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Introduction to AS English Literature


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Title: Introduction to AS English Literature

Introduction to AS English Literature
What does this stand for? Think about which
literary terms you could use?
  • F I
  • L M
  • I P
  • P A
  • C
  • T

Lets FLIP the text, and assess its IMPACT
  • My first glance round me, as the man opened the
    door, disclosed a well-furnished breakfast-table,
    standing in the middle of a long room, with many
    windows in it. I looked from the table to the
    window farthest from me, and saw a lady standing
    at it, with her back turned towards me. The
    instant my eyes rested on her, I was struck by
    the rare beauty of her form, and by the
    unaffected grace of her attitude.

  • Her figure was tall, yet not too tall comely and
    well-developed, yet not fat her head set on her
    shoulders with an easy pliant firmness her
    waist, perfection in the eyes of a man, for it
    occupied its natural place, it filled out its
    natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully
    undeformed by stays. She had not heard my
    entrance into the room and I allowed myself the
    luxury of admiring her for a few moments, before
    I moved one of the chairs near me, as the least
    embarrassing means of attracting her attention.
    She turned towards me immediately. The easy
    elegance of every movement of her limbs and body
    as soon as

  • she began to advance from the far end of the
    room, set me in a flutter of expectation to see
    her face clearly. She left the window and I
    said to myself, The lady is dark. She moved
    forward a few steps and I said to myself, The
    lady is young. She approached nearer and I
    said to myself (with a sense of surprise which
    words fail me to express), The lady is ugly!
  • Wilkie Collins The Woman in White, 1860
  • 1819-1880

How to present information on your author
  • Odour of Chrysanthemums
  • When Elizabeth came down she found her mother
    alone on the parlour floor,leaning over the dead
    man, the tears dropping on him.
  • We must lay him out, the wife said. She put on
    the kettle, then returned and kneeling at the
    feet, began to unfasten the knotted leather
    laces. The room was clammy and dim with only one
    candle, so that she had to bend her face almost
    to the floor. At last she got off the heavy
    boots, and put them away.

  • You must help me now, she whispered to the old
    woman. Together they stripped the man.
  • When they arose, saw him lying in the naïve
    dignity of death, the women stood arrested in
    fear and respect. For a few moments they remained
    still, looking down, the old mother whimpering.
    Elizabeth felt countermanded. She saw him, how
    utterly inviolable he lay in himself. She had
    nothing to do with him. She could not accept it.
    Stooping, she laid her hand on him, in claim. He
    was still warm, for the mine was hot where he had
    died. His mother had his face between her hands,
    and was murmuring incoherently. The old tears
    fell in succession as drops from wet leaves the
    mother was not weeping, merely her tears flowed.
    Elizabeth embraced the body of her husband, with
    cheek and lips. She seemed to be listening,
    inquiring, trying to get some connection. But she
    could not. She was driven away. He was

  • She rose, went in to the kitchen, where she
    poured warm water into a bowl, brought soap and a
    flannel and a soft towel.
  • I must wash him, she said. Then the old mother
    rose stiffly, and watched Elizabeth as she
    carefully washed his face, carefully brushing the
    big blonde moustache from his mouth with the
    flannel. She was afraid with a bottomless fear,
    so she ministered to him. The old woman,
    jealous, said
  • Let me wipe him! and she kneeled on the other
    side, slowly drying as Elizabeth washed, her big
    black bonnet sometimes brushing the dark head of
    her daughter.

  • They worked thus in silence for a long time. They
    never forgot it was death, and the touch of the
    mans dead body gave them strange emotions,
    different in each of the women a great dread
    possessed them both, the mother felt the lie was
    given to her womb, she was denied the wife felt
    the utter isolation of the human soul, the child
    within her was a weight apart from her.

