunken in my dreams,

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:

I thought that I had died in sleep,

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

But with its sound it shook the sails,

That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!

And a hundred fire-flags sheen,

To and fro they were hurried about!

And to and fro, and in and out,

The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,

And the sails did sigh like sedge,

And the rain poured down from one black cloud;

The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still

The Moon was at its side:

Like waters shot from some high crag,

The lightning fell with never a jag,

The loud wind never reached the ship,

Yet now the ship moved on!

Beneath the lightning and the Moon

The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;

It had been strange, even in a dream,

To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;

Yet never a breeze up-blew;

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,

Where they were wont to do;

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools-

The body of my brother's son

Stood by me, knee to knee:

The body and I pulled at one rope,

But he said nought to me.

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,

Which to their corses came again,

But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned-they dropped their arms,

And clustered round the mast;

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,

And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,

Slowly the sounds came back again,

Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky

I heard the sky-lark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

How they seemed to fill the sea and air

With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,

And now it is an angel's song,

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Till noon we quietly sailed on,

Yet never a breeze did breathe:

Slowly and smoothly went the ship,

Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,

From the land of mist and snow,

The spirit slid: and it was he

That made the ship to go.

The sails at noon left off their tune,

And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,

Had fixed her to the ocean:

But in a minute she 'gan stir,

With a short uneasy motion-

Backwards and forwards half her length

With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,

It flung the blood into my head,

And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,

But ere my living life returned,

I heard and in my soul discerned

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?

By him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low

The spirit who bideth by himself

In the land of mist and snow,

He loved the bird that loved the man

Who shot him with his bow.'

The other was a softer voice,

Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,

And penance more will do.'

'But tell me, tell me! speak again,

Thy soft response renewing-

What makes that ship drive on so fast?

What is the ocean doing?'

Still as a slave before his lord,

His great bright eye most silently

If he may know which way to go;

For she guides him smooth or grim.

See, brother, see! how graciously

She looketh down on him.'

'But why drives on that ship so fast,

Without or wave or wind?'

'The air is cut away before,

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!

For slow and slow that ship will go,

When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

I woke, and we were sailing on

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;

The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,

For a charnel-dungeon fitter:

All fixed on me their stony eyes,

That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,

I could not draw my eyes from theirs,

Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more

I viewed the ocean green,

And looked far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen-

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,

Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea,

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek

Like a meadow-gale of spring-

It mingled strangely with my fears,

Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,

Yet she sailed softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed

The light-house top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,

And I with sobs did pray-

O let me be awake, my God!

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,

So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,

And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,

That stands above the rock:

The moonlight steeped in silentness

And the bay was white with silent light,

Till rising from the same,

Full many shapes, that shadows were,

A little distance from the prow

Those crimson shadows were:

I turned my eyes upon the deck-

Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:

They stood as signals to the land,

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,

No voice did they impart-

No voice; but oh! the silence sank

But soon I heard the dash of oars,

I heard the Pilot's cheer;

My head was turned perforce away

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,

I heard them coming fast:

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy

The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third-I heard his voice:

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away

This Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with marineres

That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,

'Why, this is strange, I trow!

Where are those lights so many and fair,

That signal made but now?'

'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said-

'And they answered not our cheer!

The planks looked warped! and see those sails,

How thin they are and sere!

I never saw aught like to them,

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,

That eats the she-wolf's young.'

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-

I am a-feared'-'Push on, push on!'

Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,

But I nor spake nor stirred;

The boat came close beneath the ship,

And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,

Still louder and more dread:

It reached the ship, it split the bay;

The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,

Which sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath been seven days drowned

But swift as dreams, myself I found

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,

The boat spun round and round;

And all was still, save that the hill

Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips-the Pilot shrieked

The holy Hermit raised his eyes,

And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,

Laughed loud and long, and all the while

His eyes went to and fro.

'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,

The Devil knows how to row.'

And now, all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land!

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'

The Hermit crossed his brow.

'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say-

What manner of man art thou?'

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

Which forced me to begin my tale;

And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;

I have strange power of speech;

That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me:

What loud uproar bursts from that door!

The wedding-guests are there:

But in the garden-bower the bride

And bride-maids singing are:

And hark the little vesper bell,

Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide wide sea:

So lonely 'twas, that God himself

Scarce seemèd there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,

To walk together to the kirk

To walk together to the kirk,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends

And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well, who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,

Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest

Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (text of 1834) by... | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
~ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge ~ Full Version

# data[].attributes.body
Characters, Conflicts & Plot

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
In the latter half of the twentieth century, two visionary books cast their shadows over our futures. One was George Orwell's 1949 novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four, with its horrific vision of a brutal, mind-controlling totalitarian state - a book that gave us Big Brother, and thoughtcrime and Newspeak and the memory hole and the torture palace called the Ministry of Love, and the discouraging spectacle of a boot grinding into the human face forever.

The other was Aldous Huxley's Brave New World (1932), which proposed a different and softer form of totalitarianism - one of conformity achieved through engineered, bottle-grown babies and hypnotic persuasion rather than through brutality; of boundless consumption that keeps the wheels of production turning and of officially enforced promiscuity that does away with sexual frustration; of a pre-ordained caste system ranging from a highly intelligent managerial class to a subgroup of dimwitted serfs programmed to love their menial work; and of soma, a drug that confers instant bliss with no side effects.

Which template would win, we wondered? During the Cold War, Nineteen Eighty-Four seemed to have the edge. But when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, pundits proclaimed the end of history, shopping reigned triumphant, and there was already lots of quasi-soma percolating through society. True, promiscuity had taken a hit from AIDS, but on balance we seemed to be in for a trivial, giggly, drug-enhanced Spend-ORama: Brave New World was winning the race.

That picture changed, too, with the attack on New York City's Twin Towers in 2001. Thoughtcrime and the boot grinding into the human face could not be got rid of so easily, after all. The Ministry of Love is back with us, it appears, though it's no longer limited to the lands behind the former Iron Curtain: the West has its own versions now.

On the other hand, Brave New World hasn't gone away. Shopping malls stretch as far as the bulldozer can see. On the wilder fringes of the genetic engineering community, there are true believers prattling of the Gen-rich and the Gen-poor - Huxley's Alphas and Epsilons - and busily engaging in schemes for genetic enhancement and - to go Brave New World one better - for immortality.

Would it be possible for both of these futures - the hard and the soft - to exist at the same time, in the same place? And what would that be like? Surely it's time to look again at Brave New World and to examine its arguments for and against the totally planned society it describes, in which 'everybody is happy now'. What sort of happiness is on offer, and what is the price we might pay to achieve it?

Margaret Atwood is Canada's most eminent novelist, poet and critic, author of award-winning books such as The Blind Assassin and The Handmaid's Tale. She won the Booker Prize (for the former) in 2000.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
In the latter half of the twentieth century, two visionary books cast their shadows over our futures. One was George Orwell's 1949 novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four, with its horrific vision of a brutal, mind-controlling totalitarian state - a book that gave us Big Brother, and thoughtcrime and Newspeak and the memory hole and the torture palace called the Ministry of Love, and the discouraging spectacle of a boot grinding into the human face forever.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Hey, I'm the creator of HighExistence. I've since moved on from writing for this blog, but you can see the latest thing I'm up to here :)

We use cookies and other similar technologies to improve your browsing experience and the functionality of our site. Accept Reject Read More

\n

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Amusing Ourselves to Death: Huxley vs Orwell

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
A clever comic over on the accuracy of George Orwell's predictions about future society over those of Aldous Huxley. It's informative and scary at the same time. "In short, Orwell feared that what we hate would ruin us. Huxley that what we love will ruin us."

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Little Red Cap: the Fairy Tale, Historic Background, and Symbolic Power

The Little Red Riding Hood story is among the most popular fairy tales in the world. This is a story about the never-ending fight between good and evil, a story about greed and hope, a story about responsibility and second chances . . . Red Riding Hood, or Red Cap, is an old fairy tale, known in many different variations, and each one of them can be interpreted in many different ways.

I invite you to join me on the exciting journey through the deep woods to learn the history of the story of Red Cap and its hidden meanings. We'll start with the summary of Little Red Riding Hood and see where this brings us. It is one of the most-studied fairy tales, and I can promise you many interesting findings if you don't stray from the path like she did!

First, let's see what you already know!

For each question, choose the best answer. The answer key is below.

1. How old is the story of Little Red Riding Hood?

About 50 years.

Around one hundred years.

It can be traced almost a thousand years ago.

2. Which author was the first to use a red color for girl's hood?

Charles Perrault

Brothers Grimm

Frank Baum

3. According to some folklorists, Red Riding Hood represents ...

Answer Key

1. It can be traced almost a thousand years ago.

2. Charles Perrault

3. The sun

Red Riding Hood Summary

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her grandmother gave her a red riding hood, and the girl loved it so much she wore it all the time-so everybody started to call her Little Red Riding Hood.

One day, her mother told the girl her grandmother had fallen ill. Because she lived alone, deep in the woods, she would probably be happy to get some food and a visit from her granddaughter. Mother gave a basket with food and a bottle of wine to Little Red Riding Hood and told her: "Don't stray from the path!"

The girl promised but soon forgot about her mother's warning. After a while, she met a wolf in the woods. He asked her where she was going, and she told him about her granny's bad health and where she lived. The wolf tricked her into stopping and picking some flowers. She did that, and in the meantime, the wolf ran to the granny's house.

The wolf, pretending to be the granddaughter, entered the grandmother's house and ate the lady. Then he dressed in her nightgown and waited for Little Red Riding Hood.

When she came in, the famous dialogue about great arms, great ears, and great teeth followed. After that, the wolf ate the girl and took a nap.

Soon after, a huntsman came by the house and heard snoring. He entered cautiously, saw the sleeping monster in granny's bed and guessed what happened. Then he opened the sleeping wolf's stomach with a knife.

Granny and Red Riding Hood came out and helped the huntsman fill the wolf's stomach with stones. When the wolf woke up, he tried to run away, but the stones were too heavy. He fell down and died. Grandmother, granddaughter, and huntsman lived happily ever after.

Warning: This Happy Ending Isn't in Every Version of the Tale!

