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Uses a knife instead of any supernatural power to defend herself.

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The girl knew about the witches mark.
-She could have acquired her grandma's possessions by exposing her, but she doesn't.
-Little girl defends herself when grandma oversteps her boundaries. She cuts the hand off when the grandma goes for the throat.
-Participates in protecting community. Community vs. Family.
-No greed: defense

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Familiar suckles on the mark.
-Familiar and witch have special bond

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Women are in competition even when they are related in the mythology of witches. They seek youth and beauty.
-Intrinsic nature of women to attack other women. Forced by patriarchal sexism (internalized sexism).

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The girl wears sheepskin and is attacked by wolf.

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Watching the girl from the outside and seeing her actions.

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Little girl was destined to be able to "see" things people can't.
-Destines her for failure due to Christianity suppressing pagan ideologies.

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Woman becomes evil once pierced by icicle.

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Walpurgisnacht: holiday during change of seasons. Right before Saints holiday.
-Paganism and christianity brush up against another.

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... but creepy

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YA adaptations of fairytales (Cinder, The Looking Glass Wars etc)

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YA adaptations of fairytales (Cinder, The Looking Glass Wars etc)

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associated with death and oppression: weight of snow fall.
Lack of safety in the cold- persistent need for shelter and warmth.
Winter suggests no character growth. If no seasons change, there can be no growth or change.
Rosebush in the dead of winter-
the child was never real. She is just an object made by the man (seen in the way she simply melts away.
-Winter = the cold hearts of the villagers

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Bloodiness and death throughout the story.
Hole of blood similar to coffin of blood in "Carmilla": child is like a vampire.
-child dies when stabbed by piece of wood (thorn).

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Grandmother is the wolf instead of wolf eating grandma and disguising itself as her.

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The man only wants beauty and no worth within his sexual partners.
Work of women-

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Salem/European witch trials- accusations of bold women being evil beings.
-Witches are different from werewolves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“The Werewolf,” A Short Fable by Angela Carter

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“The Werewolf,” A Short Fable by Angela Carter

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

Winter and cold weather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Calypso drums?

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Very musical poem, emphasizes rhythm etc. did Brathwaite set this to music?

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Connection to slavery, going back and also looking at the ways in which colonialization has still created this forced labor

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"betray them both, or give back what they give?"

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"betray them both, or give back what they give?"

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Can you take the good and not the bad? You have to betray them both if you want to only take the good, if you want to take their side and have the good you also have to take the bad. Give back what they give, violence to the world. If something is bad you have to step in and change it, but not wanting to be a part of violence is a valid thing to want, don't want to exacerbate the situation even though you want the culture and home.
Or is he not talking about vilence at all? Is he talking about writing and literature, does he write things neither african nor english, or does he give back to the english language and literature or to african language/literature

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Is violence a just tool to use for rebellion? Statistics don't paint violent rebellion in a good light, it often doesn't work. All this shiz is going down, all this pain is being caused, but will anything even be fixed?

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Connection: Things Fall Apart -- Chinua Achebe

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Connection: Things Fall Apart -- Chinua Achebe

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Colonialism is bad, but things within the original culture of Africa are bad, both are problematic to a certain extent, moral greys within both. There's lots of conflict. Life isn't black and white, it's grey bb

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Gorilla from African, superman from England? Id vs superego?

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He is mixed

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He may be becoming desensitised to all the bad things going on

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Torn between two identities of being english and being african, seems like he's saying that there are bad parts of both, and good parts of both,

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Crisis of conscious, how can he look at the face of all this horrible things. How can he be okay with the English side and be cool (keep calm and carry on) and also keep with his African side (acknowledging the terrors that English have brought)

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War, feeling about war changes as time goes on

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3. What is the effectiveness of Walcott's decision to end the poem "A Far Cry from Africa" with a series of rhetorical questions?

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3. What is the effectiveness of Walcott's decision to end the poem "A Far Cry from Africa" with a series of rhetorical questions?

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It helps to emphasize how confused Walcott is, he doesn't have the answers to these questions, he just feels torn trying to balance two very different cultures and it's not working very well for him. Also helped to clarify the idea of the poem

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2. How does Walcot compare man to nature in "A Far Cry From Africa"?

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2. How does Walcot compare man to nature in "A Far Cry From Africa"?