  • At last it was finished. He was a man of
    handsome body, and his face showed no traces of
    drink. He was blonde, full-fleshed, with fine
    limbs. But he was dead.
  • Bless him, whispered his mother, looking always
    at his face, and speaking out of sheer terror.
    The dear lad bless him! she spoke in a faint,
    sibilant ecstasy of fear and mother love.
  • Elizabeth sank down again to the floor, and put
    her face against his neck, and trembled and
    shuddered. But she had to draw away again. He
    was dead, and her living flesh had no place
    against his. A great dread and weariness held
    her she was so unavailing. Her life was gone
    like this.
  • White as milk he is, clear as a twelvemonth
    baby, bless him, the darling! the old mother
    murmured to

  • herself. Not a mark on him, clear and clean and
    white, as beautiful as ever a child was made,
    she murmured with pride. Elizabeth kept her face
  • He went peaceful, Lizzie peaceful as sleep.
    Isnt he beautiful, the lamb? Ay he must ha
    made his peace, Lizzie. Appen he made it all
    right, Lizzie, shut in there. Hed have time. He
    wouldnt look like this if he hadnt made his
    peace. The lamb, the dear lamb. Eh, but he had a
    hearty laugh. I loved to hear it. He lad the
    heartiest laugh, Lizzie, as a lad

D. H. Lawrence Sons and Lovers
  • In a temper he dragger the kitchen drawer, so
    that it flew out bodily, and spoons, forks,
    knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with
    a clatter and clang upon the brick floor. The
    baby gave a little convulsed start.
  • What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool? the
    mother cried.
  • Then tha should get the flamin thing thysen.
    Tha should get up, like other women have to, an
    wait on a man.
  • Wait on you wait on you? she cried. Yes, I
    see myself.
  • Yis, an Ill learn thee thas got to. Wait on
    me, yes, tha shlt wait on me
  • Never, milord. Id wait on a dog at the door
  • What what?

  • He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last
    speech he turned round. His face was crimson,
    his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent
    second in threat.
  • P-h! she went quickly, in contempt.
  • He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It
    fell, cut sharply on his shin, and on the reflex
    he flung it at her.
  • One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow
    drawer crashed into the fireplace. She swayed,
    almost fell stunned from her chair. To her very
    soul she was sick she clasped the child tightly
    to her bosom. A few moments elapsed then, with
    an effort, she brought herself to. The baby was
    crying plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding
    rather profusely. As she glanced down at the
    child, her brain reeling, some drops of blood
    soaked into its white shawl but the baby was at
    least not hurt. She balanced her head to keep
    equilibrium, so that the blood ran into her eye.

  • Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on
    the table with one hand, looking blank. When he
    was sufficiently sure of his balance, he went
    across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of
    her rocking-chair, almost tipping her out then,
    leaning forward over her, and swaying as he
    spoke, he said, in a voice of wondering concern
  • Did it catch thee?
  • He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the
    child. With the catastrophe he had lost all
  • Go away, she said, struggling to keep her
    presence of mind.
  • He hiccoughed. Lets lets look at it, he
    said, hiccoughing again.
  • Go away! she said
  • Lemme lemme look at it, lass.
  • She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull
    of his swaying grasp on the back of the
  • Go away, she said, and weakly she pushed him

  • He stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her.
    Summoning all her strength she rose, the baby on
    one arm. By a cruel effort of will, moving as if
    in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where
    she bathed her eye for a minute in cold water
    but she was too dizzy. Afraid lest she should
    swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair,
    trembling in every fibre. By instinct, she kept
    the baby clasped.
  • Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the
    drawer back into its cavity, and was on his
    knees, groping, with numb paws, for the scattered
  • Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got
    up and came craning his neck towards her.
  • What has it done to thee, lass? he asked, in a
    very wretched, humble tone.
  • You can see what its done, she answered.
  • He stood, bending forward, supported on his
    hands, which grasped his legs just above the knee.