Our short summary is of the Brothers Grimm's Red Cap, not Perrault's Little Red Riding Hood. Perrault's is the most popular version of this fairy tale in the world, but many parents still don't think it is appropriate for today's children. It is pretty cruel indeed, and a certain percent of kids can have nightmares after hearing or reading this version.

So let's take a look at Perrault's Little Red Riding Hood (Le Petit Chaperon Rouge)!

What Is Different in Perrault's Version?

The summary of Red Riding Hood is basically the same in both versions. The main difference is the absence of the hunter in Perrault's story: In this case, the story ends when the wolf eats the girl. We read only a conclusion in verse saying not to trust strangers.

Well, this is not the only difference! I will present just a few-some may be negligible at first sight, but if we take a few moments to think them over, we'll notice that every single detail can make a huge difference.

Compare Perrault's and Grimm's Red Cap

1. In the beginning of Perrault's story, the mother gives the daughter a basket and sends her to her grandmother with the words: "Do not talk to strangers!" The warning about not leaving the path was an addition by the Grimms.

2. The messages of both fairy tales differ. Perrault warns us not to trust strangers and the Brothers Grimm emphasize how important is to stay on the trail.

3. The content of the basket is not the same in both cases. Psychoanalysts were especially excited over a bottle of wine added by William Grimm. It is supposed to have a strong symbolic meaning-and we will deal with that later!

4. Perrault's Red Riding Hood takes her clothes off and gets into bed with the wolf. The implications are obvious. This version is not appropriate for kids, and it really never was intended for a young audience in the first place. The Grimms' Red Cap doesn't do that: She just approaches the wolf and gets eaten.

Now shall we delve into the symbolism of the story?

Little Red Riding Hood Symbolism (The Hidden Meanings)

Let's go from top to bottom:

The Hood Covering the Hair

If the girl in the story is wearing a hood (or cap), she is obviously covering her hair. Hair, especially women's, plays an important role in many cultures in the world. When a girl reaches the age in which she turns into a woman, her hair is considered one of her most powerful tools for attracting the opposite gender. With covering (or cutting) her hair, she sends a message she is not available yet (or anymore).

The Color Red

When the girl gets a hood from her grandmother, we can say the life forces are passing from older (going) to younger (coming) generation. The red color is, of course, the color of life and blood. It can be easily associated with menstrual blood.

The red color of the hood is an invention of Charles Perrault, and we should know that in the 17th century, a decent woman would never wear a red hood because red was the color of sin. Only ladies with really bad reputations wore red dresses, and Perrault's insinuations were obvious.

The Color Gold (Yes, Gold)

Before the 17th century, the story was already well known. In some versions, the hood wasn't any particular color, but in some, it was gold. Gold, of course, represents maturity and responsibility and at the end of the day, we can say this is what is Little Red Riding Hood all about.

The Message of Red Cap

Perrault's "Don't talk to the strangers!" and the Grimms' "Don't stray from the path!" are really two expressions of the same message: "Be responsible, or you shall pay the toll!"

The Forest

In many fairy tales, the main character (the protagonist) must go in the forest. It seems trees are an endless source of inspiration in folklore. There are many speculations why the forest is so important but we can also stick to the obvious: Most people in medieval or pre-medieval times lived near forests. People's existence have been closely related to the woods for practically forever, but forests also represent unknown, although very serious, danger.

In psychoanalysis, a forest symbolizes unconsciousness. Leonard Lutwack goes even further and labels it as untamed feminine sexuality. Why? The forest is a very fertile place, but it is also wild, uncultivated, and unpredictable. It is not a coincidence that so many popular heroes and heroines (Red Cap, Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks) must get lost in the woods just to come back as more responsible (and we can say domesticated) persons. The transformation role of the forest is obvious.

Even if the main character doesn't enter the woods, something important can happen there. For instance: The name of Rumpelstiltskin is hidden in the woods, and the Goose Girl lost her identity in the forest. In some cases, the forest represents the enemy itself (remember Sleeping Beauty and her rescuers?).

The Basket and the Bottle

What was in Red Riding Hood's basket? Charles Perrault opted for a cake and butter, while the Brothers Grimm gave her some cakes and a bottle of wine.

Erich Fromm explained the bottle in Red Riding Hood's basket as a symbol of virginity. The shape of a bottle is phallic, but as a bottle it is also fragile and breakable. In a dream analysis, a bottle can also represent suppression of feelings: Instead of letting them out, they are bottled. The bottle also has to be opened (or broken) to release the trapped spirit. Considering that red wine stands for passion, you might say the case of decoding Little Red Riding Hood is almost closed . . .

Remember: The Symbols (and Their Meanings) Vary

If we want to explore the hidden meanings of fairy tales, we should never forget how they were collected, written, rewritten, and published. Initially, they were oral stories, varying from mouth to mouth, village to village, valley to valley. Collectors were unreliable, always writing and tweaking the material in accordance with their personal beliefs and norms of the society they belong.

For example, the history of Red Cap (this translation is more accurate to Perrault's or Grimm's records) clearly shows us bottle of wine is present only in one of the hundreds of known versions. We will never know for sure what the Grimms thought when they incorporated it in the basket, but as Siegmund Freud stated: "Sometimes a cigar is only a cigar."

Interpretations, Theories, and Analysis

Let's look at Little Red Riding Hood through these different lenses:

1. theories about the story's absent father (where is he, anyway?)

2. Red Cap as an allegory of resurrection

3. Red Cap as a story about pregnancy

4. Red Cap as a story about rape

Theories Behind the Tale's Absent Father

Everybody familiar with the Brothers Grimm is already aware how many absent fathers are in their fairy tales. We have a missing father in both the Grimms' and Perrault's versions of Red Riding Hood.

There are two explanations:

The role of the father is played by the huntsman. He saved the girls, defeated the beast, and did what every good father would do. He protects and serves.

The other explanation is slightly more complicated. The father of the Red Riding Hood is split into two characters. First is the good, protective, civilized, and already-known huntsman. The second is more primitive, brutal, dangerous . . . in short: male! This is represented by a beast-the wolf.

In both explanations, the father is really not missing; he is just in disguise.

The case of missing father is similar to the role of the stepmother in fairy tales. In a child's imagination, the confrontation of the huntsman and the wolf is equal to the confrontation of the child and his "bad father" (sooner or later, every child experiences negative emotions towards his father). In this story, the huntsman does the dirty work, so the child doesn't feel guilt over the killing of the beast. Good defeats evil and everybody is happy. Similarly, the character of the evil stepmother can serve as a punching bag for children redirecting their negative emotions toward their real mothers.

But folklorists have some second thoughts on the theory of absent fathers too. At least, we can easily find older versions of Red Riding Hood with a present father and without a huntsman. In these versions, father kills the beast, but there is one more important difference . . .

An Allegory of Resurrection, Death, and Rebirth

An extremely important part of Little Red Riding Hood is the ending, where the huntsman opens the wolf's stomach and saves the girl and her granny. This can be explained as an allegory on resurrection in Christianity. Both women died but are saved by a higher power, represented by the huntsman. When Red Riding Hood and her grandmother come out of the stomach, they arere symbolically born again-and we know Perrault and the Grimms were zealous Christians.

But then again, we must not forget the old, pre-Christian myth about Chronos, in which this kind of 'rebirth' also occurred. If we ask mythologists, the story clearly reflects the never-ending game of day and night. Red Cap (it was gold in some older versions, remember?) represents the sun, swallowed by night and later coming back to bring the light to the world again.

Why Is a Wolf in Red Riding Hood?

A lot of popular fairy tales use a witch or ogre as an opponent or antagonist. Why is a wolf used in this case?

Consider the time when Red Cap was first written (the 17th century). There was probably an already-present fear of werewolves. At least two dangers can be joined in a wolf: a magic werewolf as a predator from the woods and a greedy male as a predator in society.

Red Riding Hood Is a Story About Pregnancy (At Least Freud Thought So)

Religions, myths, and psychoanalysis can agree on one thing: Pregnant women have had a special position through all history of humankind. They are bringing new life to this world, but they are also in danger of dying at delivery. A pregnant woman is still a taboo in many societies.

Whether we understand the act of opening wolf's stomach as resurrection, sunrise, or birth, we can also agree this is a very important moment. Maybe too important to be assisted by anybody, and in this case, the huntsmen looks like greater authority than a father. If we look at the older versions, where the saving was done by the father, it was not done by opening the stomach, but with cutting the wolf's head!

This supports theories by mythologists (we know some Greek gods were born out of heads) and is also in favor of psychoanalysts' interpretations, because the pregnant woman is in some cultures considered as a sacred object and her belly should not be touched by man.

A Feminist View: Red Riding Hood as a Story About Rape

The 20th century brought another interpretation of this (probably) most-interpreted fairy tale of all. Feminists see a clear case of rape in the story of the Little Red Riding Hood. The aggressive and active male is preying on passive heroine and her granny. He is, in the end, defeated by another aggressive and active male. Case closed.

Well, not so fast. Feminists have some good points, but we should not forget we are really talking only about two versions of Red Riding Hood here. Both were written at specific times by specific members of society with their own beliefs about roles of genders. The passive heroine and the powerless old lady fit well into their views of the world in the 17th or 19th centuries.

But there are other versions of Red Hoods out there, some from before and many from after the 17th or 19th century. There are Red Caps who defeated the wolf with their ingenuity, deceitfulness, or even their own shotguns! So much for the passive role. And there are also variations of Red Riding Hood in which the main role is played by a boy . . .

A Final Word

In exploring different versions and possible hidden meanings in Little Red Riding Hood, we encounter many possibilities, but the essence of the fairy tale still escapes the rational explanation.

The symbolism of Red Riding Hood is one of the richest of all classic fairy tales. This is one of the main reasons for its popularity. It is undeniably a great fairy tale with dozens of undertones, but sometimes its symbols are more coincidental than a product of collective mind or something similar.

Does that mean our journey into the history of Red Riding Hood was a waste of time? Certainly not. With every fairy tale explored, we always learn something new about our world, our history, and ourselves. Thanks for accompanying me!