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Mankind is violent, the war is the same idea as the violence of beast on beasts. Violence is the default for everyone. Becoming gods by inflicting pain on other people, they are not trying to survive they are trying to retain power/gain power

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. How can we analyze the poem "A Far Cry from Africa" by post-colonial criticism approach?Post-colonial criticism does not necessarily seek to approach a work from the "opposite" viewpoint to what might be traditionally considered, but it does consider the work against the backdrop of the colonial society it reflects, taking into account elements such as power dynamics, cultural interaction, and political context

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. How can we analyze the poem "A Far Cry from Africa" by post-colonial criticism approach?Post-colonial criticism does not necessarily seek to approach a work from the "opposite" viewpoint to what might be traditionally considered, but it does consider the work against the backdrop of the colonial society it reflects, taking into account elements such as power dynamics, cultural interaction, and political context

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1

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

Cuba and San Domingo

Jamaica and Puerto Rico

Grenada Guadeloupe Bonaire

curved stone hissed into reef

wave teeth fanged into clay

white splash flashed into spray

Bathsheba Montego Bay

bloom of the arcing summers...

2

The islands roared into green plantations

ruled by silver sugar cane

sweat and profit

cutlass profit

islands ruled by sugar cane

And of course it was a wonderful time

a profitable hospitable well-worth-you-time

when captains carried receipts for rices

letters spices wigs

opera glasses swaggering asses

debtors vices pigs

O it was a wonderful time

an elegant benevolent redolent time--

and young Mrs. P.'s quick irrelevant crine

at four o'clock in the morning...

3

But what of black Sam

with the big splayed toes

and the shoe black shiny skin?

He carries bucketfulls of water

'cause his Ma's just had another daughter.

And what of John with the European name

who went to school and dreamt of fame

his boss one day called him a fool

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

4

Steel drum steel drum

hit the hot calypso dancing

hot rum hot rum

who goin' stop this bacchanalling?

For we glance the banjoy

dance the limbo

grow our crops by maljo

have loose morals

gather corals

father out neighbour's quarrels

perhaps when they come

with their cameras and straw

hats:  sacred pink tourists from the frozen Nawth

we should get down to those

white beaches

where if we don't wear breeches

it becomes an island dance

Some people doin' well

while others are catchin' hell

o the boss gave our Johnny the sack

though we beg him please

please to take 'im back

so now the boy nigratin' overseas...

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A Far Cry from Africa Derek Walcott - 1930-2017

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A Far Cry from Africa Derek Walcott - 1930-2017

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

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

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

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Nature world over taking the church, nature is eternal while church/religion is not as eternal/strong as nature/as people think , "cross of ground": church built in the shape of a cross, consecrated ground

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Going to church/church is leaving

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Iambic Pentameter, alternating rhymes (with one un-rhyme), speaking to the structure of the church

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Lucky, giving a coin to a dead/dying thing (river Styx), really cheap coin, Irish coin in England

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"Araby," Joyce; "some keep the sabbath going to church," Dickinson; "Ode to Pysche," Keats; "Sad Steps," Larkin; "Spanish Cloister," Browning; "Frost at Midnight," Coleridge

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common things happen in a church/@ a church, which keeps it present in a lot of people's minds, contemplative/quiet space

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Religious? organized religion v. personal religion. spiritualism?

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1.) What is the overall impression of organized religion that this poem gives you? Why do you feel that way? 2.)According to the speaker of the poem, what are some of the differences between religion and superstition? 3.)How does the meter and rhyme scheme contribute to the themes that Larkin explores in the poem? 4.)Why do you think Larkin title this poem "Church Going"? 5.)Why does the speaker focus so much on the physical aspects of the church (i.e., the building itself and the "stuff" inside it)? 6.)How does that natural world figure in here? How might nature relate to religion in this poem?

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Leader: Marc
Reader: Sarah
Notes: Megan(Absent)>>Kytana
everyone else: here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Speaker reflecting on their life after death- More famous after death

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Everything may be terrible but the poet can persuade us to not think so negatively as long as they don't convince themselves that poetry is useless.

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Anger towards poetry comes from the horrible war.
Working through Yeats' death and disappointment towards poetry and its inability to explicitly change the world

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5 stages of grief:
Hopelessness in depression in the beginning: poetry doesn't do anything
Acceptance: "Hope he gets his rest"

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Different from the other two.
Mirrors Yeats' deathbed poem

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The environment is exclusive to itself.
Poetry influences the people (not in a literal way: doesn't change politics, who is starving, etc.)
Changes things in a metaphorical way
-Poetry may not do anything literally, but it survives

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Poetry DOES do things: people are taught to rejoice, be healed, etc.

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Poetry survives in a very informal way by word of mouth.