  • He peered to look at the wound. She drew away
    from the thrust of his face with its great
    moustache, averting her own face as much as
    possible. As her looked at her, who was cold and
    impassive as stone, with mouth shut tight, he
    sickened with feebleness and hopelessness of
    spirit. He was turning drearily away, when he
    saw a drop of blood fall from the averted wound
    into the babys fragile, glistening hair.
    Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark drop hang
    in the glistening cloud, and pull down the
    gossamer. Another drop fell. It would soak
    through to the babys scalp. He watched,
    fascinated, feeling it soak in then, finally,
    his manhood broke.
  • What of this child? was all his wife said to
    him. But her low, intense tones brought his head
    lower. She softened Get me some wadding out of
    the middle drawer, she said.
  • He stumbled away very obediently, presently
    returning with a pad, which she singed before the
    fire, then put on her forehead, as she sat with
    the baby on her lap.

D. H. Lawrence The Rainbow
  • In bad weather home was a bedlam. Children
    dashed in and out of the rain, to the puddles
    under the dismal yew-trees, across the wet
    flagstones of the kitchen, whilst the
    cleaning-woman grumbled and scolded children
    were swarming on the sofa, children were kicking
    the piano in the parlour, to make it sound like a
    beehive, children were rolling on the hearthrug,
    legs in air, pulling a book in two between them,
    children, fiendish, ubiquitous, were stealing
    upstairs to find out where our Ursula was,
    whispering at bedroom doors, hanging on the
    latch, calling mysteriously, Ursula! Ursula! to
    the girl who had locked herself in to read. And
    it was hopeless. The locked door excited their
    sense of mystery, she had to open to dispel the
    lure. These children hung on to her with
    round-eyed, excited questions.
  • The mother flourished amid all this.
  • Better have them noisy than ill,she said.

  • But the growing girls, in turn, suffered
    bitterly. Ursula was just coming to the stage
    when Andersen and Grimm were being left behind
    for the Idylls of the King, and romantic
  • Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable,
  • Elaine the lily maid of Astolat,
  • High in her chamber in a tower to the east
  • Guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot.
  • How she love it! How she leaned in her bedroom
    window with her black, rough hair on her
    shoulders, and her warm face all rapt, and gazed
    across at the churchyard and the little church,
    which was a turretted castle, whence Launcelot
    would ride just now, would wave to her as he rode
    by, his scarlet cloak passing behind the dark
    yew-trees and between the open space whilst she,
    Ah she, would remain the lonely maid high up and
    isolated in the tower, polishing the terrible
    shield, weaving it a covering with a true device,
    and waiting, waiting, always remote and high.

  • At which point there would be a faint scuffle on
    the stairs, a light-pitched whispering outside
    the door, and a creaking of the latch then
    Billy, excited, whispering
  • Its locked its locked.
  • Then the knocking, kicking at the door with
    childish knees, and the urgent, childish
  • Ursula our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?
  • No reply.
  • Ursula! Eh our Ursula? the name was shouted
    now. Still no answer.
  • Mother, she wont answer, came the yell. Shes
  • Go away Im not dead. What do you want? came
    the angry voice of the girl.

Jane Austen Pride and Prejudice
  • The idea of Mr Collins, with all his solemn
    composure, being run away with his feelings, made
    Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not use
    the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop
    him farther, and he continued
  • My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think
    it a right thing for every clergyman in easy
    circumstances (like myself) to set the example of
    matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am
    convinced it will add greatly to my happiness
    and thirdly which I ought to have mentioned
    earlier, that it is the particular advice and
    recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have
    the honour of calling patroness. ..
  • Thus much for my general intention in favour of
    matrimony it remains to be told why my views
    were directed to Longbourne instead of my own
    neighbourhood, where I assure you that there are
    many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
    being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the
    death of your honoured father..I could not
    satisfy myself without resolving to choose a
    wife from among his daughters.