Hi on August 25, 2020:

"yeah" I'm sorry to break it to you, but a lot of fairytales were actually originally dark and sometimes didn't have a happy ending. "The Little Mermaid" is a perfect example, where the mermaid didn't necessarily have a perfectly happy ending and story. She died because she didn't want to kill the prince, and every step she took felt like needles. :) Plus, fairytales have many hidden symbolism and many, like myself, enjoy finding these little details and try to decipher them. They were, of course, made to teach children lessons under a disguise of usually happy endings and friendly (or not so friendly) animals.

oumnia on December 10, 2019:

good

yeah on November 07, 2019:

I think that you completely ruined this story for many people including the children. LRRH is supposed to be a simple cautionary tale and by giving all these theories and myths you ruined childhood memories and made it more complex and disturbing for children. I believe this article should be taken down!

:) on November 07, 2019:

dont ask who joe is

Skylar on August 19, 2019:

Skylar

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on April 28, 2019:

Hi, Merie, sorry for my late response, I was busy in 'real' life. I am the author. How can I help you?

Merie on April 22, 2019:

Who is the author of this article?

me on March 08, 2019:

bonjour

Daniel Kelly on February 12, 2019:

An excellent analysis Tolovaj, hope it's okay but i've linked to it for my ballad about the story. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1977NhEonVw

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on April 11, 2018:

Yes, it's partially true. There are many ways to interpret them. Caution is definitely one of them. Thanks, Red Gibson, for stopping by.

Red Gibson on April 07, 2018:

I think that many fairy tales were advice to children disguised as bedtime stories: Beware of things you're not sure about.

Reshawnda on March 09, 2018:

Wow..really!! The comments...the belief in all of this non sense...just blows my mind. Time spent on nothing...If you want to have REAL KNOWLEDGE THAT INPOWERS...TRANSFORM THE SPIRIT...PEACE..JOY...AND LOVE...READ THE HOLY BIBLE...A REAL TOPIC THAT CONVICTS AND SAVES THE SOUL'S WHOM CALL ON THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST OUR SAVIOR..MY KING! AND MY CREATOR WHO MADE ALL AND IS IN ALL...GOD MY FATHER!! HE IS THE LORD OF HOST! HE IS MORE THEN ENOUGH! MAY THE EYES BE OPENED TO THOSE THAT ARE YOURS FATHER GOD! THANK YOU MY CHRIST!

notanon.fujo on November 18, 2017:

how about a new version where wolf actually likes riding hood and that is why he stalked her? but turns out wrong which ends up in murder and suicide. and the hunter is riding hood father who got angry and went to revenge at wolf? while the mother doesn't hear any news until a few weeks later. okay, that was weird.

but there is a japanese song where riding hood and wolf fell in love.

also a game where daughter of wolf fell in love with son of ridinghood and the hunter

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 27, 2017:

Thanks, Chanse, for your input. I am always fascinated with all the possibilities for an interpretation of seemingly a simple fairy tale.

Chanse Kyllonen on August 01, 2017:

Great interpretations here. A lot adds to the present theme I'm about to explain. See, the story is an esoteric analogy of what's known as "the hero's journey" symbolized in many kid's stories. Back in medieval times the "common man" was prohibited from owning books, or writing them. The privelage had to be earned via status with the Royals and the like. Gradually it become "lawful" to write/read children's books n stories since it helped assist in children going to sleep at bedtime. This is how members of secret & underground groups passed ideas and knowledge over countless regions. The Renaissance and/or the Age of Enlightenment, & Age of Reason happened because of the growth in arcane and Esoteric wisdom. Nothing evil about it, despite the propaganda, which continues to this day, that the Church was spreading. These groups went secret to avoid the cruel, cold, and wicked punishments of the time. These people saw the holes in the accepted teachings and saw them as crystal-clear analogies and metaphors. The latter teaching the Golden Path that can, and needs to, be taken by any individual psychologically willing and strong enough to take on the journey toward spiritual initiation. Most, if not all, forefathers of science, math, chemistry, and philosophy were alchemists (turning the ego within from mundane lead into the pure & rare state of "gold" or Enlightenment), hermeticists, Rosicrucians, etc. At any rate much art and stories were created for those with "eyes & ears" of understanding. Aka, insight of the discerning mind, or third eye. Long story short, Little Red Ridinghood symbolizes the sacred feminine within "Man," both male and female, also known as Wisdom. The wilderness is the same metaphor that's spoke of in Scripture. Yeshuah had to travel through it, proverbially, before his ascension. This and other sayings of Scripture is how, and why, members of Mystery Schools saw Yeshuah as nothing more than a mere mortal man whom either played the archetypal role of the Universal and Cosmic Christos, or was a messenger destined to spread the Esoteric Truth to any who had the open mindedness and discipline to listen. The wolf represents Sawtawn--meaning "adversary"-- or the ego which enslaves the Mind and Spirit of the common person. Grandma is the Goddess "above", or the Macrocosmic Feminine. The latter being the intangible Truth behind the physical veil of illusion. So in short, the story speaks of the corruption of the Church in keeping the spiritual truth of our divinity as the greatest symbol of the cosmos as a whole (holy), via archetype. (See " Man: Grand Symbol of the Mysteries" by Manly P Hall) Each organ, cell, bone, etc symbolizes a Cosmic "law" both meta- and physical, hence "made in God's image" (Universal Consciousness: cosmos is the body, Consciousness is the Mind, and vibration/light/energy is the Spirit. In the beginning was the word.....sound, light, and/or vibration. Morpheus's line, in The Matrix, to Neo comes to mind. "Define 'real.' If you're talking about what you can see, touch, smell, then 'real' is just electrical signals interpreted by the brain." Anyway, the church is a wolf in sheep's clothing acting like it's the sole bearer of Truth, and Man needs it to connect to Spirit. It disquises itself as the "Grand Mother" by its patriarchal motives and demonizing of women. It wants to enslave or control the minds of the masses, and consume it's souls.....not unlike zombies, vampires, and collective robotic thinking portrayed in Star Trek. Lol, resistance is supposedly futile. In the end the huntsman with the double edged axe, the latter also symbolized as a sword in myths, saves the day via being "The Father." My explanation is a little rushed since 2% battery remains on this device, so I must end it here. Hope this helps.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on January 24, 2017:

We have both, monica:)

monica on September 03, 2016:

i donot want that i only want a explanetion

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on October 14, 2014:

Who doesn't? ;)

Alexander McQueen the best on October 13, 2014:

I love this book

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on July 28, 2014:

@VioletteRose LM: Glad to hear that!

VioletteRose LM on July 28, 2014:

Your articles on fairy tales make me want to read them again and again :)

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on July 17, 2014:

@Richard1988: Well, it can be a cautionary tale, but it can also have a comforting effect (with resurrection).

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on July 17, 2014:

@tazzytamar: You are too kind:)

Anna from chichester on July 16, 2014:

This was so interesting - you clearly have a deep interest and extensive knowledge of fairy tales :)

Richard from Hampshire - England on July 16, 2014:

This was fascinating. I always thought of red riding hood as a cautionary tale so the not so happy ending makes more sense to me.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on May 04, 2014:

@Sorcerers Stone: You are right, myth of Persephone fits perfectly in this tale (I explored that option in one of my blogs) and if we look carefully, every single detail can have very special hidden meaning. This is probably the major reason why this particular story will always stay in top 10 by popularity, no matter how many rewritings will be made. Thanks for your thoughts, I appreciate that!

Sorcerers Stone on May 04, 2014:

You did a great job of exploring many options. I would add that there are similarities to the story of Persephone. So the time spent in the wolf's stomach is sort of like Persephone's time in Hades. The flower picking then symbolizes a search for self development (flowers opening= personal unfoldment). The wine would tie into that, too, since wine is "developed", transformed, and refers to Spirit, the transpersonal self. Granny and wolf are undistinguishable by LRRH because the adolescent descent into adult sexuality looks frightening, and can "devour" us for a time, but in the end it is all a sacred design for the development of human maturity or wisdom. You don't get much wisdom if you don't explore the opposite sex! That's the alchemical perspective anyway! So there are a few of my thoughts on the symbolism.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on January 11, 2014:

@WriterJanis2: Thank you very much!

WriterJanis2 on January 02, 2014:

Returned to pin this.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 27, 2013:

@anonymous: Thank you very much, fairy tales are my passion:)

anonymous on August 26, 2013:

What a treasury of knowledge you have and have researched your subject thoroughly for this obvious labor of love, you have fascinated me!!!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on July 02, 2013:

@rking96: My pleasure!

Rick King from Charleston, SC on July 01, 2013:

I would like to think the story is just a fairy tale, but since not everyone could read and write in those times, we have to know that any of the authors were very intelligent people.The various symbols tell their own story about the time of the story's origin and authors. Thanks for the detailed background.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on June 24, 2013:

@sybil watson: But sometimes a fairy tale is still only a fairy tale...

;)

sybil watson on June 23, 2013:

Wow, I had no idea of the symbolism of Little Red Riding Hood. Very interesting.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on June 23, 2013:

@soaringsis: Thanks for you visit and comment.

soaringsis on June 22, 2013:

This is so very interesting. Thank you for sharing.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on June 21, 2013:

@NibsyNell: Thanks!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on June 21, 2013:

@WriterJanis2: Thanks!

NibsyNell on June 19, 2013:

Such a fascinating and comprehensive lens! Really loved reading this!

WriterJanis2 on June 18, 2013:

Pinned again.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on June 14, 2013:

@choosehappy: I hope you enjoyed:)

Vikki from US on June 12, 2013:

Wow. this was fascinating!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on May 09, 2013:

@WriterJanis2: I appreciate it!

WriterJanis2 on May 07, 2013:

Back to pin this.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on March 03, 2013:

@Felicitas: Thee are many versions with happy endings for the wolf, including the Perrault's mentioned above. I have also seen the ones where wolf stands for his reputation and denies to attack anybody.

And there are of course variants with happy endings for all characters. But they don't bring the same message. It seems the Red Riding Hood with some kind of warning is the strongest of all.