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Discusses the mutability of the style of poets who are transplanted from one nation to another.

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II discusses what will happen with how his gift of poetry will survive.

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Auden doesn't condemn the lack of empathy. He just views it.
-We shouldn't have this great emotional response to the death of someone famous just because they were famous

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Song that references visiting the poet's grave.

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When Yeats died, only a few thousand people will remember Yeats in a sentimental way.
There is not a great amount of impact (However, a few thousand is still a large number of people).
Like the death of a celebrity. Sympathy over empathy.
The death of a celebrity is not overly sentimental.

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In three parts:
-First half of poem is about writers block
-Goes into the actual writing the poem Death bed

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Beauty is not truth or objective since things change and are modified constantly.

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Meaning of literature is half made by the author half by the reader.
Extra: Mont Blanc and how nature is half natural world and half imagination.

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He is being read by readers who had no idea who he was before he died.
People filter his poems using their own experience

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Being cut off from the ability to write. As the author ages, they lose their capabilities.

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Yeats becomes the winter storm.
The death of the author: the only place Yeats is anymore is in the minds of his readers, and he no longer has any control over his poetry. His poems are interpreted separately from himself.

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Elegies are used as parodies.
States facts about weather, showing lack of him being sentimental.
To contrast: It can be seen that the whole world is reacting to the death of Yeats (However, winter came before his death)

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Each third has a different form.
-only the third has a rhyme scheme

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In Memory of W. B. Yeats - W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

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In Memory of W. B. Yeats - W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

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I

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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could appear as a time lapse, both describe similar scenes at different times/ different moods?

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sublime
Mirage(?), deceptive image
dense
obscure
dangerous undertone
very natural/nature focused

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stream of consciousness

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someone catching a fish
more manmade focus

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told in the form of a written painting, post impressionist, can't tell what it is at first

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Monet - "Water Lillies"
Stein - "If I Told Him, A  Completed..." (Poem in the style of cubism)
Dali paintings
Gathering Blue
Mont Blanc - connection to sublime
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
Aurora Borealis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

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

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GREEN
THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets–their harsh cries–sharp blades of palm trees–green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It's night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green's out.
BLUE
The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral's different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.

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Symbol of paralysis (grime and dirt is common in Araby as well).

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Araby, Evelin, and Yeats fit well together. However, Dubliners lacks that true female perspective.

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Both women are passive and portrayed to be relying on a man and not themselves.

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About a family of women with the goal to marry men who will live abroad: Abuse and cheating result of this attempt to get abroad.

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Falls in love with her abusers.

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She thinks she might be able to have a new life, but then she is manipulated by her history of abuse- things one act of kindness erases all her grief.
Can't help herself

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She forces herself to have a better life

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Arrival at station- realizes she has no chance of leaving at the station

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Inability to make decision- reinforces misogynist views towards women

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Paralysis and not being able to leave the space they're in.

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Focus on routine and reliance on it which prevents it from changing things.

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Woman must choose between a man and Ireland: connection to Eveline and her challenges.

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Jewish woman who is always working. Married life abroad

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Truer love

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Love: Awkward and controlling sense of love. Corrupt view towards love seen in these three stories.

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Echoes death of innocence, or the death of the church due to harsh control. Keeps returning to the room where the priest died because he's confused why he was left in isolation with his aunt and uncle. Jealous of the priest's escape in death.
Dead priest's room- seemingly peaceful space.
Bazaar to Church:
Two men count coins in the bazaar- Jesus flipping shit at church due to corrupt actions of using it for greed.

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The sister (wearing brown) is turned into mud. The narrator is enraged by the sight of dirt turning into mud during a rainstorm. Thinks love will save her from the harsh rain of Ireland.

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The sister is forced into these religious obligations and forced to fit this awful mold of the chaste and holy woman.

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The sister contrasts the  bad smells of the town.  An escape. Her presence accompanies him in place he doesn't want to be. Brown clothing- loneliness, isolation, and sadness: the narrator's isolation from her, and her own isolation from the world outside religion.

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Color Symbolism in addition to descriptive language

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Color Symbolism in addition to descriptive language

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Calls blood foolish. Personification accompanied by color symbolism embodies child-like wonder.

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Word choice varies between the two short stories. Transition from child-like words that create a vivid fantasy to words with negative connotations.

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Loss of innocence of a child. Pecola "dies" in response similarly to how the narrator feels almost dead inside.

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Super sad and depressing :) Themes that center around loss of hope. About Irish American immigrants, and told from the perspective of a child.