  • Extract 2 Pride and Prejudice
  • Mr. Bingley was good looking and Gentleman-like
    he had a pleasant countenance, and easy,
    unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
    with an air of decided fashion. His
    brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the
    gentleman but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the
    attention of the room by his fine, tall person,
    handsome features, noble mein and the report was
    in general circulation within five minutes after
    his entrance, of his having ten thousand a
    year..The ladies declared that he was much
    handsomer than Mr. Bingley.for about half the
    evening, till his manners gave a disgust which
    turned the tide of his popularity for he was
    found to be proud, to be above his company, and
    above being pleased and not all his large estate
    in Derbyshire could save him from having a most
    forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being
    unworthy to be compared to his friend

Jane Austen Sense and Sensibility
Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John
was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the
wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest
child, a fine little boy about six years old, by
which means there was one subject always to be
recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity,
for they had to inquire his name and age, admire
his beauty, and ask him questions which his
mother answered for him, while he hung about her
and held down his head, to the great surprise of
her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy
before company as he could make noise enough at
home. On every formal visit a child ought to be
of the party, by way of provision for discourse.
In the present case it took up ten minutes to
determine whether the boy were most like his
father or mother, and in what particular he
resembled either, for of course everybody
differed, and everybody was astonished at the
opinion of others.
(No Transcript)
Jane Austen Mansfield Park
At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised
voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence was
ever heard all proceeded in a regular course of
cheerful orderliness every body had their due
importance every bodys feelings were consulted.
If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting,
good sense and good breeding supplied its place
and as to the little irritations, sometimes
introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they
were trifling, they were as a drop of water in an
ocean, compares with the ceaseless tumult of her
present abode. Here, everybody was noisy, every
voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mothers,
which resembled the soft monotony of Lady
Bertramss, only worn into fretfulness.)
Whatever was wanted, was hollood for, and the
servants hallood out their excuses from the
kitchen. The doors were in a constant banging,
the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done
without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody
could commend attention when they spoke.

Charles Dickens
Wax-Work I never saw any wax-work, maam, said
Nell. Is it funnier than Punch? Funnier! said
Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice. It is not funny at
all. Oh! said Nell, with all possible
humility. It isnt funny at all, repeated Mrs
Jarley. Its calm and-whats that word
again-critical?-no-classical, thats it-it is
calm and classical. No low beatings and knockings
about, no jokings and squeakings like your
precious Punches, but always the same, with a
constantly unchanging air of coldness and
gentility and so like life, that if wax-work
only spoke and walked about, youd hardly know
the difference. I wont go so far as to say,
that, as it is, Ive seen a wax-work quite like
life, but Ive certainly seen some life that was
exactly like wax-work. Old Curiosity Shop
(No Transcript)
Bleak House
  • The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is
    reputed to have made good thrift out of
    aristocratic marriage settlements and
    aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. He is
    surrounded by a mysterious halo of family
    consequences of which he is known to be the
    silent depository. There are noble Mausoleums
    rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks,
    among the growing timber and the fern, which
    perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad
    among men, shut up in the breast of Mr
    Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old
    school- a phrase generally meaning any school
    that seems never to have been young- and wears
    knee breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or
    stockings. One peculiarity of his black clothes,
    and of his black stockings, be they silk or
    worsted, is, that they never shine. Mute, close,
    irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is
    like himself. He never converses, when not
    professionally consulted. He is found sometimes,
    speechless but quite at home, at corners of
    dinner-tables in great country houses, and near
    doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the
    fashionable intelligence is eloquent where
    everybody knows him, and where half the Peerage
    stops to say, How do you do, Mr Tulkinghorn? he
    receives these salutations with gravity, and
    buries them along with the rest of his knowledge.

Great Expectations
  • Ours was the marsh country, down by the river,
    within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the
    sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of
    the identity of things, seems to me to have been
    gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards
    evening. At such a time I found out for certain,
    that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was
    the churchyard and that Phillip Pirrip, late of
    this parish, and also Georgina wife of the above,
    were dead and buried and that Alexander,
    Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant
    children of the aforesaid, were also dead and
    buried and that the dark flat wilderness beyond
    the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds
    and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it,
    was the marshes and that the low leaden line
    beyond was the river and that the distant savage
    lair from which the wind was rushing, was the
    sea and that the small bundle of shivers growing
    afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.
  • Hold your noise! cried a terrible voice, as a
    man started up from among the graves at the side
    of the church porch. Keep still, you little
    devil, or Ill cut your throat!