Felicitas on March 02, 2013:

Again, you've offered so many symbolic aspects that I never thought of before. I doubt if there's a child anywhere who hasn't heard at least one of the versions. Still, I have respect for the wolf in today's society. I would like to see a fairy tale that redeems the wolf's reputation.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on February 26, 2013:

@anonymous: :)

anonymous on February 26, 2013:

Great lens!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on February 22, 2013:

@VspaBotanicals: I'll have to check the movie, it is still on my to-watch list!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on February 22, 2013:

@cmadden: Yes, interpretations can be real fun... Don't know about likes and other stuff. It's a big system. Bugs are probably all around... Let's hope they don't spread anything serious.

VspaBotanicals on February 22, 2013:

I just love all versions of the story. And I enjoyed the movie. Wonderful lens.

cmadden on February 22, 2013:

It's amazing how interpretations can be so different with different people and times - the Red Riding Hood of my childhood was the sanitized version.

(I noticed Tipi's note about disappearing likes - I've experienced the same thing upon occasion recently, and it's been a while since polls or quizzes registered for me :-( )

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on February 18, 2013:

@tonybonura: :)

Tony Bonura from Tickfaw, Louisiana on February 17, 2013:

What a great lens you have here! And thank you for the free Kindle book of LRRH.

TonyB

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on February 05, 2013:

@Michael Oksa: :)

Michael Oksa on February 05, 2013:

I can't add more, but I can say thank you for writing such a wonderful lens. :)

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on January 30, 2013:

@anonymous: Thanks!

anonymous on January 29, 2013:

I'm so glad I peeked back in, I'm sure I blessed this but have been noticing some likes and blessing have disappeared in a glitch along the way....happy to replace it and scratch my head again about the hidden meanings.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on January 29, 2013:

@Melissa Miotke: I appreciate it!

Melissa Miotke from Arizona on January 28, 2013:

Just came back to refresh my blessing on this great lens:)

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on December 08, 2012:

@anonymous: :)

anonymous on December 07, 2012:

Not really. You just about covered every possible angle. Like ow you dig into the back story and give deeper explanations.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on December 01, 2012:

@dream1983: Great to hear that!

dream1983 on December 01, 2012:

Very nice lens, nicely done!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on November 23, 2012:

@sheilamarie78: My pleasure:)

Sheilamarie from British Columbia on November 22, 2012:

Thanks so much for sharing these stories.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on November 14, 2012:

@tonybonura: Thanks for your visit. Who knows, maybe some day we'll actually meet:)

Tony Bonura from Tickfaw, Louisiana on November 14, 2012:

You really took this story to levels I had never considered, even as a horny teenager. Red Riding Hood is a favorite in the US. I recently saw a movie titled Red Riding Hood that had the wolf as a werewolf. That is pretty much how I always saw the wolf since my teenage years. Great lens. I have a couple of Squidoo friends who live in Slovinia, and would like to be able to count you as a friend also. I hope to see you around Tolovaj.

TonyB

TonyB

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on October 11, 2012:

@anonymous: Great, just don't loose your hats!

anonymous on October 10, 2012:

Sharing a ride with and for my friends! :)

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on September 17, 2012:

@anonymous: My pleasure:)

anonymous on September 17, 2012:

Thanks for stopping to look at my lenses

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on September 14, 2012:

@anonymous: Thanks:)

anonymous on September 14, 2012:

Brilliant ride... Enjoyed the explanations!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on September 06, 2012:

@MrMojo01: Thanks!

MrMojo01 on September 06, 2012:

Very nice lens!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 19, 2012:

@jolou: Thanks or your comment:)

jolou on August 18, 2012:

I loved this story as a child. I remember dressing up as Red Riding Hood for Halloween. Great information here and photos. :)

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 18, 2012:

@anonymous: Thanks for your comment:)

anonymous on August 18, 2012:

Another fairy tale with possible meanings far beyond the face value I took it with as it was red to me or told as a child. I remember being able to visualize it as the story moved along...and Freud certainly never entered in. It seems the classic fairy tale writers hid a lot of meanings into their stories, perhaps to give the great minds something to think about as they read these "harmless" children's stories to their little ones. I had never heard of Red and Grandma being cut out of the wolf's stomach and it seems everyone but the wolf lived happily ever after. Fascinatingly done!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 17, 2012:

@jasminedessy: Thanks:)

jasminedessy on August 17, 2012:

Great fantastic lens

I like it

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 17, 2012:

@WriterJanis2: Thank you, it is appreciated:)

WriterJanis2 on August 16, 2012:

I really learned a lot here. I love all the different sides you showed of this story. Blessed!

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 16, 2012:

@rawwwwwws lm: I appreciate your visit:)

rawwwwwws lm on August 16, 2012:

WOW! Thanks for teaching me new things about Red Riding Hood. Thank you for sharing, great lens. I appreciate it.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 11, 2012:

@anonymous: Thanks, it is my passion:)

anonymous on August 10, 2012:

I did not know there were different versions of this story. I like your explorations of the origins of these stories.

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 04, 2012:

@akunsquidoku: Glad to hear that...

akunsquidoku on August 04, 2012:

very interesting..:D

Tolovaj Publishing House (author) from Ljubljana on August 03, 2012:

@alidabdul: I hope you enjoyed the lens and find a book...

alidabdul on August 02, 2012:

This tale super popular among children, I do enjoy watching red riding hood cartoon in various version, but I don't read it coz I don't have the book :)

Nice lens...

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Little Red Riding Hood: Summary and Symbols Explained

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Red Riding Hood is one of the classic fairy tales-everybody knows it. Less known, however, is the powerful symbolism behind the story. Let's explore it along with a short summary, a comparison of two different versions, and various theories and interpretations!

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Recording of Plath reading her 1959 poem, "Mushrooms"

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Dreams follow their own kind of logic that Freud calls the 'dream-work'.

"The task of dream interpretation is to unravel what the dream-work has woven."Sigmund Freud

The dream-work is the unconscious ciphering that transforms the latent content into the manifest content.

As such, the work of interpreting the dream follows the dream-work in reverse, from the manifest content to the latent content.

The dream-work is what allows the dream wishes to get past censorship. It is also what gives dreams their peculiar form.

Freud called the dream-work "the essence of dreaming." He wrote:
"At bottom, dreams are nothing other than a particular form of thinking. It is the dream-work which creates that form."
Freud identified four aspects of the dream-work.

Condensation

In a sense the word says it all. A number of dream-elements (themes, images, figures, ideas etc) are combined into one.

Condensation can be observed in:

Two images overlaid onto one-another: "The face that I saw in the dream was at once my friend's and my uncle's."

A feature common to two or more disparate elements: Hitler and Ghandi were both vegetarians.

The handling of words or names: "I am slad to see you go" combines "sad" and "glad"

Condensation is the reason why there is no neat, one-to-one correspondence between the elements of the manifest content and the latent content.

It is also why the manifest content is so much more compact than the latent content. A single fragment of a dream can carry several latent dream-thoughts, even contradictory ones.

Displacement

Freud noticed that important things in the latent content were often represented by seemingly insignificant things in the manifest content, and vice versa.

A dream might seem to be about one thing, but the dream-thoughts can show it was really about something else.

Because of this phenomenon, Freud said that the relative importance of the dream elements could undergo displacement. The emotion associated with one idea or experience is detached from it and attached to another one.

Secondary revision

Although many dreams do not seem to 'make sense', many others appear to be quite coherent and logical.

Freud says that it is the function of secondary revision to create this appearance of narrative coherence: it "fills up the gaps in the dream-structure with shreds and patches."

As the name implies, secondary revision occurs at the end of the process of dream-construction and can basically be thought of as the application of conscious thought processes to the dream material.

It can be linked to a tendency of the ego to try to gloss over inconsistencies, making things appear to make sense.

Considerations of representation

Dreams work in images, so the abstract thoughts which might underlie the dream must be turned into a pictorial and concrete language before they can be used in a dream.

This is one reason why Freud compared dreams to picture puzzles like rebuses.

This mechanism can sometimes be observed when we describe our dreams. As we put the images back into words, we realise that the images were representing words in the first place.

Freud says that this process is "psychologically the most interesting." It involves a massive level of ingenuity that few of us are capable of in waking life.

These mechanisms also operate outside of dreams.

They can be observed in art, music, literature, jokes, slips of the tongue, and in the formation of symptoms.

Their widespread applicability is perhaps one reason why Freud regarded dreams as the "royal road" to the unconscious.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Dream-work | The Interpretation of Dreams | Freud Museum London

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
"The task of dream interpretation is to unravel what the dream-work has woven."Sigmund Freud The dream-work is the unconscious ciphering that transforms the latent content into the manifest content. As such, the work of interpreting the dream follows the dream-work in reverse, from the manifest content to the latent content.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
‘Lady Macbeth Seizing the Daggers‘, Henry Fuseli, ?exhibited 1812 | Tate

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
‘Lady Macbeth Seizing the Daggers‘, Henry Fuseli, ?exhibited 1812

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Adam O'Riordan: From the Anglo-Saxons to Don Paterson, poets' imaginations have always hankered after wings

# data[].attributes.body
Revise these key terms and test yourself

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
From ancient times to the present, certain birds have been considered both symbols and forecasters of events. These eight birds, from every part of the world, have been especially important.

Cranes are revered in Asia as symbols of long life.

Cuckoos are welcomed as a sign of spring in Europe and are considered omens of a happy marriage.

Doves symbolize love and peace. To dream of doves means happiness is at hand.

Eagles are considered sacred by Native Americans. The claws and bones of the birds are believed to drive illness away. As the symbol of the U.S., the bald eagle stands for endurance, independence, and courage.

Owls are considered prophets of doom. In ancient Rome as well as modern European and American folklore, a hooting owl warns of death.

The phoenix is a mythical bird that dies by fire, then rises from its own ashes after 500 years! Thus it symbolizes renewed life.

Ravens have been reverred by sailors, especially Viking explorers, for their ability to find land. Other cultures believe ravens can predict death and pestilence (disease). Folklore has it that the raven's sense of smell is so acute that it can smell death before it comes.

Storks are symbols of good luck. In folklore, storks deliver babies.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
From ancient times to the present, certain birds have been considered both symbols and forecasters of events. These eight birds, from every part of the world, have been especially important. Cranes are revered in Asia as symbols of long life. Cuckoos are welcomed as a sign of spring in Europe and are considered omens of a happy marriage.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Help Save The ENDANGERED

From EXTINCTION!

The Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus

Rare photo of the elusive tree octopus
(Enhanced from cropped telephoto)

The Pacific Northwest tree octopus ( Octopus paxarbolis) can be found in the temperate rainforests of the Olympic Peninsula on the west coast of North America. Their habitat lies on the Eastern side of the Olympic mountain range, adjacent to Hood Canal. These solitary cephalopods reach an average size (measured from arm-tip to mantle-tip,) of 30-33 cm. Unlike most other cephalopods, tree octopuses are amphibious, spending only their early life and the period of their mating season in their ancestral aquatic environment. Because of the moistness of the rainforests and specialized skin adaptations, they are able to keep from becoming desiccated for prolonged periods of time, but given the chance they would prefer resting in pooled water.

An intelligent and inquisitive being (it has the largest brain-to-body ratio for any mollusk), the tree octopus explores its arboreal world by both touch and sight. Adaptations its ancestors originally evolved in the three dimensional environment of the sea have been put to good use in the spatially complex maze of the coniferous Olympic rainforests. The challenges and richness of this environment (and the intimate way in which it interacts with it,) may account for the tree octopus's advanced behavioral development. (Some evolutionary theorists suppose that "arboreal adaptation" is what laid the groundwork in primates for the evolution of the human mind.)

Reaching out with one of her eight arms, each covered in sensitive suckers, a tree octopus might grab a branch to pull herself along in a form of locomotion called tentaculation; or she might be preparing to strike at an insect or small vertebrate, such as a frog or rodent, or steal an egg from a bird's nest; or she might even be examining some object that caught her fancy, instinctively desiring to manipulate it with her dexterous limbs (really deserving the title "sensory organs" more than mere "limbs",) in order to better know it.

Map of estimated tree octopus maximum range, including spawning waters

Tree octopuses have eyesight comparable to humans. Besides allowing them to see their prey and environment, it helps them in inter-octopus relations. Although they are not social animals like us, they display to one-another their emotions through their ability to change the color of their skin: red indicates anger, white fear, while they normally maintain a mottled brown tone to blend in with the background.

The reproductive cycle of the tree octopus is still linked to its roots in the waters of the Puget Sound from where it is thought to have originated. Every year, in Spring, tree octopuses leave their homes in the Olympic National Forest and migrate towards the shore and, eventually, their spawning grounds in Hood Canal. There, they congregate (the only real social time in their lives,) and find mates. After the male has deposited his sperm, he returns to the forests, leaving the female to find an aquatic lair in which to attach her strands of egg-clusters. The female will guard and care for her eggs until they hatch, refusing even to eat, and usually dying from her selflessness. The young will spend the first month or so floating through Hood Canal, Admiralty Inlet, and as far as North Puget Sound before eventually moving out of the water and beginning their adult lives.

Why It's Endangered

Route 101, separating the rainforests of the Olympic Peninsula from Hood Canal

Although the tree octopus is not officially listed on the Endangered Species List, we feel that it should be added since its numbers are at a critically low level for its breeding needs. The reasons for this dire situation include: decimation of habitat by logging and suburban encroachment; building of roads that cut off access to the water which it needs for spawning; predation by foreign species such as house cats; and booming populations of its natural predators, including the bald eagle and sasquatch. What few that make it to the Canal are further hampered in their reproduction by the growing problem of pollution from farming and residential run-off. Unless immediate action is taken to protect this species and its habitat, the Pacific Northwest tree octopus will be but a memory.

The possibility of Pacific Northwest tree octopus extinction is not an unwarranted fear. Other tree octopus species-including the Douglas octopus and the red-ringed madrona sucker-were once abundant throughout the Cascadia region, but have since gone extinct because of threats similar to those faced by paxarbolis, as well as overharvesting by the now-illegal tree octopus trade.

Tree Octopus hat from 1923

The history of the tree octopus trade is a sad one. Their voracious appetite for bird plumes having exhausted all the worthy species of that family, the fashionistas moved on to cephalopodic accoutrements during the early 20th Century. Tree octopuses became prized by the fashion industry as ornamental decorations for hats, leading greedy trappers to wipe out whole populations to feed the vanity of the fashionable rich. While fortunately this practice has been outlawed, its effects still reverberate today as these millinery deprivations brought tree octopus numbers below the critical point where even minor environmental change could cause disaster.

While efforts were made in the past to preserve remaining tree octopus habitat, these were met with resistance by the timber industry, which has traditionally viewed the tree octopus as a nuisance, both because the octopuses favor the valuable, moss-shrouded trees of old growth forests-pitting conservation needs against lucrative sources of lumber-and because octopuses hiding among felled trees often gummed up sawmills and stained pulp vats with their ink.

Traveling sideshow exhibits, such as this one by Glen "Bones" Hartzell from 1942, demonized tree octopuses to the ignorant masses
(Click to enlarge)

These nuisances led many loggers to regard tree octopuses as bad luck, resulting in the pointless killing of octopuses on sight at logging camps in a misguided attempt at eradicating the troublesome species. Anti-octopus sentiment was so strong among loggers that some even began to fear that the octopuses were prone to attacking humans.

These fears were fueled in no small part by gratuitous stories involving tree octopuses harassing lumberjacks and distressing damsels in Northwestern-themed pulp magazines of the 1930-40s and variously "nipping", "entangling", or "suckering the flesh" of the heroes of men's action magazines of the 1950-60s. (The magazine publishers depended on cheap paper made from wood pulp and were glad to contribute to the anti-octopus propaganda campaign of the timber industry.)

To this day, misunderstanding and fear of these gentle creatures can still be found among many old timers, although education campaigns-and special octopus-separators installed at sawmills-have largely halted the practice of tree octopus eradication.

How You Can Help

More Tree Octopus Information

Posters motivate the citizenry to action! Post them!

Tree Octopus FAQs - Frequently asked questions, now with answers.

Tree Octopus Sightings - Includes photos of and behavioral research on the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus and other tree octopus species.

Tree Octopus In The Media - appearances of tree octopuses, both real and fictional, in the media and popular culture.

Research On Other Tree Octopus Species:

The author of this article and its subsections is Lyle Zapato.
This site is not associated with any school or educational organization,
other than the Kelvinic University branch of the Wild Haggis Conservation Society.
Not to be confused with the Pacific Northwest Octopus Tree.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Information about the endangered Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus and what you can do to save it.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
During the Pinochet rule in Chile, human rights activist José Zalaquett was twice arrested and ultimately forced into exile. As a committed lawyer, the government tried to stop him from defending human rights. Here, he shares his story and thoughts of what the figure of Augusto Pinochet means today.

When Augusto Pinochet seized power in Chile, 40 years ago, law Professor José Zalaquett was lecturing at the Universidad de Chile. Even though the news didn't surprise him at the time, the days that followed seemed more like a film script.

"We could see the coup coming. It was like an announced Greek tragedy, where everybody knows the end - but you cannot avoid it," he said.

As Pinochet was taking power by force, Zalaquett, his then wife and two young daughters left their home with a few possessions and went to live in relative safety with a friend on the outskirts of the city.

There, they spent hours gathered around the television watching events unfold, including the death of President Allende and the statements of the new authorities, publicly promising to "eradicate the Marxist cancer in Chile". Shortly after taking office, the military authorities published lists of people they were looking to arrest. José's boss appeared on the first.

A dangerous job Undeterred by the potential threat to the safety of both himself and his family, a few months after the coup, José joined the Comité pro Paz. It was a new church based organization that took on the risky job of documenting abuses and providing legal aid to detainees and their relatives.

José was in charge of collating information about hundreds of detained or missing men and women. Events unfolded rapidly and life for Chileans became almost unrecognizable. Political parties and trade unions were banned, detentions of activists escalated and a curfew was imposed, meaning that no one could be seen on the streets between midnight and 6am.

"The military government imposed a very severe control ... if you were on the street between those times you could be shot," José remembers.

People detained were immediately taken to centres across the country, some of them secret. Around 18,000 people ended up in the Estadio Nacional, one of Chile's largest football stadiums, that was refurbished to accommodate large numbers of people.

At the same time, the Pinochet regime established the DINA, a unit of secret political police in charge of carrying out systematic arrests and abuses against those seen as opposing the regime. People were kidnapped from their homes, at the workplace , or in the street, - sometimes never to be seen again. As the number of people arrested and disappeared grew, relatives of the missing began approaching lawyers such as José asking for help. Even though there was little he could actually do, José began accompanying the relatives of those held at the Estadio Nacional. They would form long lines to leave food and clothes with the soldiers, hoping they would reach their loved ones.

"People need to know there's a lawyer in charge, it gives them spiritual peace, knowing that they are doing everything they can for their loved ones," he remembers. "The military didn't like what we did but [for a while] we were protected by the various churches."

When the luck ran out For two years he worked tirelessly helping political activists find asylum in local embassies and, eventually, secreting them out of the country. However when he was woken up by a loud knock on his door at 1:30am on a warm night, it came as no surprise. José knew he was a perfect target.

"I remember I told my wife to stay calm, and I went to the bathroom and took a Valium to control my nerves. There was every chance that I was going to be interrogated when they took me," he said to Amnesty International.

Behind the door, a group of police officers were waiting. In the course of a week, he says a total of 22 people from his organisation were arrested. José was held in detention for two and a half months - he was questioned but not tortured. However, on his release he was told to leave the country. He had no intention of doing so and after just 13 days of freedom he had another visit from the police.

"The civilian police asked me where I wanted to go and I said 'nowhere'. So they took me prisoner and held me for 12 days." He believed it was all because he "didn't get the message to stop the first time around".

José left Chile with two military officers walking him all the way to his plane, where they sat him down and buckled his seatbelt. He moved first to France and then to the USA, where he joined Amnesty International and a number of other Chilean exiles working to raise awareness of the human rights situation in the South American country. He was president of the organization's International Executive Committee and later Deputy Secretary General.

Pinochet's legacy of fear and repression It would take15 years of exile before José could return home to his country.

In 1990 Pinochet was ousted, as a result of a referendum in 1988 that led to national elections and a new democratically elected government taking office in March of that year.

Subsequently José sat as a key member of the Rettig Commission that was charged with looking into the extent of the human rights violations that had taken place under the military regime.

He says that even though challenges remain, things have changed for the better. Partly as a result of his work 160 police and military personnel have been arrested for their part in Pinochet-era abuses. These and many others are currently facing trial.

"In Chile, no one argues about what happened. The newspapers that supported the military regime stopped talking about the "alleged" disappeared and now they talk about the disappeared. And even private TV channels show documentaries depicting events at that time. The truth is no longer a matter of debate," he says.

"Today, Pinochet is a bad memory. He was the visible face of a junta that governed for 17 years. It's a reprehensible stigma for the country and the world."

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Life under Pinochet: Chile remembers - "Pinochet was a stigma for Chile and the world"

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
During the Pinochet rule in Chile, human rights activist José Zalaquett was twice arrested and ultimately forced into exile. As a committed lawyer, the government tried to stop him from defending human rights. Here, he shares his story and thoughts of what the figure of Augusto Pinochet means today.

# data[].attributes.body
Example Extract Analysis

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas?
Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas ?
Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba
sus palabras llenándolas
de agujeros y pájaros?

Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa.

Yo vivía en un barrio
de Madrid, con campanas,
con relojes, con árboles.

Desde allí se veía
el rostro seco de Castilla
como un océano de cuero.

la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes
estallaban geranios: era
una bella casa
con perros y chiquillos.

Te acuerdas, Rafael?

debajo de la tierra,
te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde
la luz de Junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?

Todo
eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,
aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,
mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua
como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:
el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,
un profundo latido
de pies y manos llenaba las calles,
metros, litros, esencia
aguda de la vida,

contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual
la flecha se fatiga,
delirante marfil fino de las patatas,
tomates repetidos hasta el mar.

Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo
Y una mañana las hogueras
salian de la tierra
devorando seres,
y desde entonces fuego,
pólvora desde entonces,
y desde entonces sangre.
Bandidos con aviones y con moros,
bandidos con sortijas y duquesas,
bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo
venían por el cielo a matar niños,
y por las calles la sangre de los niños
corría simplemente, como sangre de niños.

Chacales que el chacal rechazaría,
piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo,
víboras que las víboras odiaran!

Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre
de España levantarse
para ahogaros en una sola ola
de orgullo y de cuchillos!

Generales
traidores:
mirad mi casa muerta,
mirad España rota:

pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo
en vez de flores,
pero de cada hueco de España
sale España,
pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos,
pero de cada crimen nacen balas
que os hallarán un dia el sitio
del corazón.

Preguntaréis por qué su poesía
no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas,
de los grandes volcanes de su país natal ?

Venid a ver la sangre por las calles.
venid a ver
la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre
por las calles!

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
I'M EXPLAINING A FEW THINGS (poem) - Pablo Neruda - Chile - Poetry International

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas?. Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas ?. Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba. sus palabras llenándolas. de ... You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?. and the poppy-petalled metaphysics ?. and the rain repeatedly spattering. its words and drilling them full.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
The first time Lelia Pérez felt the sear of a cattle prod it was at the hands of a Chilean soldier. She was a 16 year old high school student, used as a guinea pig to help Pinochet's security services hone their skills in torture. They didn't even bother to ask any questions.

"They would teach them how to interrogate, how to apply the electricity, where and for how long. When they were torturing me, I went into my own world - it was as if I was looking down on myself - like it wasn't happening to me. It was brutal," she said.

On September 11, 1973, Augusto Pinochet seized power in Chile by force. In the days that followed his military coup, hundreds of people, were rounded up and taken to the two main sport stadiums in the capital, Santiago.

Lelia told Amnesty International how she was arrested along with 10 of her classmates and taken to the Estadio Chile (now called Victor Jara after the singer who was imprisoned there). There detainees were kept in the stands, with their hands tied, with soldiers constantly pointing machine guns at them.

"You would quickly loose sense of time as lights were constantly on. The only way we knew if it was day or night was by the food the guards were eating," she said.

While they watched, special booths were constructed. It was in these that the worst of the torture took place. Lelia spent five days in Estadio Chile. Finally she was released with no explanation, pushed out onto the streets late at night.

"I was forced to wear the clothes of people we had seen being killed. There was a curfew and the few people around just walked away from us. The street was full of brothels and the sex workers took me in. They bathed me and gave me clothes. I went in the stadium as a 16-year-old and left as a 60-year-old."

Those days of horror would only be the beginning of a long, incredible story that took Lelia through some of Pinochet's darkest prisons. She was held in detention on three separate occasions over a two year period; each time abused and tortured by soldiers of the brutal Pinochet regime.

A country of terror When Lelia was released from the Estadio Chile, her country was almost unrecognizable. Pinochet had imposed a number of restrictions on his citizens and thousands of social activists, teachers, lawyers, trade unionists and students were being detained and held in dozens of clandestine centres across the country.

Undeterred by her experience, Lelia enroled in the Universidad Técnica del Estado, noted for its political activism, to study history.

But she paid a heavy price and her freedom was short lived.

One night in late October 1975, Pinochet's political police knocked on her door once again. She and her boyfriend were arrested.

"They made me leave the house in handcuffs and they put me in a car. They put tape on my eyes and made me wear dark glasses. The tape was so I couldn't see where they were taking me and the dark glasses, so people on the street wouldn't know I had been taken."

Behind closed doors The car drove around 30 minutes outside of downtown Santiago to Villa Grimaldi, an old colonial weekend house. It had been taken over by the DINA - Pinochet's political police - as a centre of detention and torture.

"They took us to an interrogation room where they had a metal bunk-bed. There was another detainee on the top and my partner was tied to the side. They were interrogating all three of us at the same time, taking turns to electrocute us one after the other. The interrogation session lasted through the night to the next morning."

In Villa Grimaldi detainees would be electrocuted, water boarded, had their heads forced into buckets of urine and excrement, suffocated with bags, hanged by their feet or hands and beaten. Many women were raped and for some detainees, punishment was death.

For detainees, the dark, damped cell they were held in was the only world that existed and, in time, a sense of community emerged.

"After an interrogation you would be thrown back your cell. They would shut the door and then first thing you would experience is someone coming closer, they would hold you, help you lie down, take the blindfold off, and put some water on your lips. The electric shocks would make you stream with sweat and you'd get extremely dehydrated - so very, very thirsty,"

It is estimated that 4,500 people crossed Villa Grimaldi's doors. Many never made it out and of those, hundreds are still missing.

Lelia spent the best part of a year in Villa Grimaldi. She was then transferred to a labour camp where she was held for another 12 months before she was forced to leave the country in late 1976.

Over a decade later, when Pinochet was ousted after a general referendum, she returned to Chile and to Villa Grimaldi in an attempt to come to terms with the past. Now the colonial house is now a cultural centre for the local community.

"We have turned this place of destruction into one of construction. This house of torture and death has now become a space that promotes life."

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Life under Pinochet: "They were taking turns to electrocute us one after the other"

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
The first time Lelia Pérez felt the sear of a cattle prod it was at the hands of a Chilean soldier. She was a 16 year old high school student, used as a guinea pig to help Pinochet's security services hone their skills in torture. They didn't even bother to ask any questions.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
[Eng Sub] Balzac And The Little Chinese Seamstress 2002

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
"Death and the Maiden" - String Quartet No. 14 in D minor by Franz Schubert in HD!

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
There was an article in The Houston Chronicle on Dec. 13, 2014 about a high school principal who challenged her students to put down their smart phones and promise to go five days without tweeting or texting and without using social-networking sites. Many could not do it. Others were in agony, like a junkie without his fix. It really seems to be an addiction.

Web MD and other sites already offer suggestions for treating "electronic addiction." Whether or not it fits the precise medical definition of an addiction, it is hard to know what else to call it when some people check their e-mail hundreds of times a day. Something weird and unhealthy is happening when drivers cannot abstain from texting even in city traffic. I have heard of people who cannot play a round of golf without pausing at each hole to check their e-mail. I no longer like to have lunch with some friends because they are constantly interrupting our conversations to consult their wretched little boxes.

Well, so what? Other than affording me an opportunity for curmudgeonly grousing, why should I care if people want to spend time doing what they enjoy? What harm does it do me? Thomas Jefferson said that it neither picks his pocket nor breaks his leg if his neighbor has another religion or none at all. Can't we say the same about tweeting, texting, etc.? But it might break my leg. Distracted driving is as dangerous as drunk driving. Also, it might pick my pocket. Addictions are expensive for society. When distracted drivers cause accidents, we all might have to pay higher insurance premiums.

Mostly, though, you feel sorry for anyone whose world has shrunk to the dimensions of a tiny screen. By contrast, would anyone think that the world was flat, dull, and lifeless for Aristotle, Shakespeare, or Darwin because they could not check their e-mail or use their thumbs to kill hordes of virtual zombies? Aristotle, Shakespeare, and Darwin had access to something far richer, deeper, and more fulfilling than electronic gaming, gossip, and garbage. The object of their fascination was something called "reality."

They had real friends rather than Facebook "friends." They enjoyed real, face-to-face conversations with actual people rather than reacting to little screens. They spoke actual languages rather than "LOL," "BFF," and "OMG." They did not feel a compulsion to notify the world every time they sneezed or took a bath. They discussed ideas too deep to be communicated in 144 characters. They could enjoy real cats rather than Grumpy Cat videos.

We live in a universe of a hundred billion galaxies, a universe that contains black holes and neutron stars and stars as massive as a hundred suns that will die in spectacular supernovas that will seed the universe with the elements of future planets. The iron in your blood was generated in the cores of dying stars billions of years before our sun existed. Every object in this incomprehensible vastness is made of atoms so tiny that a hundred million could fit across the period at the end of this sentence.

Your genes encode information that is ancient beyond reckoning, and which your children's children will carry into the indefinite future. You are the product of billions of years of organic evolution and you are, quite literally, kin to every living thing on this planet. In the depths of time there existed beasts longer than two city buses and weighing as much as a whole herd of elephants. The continents on which we live are not static, but move inexorably at the speed of a growing fingernail. Inside your skull is the greatest wonder of all, an organ with the power to save or ruin the earth.

The natural world is an object, perhaps the only object, truly commensurate with our capacity for awe. That world is lost to us when we are obsessed with endless electronic titillation. A few years ago the newspaper comic strip Zits depicted a family vacationing in the west. They tour Monument Valley, the Grand Canyon, and other marvels of the American landscape. The parents are overwhelmed, enraptured by the grandeur. Their fifteen-year-old is oblivious, absorbed with his devices. Nature is lost to the one addicted to constant electronic stimulus.

History is lost also. In his dystopian masterpiece Brave New World, Aldous Huxley imagines a future society where people are controlled by constant sensory stimulation and vapid entertainments (Sound familiar?). Who has time for the past when we are having so much good, stupid fun in the present? In one brilliant scene Huxley has one of the ruling World Controllers address a group of students on the irrelevance of history:

"He waved his hand; and it was as though, with an invisible feather whisk, he had brushed away a little dust, and the dust was Harappa, was Ur of the Chaldees, some spider-webs, and they were Thebes and Babylon and Cnossos and Mycenae. Whisk, Whisk -- and where was Odysseus, where was Job, and where were Jupiter, and Gotama, and Jesus? Whisk, and those specks of antique dirt called Athens and Rome, Jerusalem and the Middle Kingdom -- all were gone. Whisk -- the place where Italy had been was empty. Whisk, the cathedrals; whisk, whisk, King Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk, Passion; whisk, Requiem; whisk, Symphony, whisk..."

A world obsessed with moment-to-moment stimulation is a world adrift, alienated, and rootless; a world without nature or history. It is Brave New World. And we are almost there.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
There was an article in The Houston Chronicle on Dec. 13, 2014 about a high school principal who challenged her students to put down their smart phones and promise to go five days without tweeting or texting and without using social-networking sites. Many could not do it.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
English humanist and statesman

Info Print

Cite

Feedback

Share

English humanist and statesman

Thomas More, in full Sir Thomas More, also called Saint Thomas More, (born February 7, 1478, London, England-died July 6, 1535, London; canonized May 19, 1935; feast day June 22), English humanist and statesman, chancellor of England (1529-32), who was beheaded for refusing to accept King Henry VIII as head of the Church of England. He is recognized as a saint by the Roman Catholic Church.

More, Sir Thomas Photos.com/Thinkstock

Early life and career

Thomas-the eldest son of John More, a lawyer who was later knighted and made a judge of the King's Bench-was educated at one of London's best schools, St. Anthony's in Threadneedle Street, and in the household of John Morton, archbishop of Canterbury and chancellor of England. The future cardinal, a shrewd judge of character, predicted that the bright and winsome page would prove to be a "marvellous man." His interest sent the boy to the University of Oxford, where More seems to have spent two years, mastering Latin and undergoing a thorough drilling in formal logic.

About 1494 his father brought More back to London to study the common law. In February 1496 he was admitted to Lincoln's Inn, one of the four legal societies preparing for admission to the bar. In 1501 More became an "utter barrister," a full member of the profession. Thanks to his boundless curiosity and a prodigious capacity for work, he managed, along with the law, to keep up his literary pursuits. He read avidly from Holy Scripture, the Church Fathers, and the classics and tried his hand at all literary genres.

Although bowing to his father's decision that he should become a lawyer, More was prepared to be disowned rather than disobey God's will. To test his vocation to the priesthood, he resided for about four years in the Carthusian monastery adjoining Lincoln's Inn and shared as much of the monks' way of life as was practicable. Although attracted especially to the Franciscan order, More decided that he would best serve God and his fellowmen as a lay Christian. More, however, never discarded the habits of early rising, prolonged prayer, fasting, and wearing the hair shirt. God remained the centre of his life.

In late 1504 or early 1505, More married Joan Colt, the eldest daughter of an Essex gentleman farmer. She was a competent hostess for non-English visitors, such as the Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus, who was given permanent rooms in the Old Barge on the Thames side in Bucklersbury in the City of London, More's home for the first two decades of his married life. Erasmus wrote his Praise of Folly while staying there.

The important negotiations More conducted in 1509 on behalf of a number of London companies with the representative of the Antwerp merchants confirmed his competence in trade matters and his gifts as an interpreter and spokesman. From September 1510 to July 1518, when he resigned to be fully in the king's service, More was one of the two undersheriffs of London, "the pack-horses of the City government." He endeared himself to the Londoners-as an impartial judge, a disinterested consultant, and "the general patron of the poor."

More's domestic idyll came to a brutal end in the summer of 1511 with the death, perhaps in childbirth, of his wife. He was left a widower with four children, and within weeks of his first wife's death he married Alice Middleton, the widow of a London mercer. She was several years his senior and had a daughter of her own; she did not bear More any children.

More's History of King Richard III, written in Latin and in English between about 1513 and 1518, is the first masterpiece of English historiography. Though never finished, it influenced succeeding historians. William Shakespeare is indebted to More for his portrait of the tyrant.

In May 1515 More was appointed to a delegation to revise an Anglo-Flemish commercial treaty. The conference was held at Brugge, with long intervals that More used to visit other Belgian cities. He began in the Low Countries and completed after his return to London his Utopia, which was published at Leuven in December 1516. The book was an immediate success with the audience for which More wrote it: the humanists and an elite group of public officials.

© Photos.com/Thinkstock

Utopia is a Greek name of More's coining, from ou-topos ("no place"); a pun on eu-topos ("good place") is suggested in a prefatory poem. More's Utopia describes a pagan and communist city-state in which the institutions and policies are entirely governed by reason. The order and dignity of such a state provided a notable contrast with the unreasonable polity of Christian Europe, divided by self-interest and greed for power and riches, which More described in Book I, written in England in 1516. The description of Utopia is put in the mouth of a mysterious traveler, Raphael Hythloday, in support of his argument that communism is the only cure against egoism in private and public life. Through dialogue More speaks in favour of the mitigation of evil rather than its cure, human nature being fallible. Among the topics discussed by More in Utopia were penology, state-controlled education, religious pluralism, divorce, euthanasia, and women's rights. The resulting demonstration of his learning, invention, and wit established his reputation as one of the foremost humanists. Soon translated into most European languages, Utopia became the ancestor of a new literary genre, the utopian romance.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Sir Thomas More | Biography, Books, & Facts

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
English humanist and statesman Info Print Cite Feedback Share English humanist and statesman Thomas More, in full Sir Thomas More, also called Saint Thomas More, (born February 7, 1478, London, England-died July 6, 1535, London; canonized May 19, 1935; feast day June 22), English humanist and statesman, chancellor of England (1529-32), who was beheaded for refusing to accept King Henry VIII as head of the Church of England.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
The Zuni Tribe welcomes you to indulge in our history, our culture, and our values that keep our heritage living strong.

Zuni Tribal Government consists of our Tribal Council, headed by our Governor and Lieutenant Governor.

Meet Our Tribal Officials

Zuni Tribe has a variety of departments that suit different areas of expertise, with different programs to help the public.

See our Tribal Programs

Elahkwa!
(Thank You)

We offer our visitors many rich experiences that are drawn from our deep cultural heritage, our exquisite arts, and beautiful scenic views.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.authors[].name
Gilbert Kallestewa Jr, Information
      Engineering Technology, New Mexico State University

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
The Zuni Tribe welcomes you to indulge in our history, our culture, and our values that keep our heritage living strong. Zuni Tribal Government consists of our Tribal Council, headed by our Governor and Lieutenant Governor. Meet Our Tribal Officials Zuni Tribe has a variety of departments that suit different areas of expertise, with different programs to help the public.

# data[].attributes.body
Current league table

# data[].attributes.body
How does Shakespeare produce an emotional response in this soliloquy?

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Patrick Stewart as Macbeth ("Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow")

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Whole Town is Sleeping Bradbury Text

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness - book trailer

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' - Shakespeare's Sonnet 18 | Doctors - BBC

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
When she died, sooner than expected, Johnstone-Burt could not bear the idea just vanishing, and thought about it for some time. Then she showed it to the best writer she knew. Ness's first inclination was to say no, "because my theory is that good books don't get written that way - a book has to be a living, breathing, growing story before anything else. If it is anything but a story first, then it's a bad story and that's the worst kind of tribute."

But he felt, he says, "a pull". "Even though we are ostensibly quite different, I think we have central things in common - we want to portray teenagers seriously, and we both need to make ourselves feel in order to make a reader feel. I started to have ideas..." Ness's stories always begin when he has several powerful images in his head. "I got a visual of Conor coming out of a destructive story and turning round to discover he has destroyed the sitting room. That was the first real image I had, and something was right, and it went from there."

The book, like all Ness's books, tries to see teenagers clearly - "accepting a teenager as a genuine human being, not as a symbol of transition from boy to man but as a real person, going through real time and real things, with some tenderness, sympathy and gentleness. I don't think teenagers get much gentleness."

Ness did not use Dowd's opening, believing that she would have amended her first draft herself. Nor did Dowd specify what the monster's stories would be, and Ness himself did not know as he began to write. They were arrived at not as lessons, or ideas, but by thinking: "What would the monster say now?" They move the framing story forward and there is also a progression in Conor's involvement: "He's first an observer, then a participant, then a hero, then he tells his own story."

The fact that the book is about a mother with cancer (not that the illness is ever named in the book) makes us think of Dowd as we read, but Ness's real inheritance, he thinks, is that "Siobhan would have looked at the potential death of the mother honestly. So it was my job to look at it honestly." He also believes it is a book not so much about loss as "about fear of loss, which is universal".

Johnstone-Burt had talked to Dowd about the fact that the book should be illustrated, and Norland had promised Jim Kay a book to suit his dark style. When his manuscript was finished, Ness was invited to look at Kay's website, which had "drawings of crows and snow and of electricity pylons stomping around and I loved those".

Kay was asked to produce a sample piece over a weekend when he was already working on other things. "He said there were several artists," says Kay, "I gather now that was not true." He drew the monster leaning against the wall of Conor's house, and the light coming through the window. "It was perfect," says Ness. "That drawing has barely changed since that day. I thought: 'this is the guy, stop right there'. The monster, the face, the gravity of him was right. He nailed it."

Kay, however, characteristically thinks the picture rushed and unfinished. "I still think the book would be beautiful if it was engraved or etched, like lavish 19th-century etchings. But that would have taken about five years to do." "It is finished," insists Ness, "and you won the Greenaway!"

The success could easily not have happened. Kay studied illustration at Westminster but, finding it hard to get a job, went into libraries and into curating at the Tate Gallery archives and at Kew. For eight years he did not draw. Then he decided to go back to what he loved. "It eats you up if you don't do what you want to do. You have to try."

It was not, however, an easy project. It involved lack of sleep and extreme cold. Up against deadlines and trying to find his style ("Ben had much more of a sense of what the finished book should look like than I did"), Kay got down to four hours sleep a night. He was living in a beautiful Georgian flat in Edinburgh that "had central heating but no capacity to hold heat whatsoever". He would open the windows every morning to warm the flat up, even through one of the city's coldest winters. He worked wrapped in a duvet with an electric blanket underneath, seeing his breath, and with frost patterns on the inside of the windows. His hands ached, and detailed drawing was hard. He would run, as much as three times a day, just to get his temperature up - "I've never been so fit."

What also went into the book, says Kay, was "blind panic and anything that would hold ink at all". He collected objects he could run through a press to make a pattern. That included a piece of weathered chestnut retrieved from a skip - "unfortunately it smelt of urine so I couldn't keep it but I still got a print out of it" - as well as a breadboard with its history in knife marks, hair, string, and parts of yew trees. He used the endpapers of a book for wallpaper, threw ink and blew it through straws, made colographs from bits of material stuck down with ink rubbed in and rolled textures with a rolling pin. "Intaglio printmaking is great because it produces lots of mistakes and random things you didn't expect. That's perfect for me." Although everything was made originally with ink, afterwards he assembled separate pieces digitally. About 10 per cent of what he produced made it into the finished book; it was like Ness's writing process - a lot of revision until it was right.

The images, which are black and white ("I think in black and white, perhaps because we had a black-and-white TV when I was young," says Kay), are suggestive rather than descriptive. At Ness's request, Conor's face is not shown. "I tend not to describe my characters in detail, so readers can identify and slip into the space," he says.

Kay's pictures make use of empty chairs, resonant for him because they "suggest human presence". And he depicts the actual church in Oxfordshire, with a yew tree in the grounds, where Siobhan Dowd is buried. "I had to be respectful of both Patrick's and Siobhan's ideas. For me she was ever present."

"The great thing about A Monster Calls winning the Carnegie," says Ness, "is that Siobhan will continue to be talked about. It gives people a continuing reason to find her books, to read her. And to keep giving money to the [Siobhan Dowd] Trust [which brings reading to disadvantaged children]. I couldn't be happier about that."

Emails from Siobhan Dowd to her editor, Denise Johnstone-Burt

"I believe I have quite a lot of quality time left to me and time indeed to fulfil my contracts and plenty more besides. I am absolutely determined about this. I am at work on Bog Child revisions at present, and will hand these in at the end of next week. Then, with great joy, I will return to my MS."

"The story's theme is healing. It is really my paeon to that great, ancient tree, the yew, without which I might not be alive today, as all the Taxol drugs that so successfully treat breast cancers are derived from it. The yew is the oldest tree in the United Kingdom; it is thought that some live for 2,000 years (and in other parts of the world, yew trees live even longer). The tree is known to be poisonous, especially the red berries on the female variety, but its healing properties were only appreciated in recent decades."

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
A Monster Calls: Patrick Ness and Jim Kay talk about their Carnegie and Greenaway wins

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
When she died, sooner than expected, Johnstone-Burt could not bear the idea just vanishing, and thought about it for some time. Then she showed it to the best writer she knew. Ness's first inclination was to say no, "because my theory is that good books don't get written that way - a book has to be a living, breathing, growing story before anything else.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Clashes and Collisions: "Hitcher" by Simon Armitage

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Edexcel Unit 3: Poetry, "Clashes and Collisions" collection. "Hitcher", by Simon Armitage, tells the story of a man who picks up a hitch-hiker outside Leeds. Just outside of Harrogate, the driver head-butts his innocent passenger before beating him senselessly with a krooklok steering-wheel lock.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Hip-Hop & Shakespeare? Akala at TEDxAldeburgh

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
MARTHA GELLHORN was one of the finest war correspondents of the 20th century. She learnt the craft of war reporting in the Spanish Civil War, and it was then that she grew up politically: "We knew, we just knew, that Spain was the place to stop Fascism," she said. "This was it. It was one of those moments in history when there was no doubt."

She was in Spain with Ernest Hemingway, whose third wife she became in 1940; he dedicated For Whom the Bell Tolls to her in 1941. She rarely talked about her time with, and marriage to, Hemingway (they were divorced in 1946), quite rightly wanting to be her own person and not part of the Hemingway bandwagon. The house she built for them in Cuba became the Hemingway Museum.

Although Gellhorn did not actively seek out war, her passion for causes and sense of outrage meant that she wrote about most of the wars which happened in her life. In wartime, she said, you "operate on a basis of functional schizophrenia - you can't stand it for anybody else but yourself . . . I liked having no possessions, no problems, and you never knew if you were going to be alive the next day and that was immensely interesting."

Download the new Independent Premium app

Sharing the full story, not just the headlines

She saw the function of a reporter as one of seeing and hearing as much as possible. This accurate record could then be passed on so as to be seen, heard and felt by others. "Journalism is education for me. The readers, if any, may get some education too but the big profit is mine. Writing is payment for the chance to look and learn." She was a natural and highly intelligent writer who combined being able to write with having something important to say. In later life when she was being bullied to write her autobiography, something she always refused to do, she said that she might possibly write one just about her sex life, because that was all that anyone would be really interested in.

Martha Gellhorn was born in St Louis, Missouri, in 1908; her father was a doctor and her mother, whom she described as a "wonder", was a believer in excellence and a campaigner for female suffrage who managed to lure people into doing good. Gellhorn was never to like the stridency of feminism, but felt strongly about the disadvantaging of women, something she, with three brothers, never suffered from.

She left Bryn Mawr College, in Pennsylvania, out of boredom, and, after jobs on the New Republic and the Hearst Times Union, spent a period in Paris. In 1934 she returned to the United States and worked for Harry Hopkins, head of the Federal Emergency Relief Administration. She travelled round America seeing how people existed in the Depression and reporting how the relief was working. For a while she lived in the White House at the request of President and Mrs F.D. Roosevelt, both of whom she greatly admired, referring to Mrs Roosevelt as "a moral true north" and the person she most valued after her mother. The Trouble I've Seen, a collection of tales which drew on her experiences during the Depression, was published in 1936 with a preface by H.G. Wells, who referred to her as a writer with "an instinctive directness and vigour".

During the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39 she worked for Collier's Weekly, and it was for the same paper in 1940-41 that she went to China. She wanted to see the Orient and from there covered the Sino-Japanese War. She saw the Second World War as the "necessary war", but for the only time in her life encountered problems as a woman reporter. She went to Dachau with the liberation troops and described it as the "circle of hell", and the worst abomination of man, saying afterwards, "I'll never forgive the Germans. Never, never."

Much of the best war reporting she ever did was as a freelance from Vietnam in 1966-67. She covered the war out of a sense of rage, feeling, as an American, personally responsible for what happened. Her articles were so good, but so critical, that no newspaper in the US dared to publish them. Eventually the Guardian published five of her reports, effectively ending her career as a war correspondent in Vietnam; she never got another visa. She was so passionately angry about the American involvement in Vietnam, "this unforgivable evil", that it drove her into a writer's block made of "solid concrete". It was the worst time of her life and she barely wrote anything between 1969 and 1975.

Fiction, which she believed had to be sound on place, always played a large part in her life. She found it much harder to write, but used it as a therapy to forget about war and to amuse herself. Her novels include A Stricken Field (1939), The Heart of Another (1940), Liana (1943), The Wine of Astonishment (1948), The Lowest Trees Have Tops (1967) and - three novellas - The Weather In Africa (1978).

She always enjoyed travelling and Travels With Myself and Another (1978) is her "account of my best horror journeys". The View from the Ground (1988), a selection of articles written during six decades of peacetime reporting, which includes a piece on the trial of the war criminal Adolf Eichmann in 1960, is an eloquent testimony to her convictions and pathological passion for the truth. The Face of War (1959) is a collection of her war reporting from Spain, Finland, China and the Second World War.

In 1948 she adopted a son and in 1953 married Tom Matthews, the former editor of Time magazine, whose secretary she had been on the New Republic in 1929. But the marriage did not last and she did not marry again, saying she was much happier being single.

Gellhorn had a great gift for friendship, with both men and women, although she did like to be the centre of attention and, whilst being a good talker and listener, she did not suffer fools, hating stupidity of both thinking and feeling. Being her friend one woman described to me as "one of the great privileges of life". She was funny, generous, well-read, a prolific letter- writer and very beautiful, being both tall and elegant, and she went on minding about her appearance into old age.

She bought a flat in London in the 1960s which she used as a base for the rest of her life; she was not concerned about luxury and lived in rather Spartan surroundings, only spending money on travel, as an abiding passion, but even as an old woman she could travel rough if necessary, investigating the US involvement in Panama in 1990, aged 81. She had no interest in domesticity, although she was impressed by other people's cooking; if you went to lunch with her you would often have to take your own sandwiches. She loved and needed the heat and was an inveterate snorkeller.

Francois Mauriac's saying "Travail, opium unique" served her all her life and she maintained her curiosity and convictions, despite failing eyesight, until her death.

Sarah Anderson

Martha Ellis Gellhorn, writer: born St Louis, Missouri 8 November 1908; married Bertrand de Juvenel (marriage dissolved), 1940 Ernest Hemingway (died 1961; marriage dissolved 1946), (one adopted son 1948), 1954 T.S. Matthews (died 1991; marriage dissolved 1963); died London 15 February 1998.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
MARTHA GELLHORN was one of the finest war correspondents of the 20th century. She learnt the craft of war reporting in the Spanish Civil War, and it was then that she grew up politically: "We knew, we just knew, that Spain was the place to stop Fascism," she said.