Edwin Drood
  • Dear me ,said Mr Grewgious, peeping in, its
    like looking down the throat of Old Time.
  • Old Time heaved a mouldy sigh from tomb and arch
    and vault and gloomy shadows began to deepen in
    corners and damps began to rise from green
    patches of stone and jewels, cast upon the
    pavement of the nave from the stained glass by
    the declining sun, began to perish. Within the
    grill- gate of the chancel, up the steps
    surmounted loomingly by the fast-darkening organ,
    white robes could be dimly seen, and one feeble
    voice, rising and falling in a cracked monotonous
    mutter, could at intervals be faintly heard. In
    the free outer air, the river, the green
    pastures, and the brown arable lands, the teeming
    hills and dales, were reddened by the sunset
    while the distant little windows in windmills and
    farm homesteads, shone, patches of bright beaten
    gold. In the Cathedral, all became grey, murky
    and sepulchral, and the cracked monotonous mutter
    went on like a dying voice, until the organ and
    the choir burst forth, and drowned it in a sea of

  • Then, the sea fell, and the dying voice made
    another feeble effort, and then the sea rose
    high, and beat its life out, and lashed the roof,
    and surged among the arches, and pierced the
    heights of the great tower and then the sea was
    dry, and all was still.

Emily Bronte Wuthering Heights Extract 1
but surely you and everybody have a notion that
there is, or should be, an existence of yours
beyond you. What were the use of my creation if I
were entirely contained here? My great miseries
in this world have been Heathcliffs miseries,
and I watched and felt each from the beginning
my great thought in living is himself. If all
else perished, and he remained, I should still
continue to be and, if all else remained, and he
were annihilated, the Universe would turn to a
mighty stranger. I should not seem part of it. My
love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods.
Time will change it, Im well aware, as winter
changes the trees my love for Heathcliff
resembles the eternal rocks beneath a source of
little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I
am Heathcliff hes always, always in my mind
not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a
pleasure to myself but as my own being.
Extract 2
This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak
closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind,
and the driving of the snow I heard also the
fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed
it to the right cause but it annoyed me so much,
that I resolved to silence it, if possible and,
I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the
casement. The hook was soldered into the staple
a circumstance observed by me whilst awake, but
forgotten. I must stop it, nonetheless! I
muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass,
and stretching an arm out to seize the
importunate branch instead of which, my fingers
closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!
The intense horror of nightmare came over me.
..Terror made me cruel and, finding it useless
to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its
wrist onto the broken pane, and rubbed it to and
fro until the blood ran down and soaked the
bedclothes still it wailed, Let me in! and
maintained its tenacious grip, almost maddening
me with fear.
Extract 3
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the
direction of the kirk.When beneath its walls I
perceived decay had made progress, even in seven
months many a window showed black gaps devoid of
glass and slates jutted off, here and there,
beyond the right line of the roof, to be
gradually worked off in coming autumn storms. I
sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones
on the slope next to the moor the middle one
grey, and half buried in heath Edgar Lintons
only harmonized by the turf, and moss creeping up
its foot Heathcliffs still bare. I lingered
round them, under that benign sky watched the
moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells
listened to the soft wind breathing through the
grass and wondered how anyone could ever imagine
unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet
Charlotte Bronte Jane Eyre Extract 1
I was a discord in Gateshead Hall I was like
nobody there I had nothing in harmony with Mrs
Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If
they did not love me, in fact, as little did I
love them. They were not bound to regard with
affection a thing that could not sympathise with
one amongst them a heterogenious thing, opposed
to them in temperament, in capacity, in
propensities a useless thing, incapable of
serving their interest, or adding to their
pleasure a noxious thing, cherishing the germs
of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of
their judgement. I know that had I been a
sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting,
handsome, romping child-though equally dependent
and friendless- Mrs Reed would have endured my
presence more complacently her children would
have entertained for me more of the cordiality of
fellow-feeling the servants would have been less
prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery.
Extract 2
Do you think I am an automaton? a machine
without feelings? And can bear to have my morsel
of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of
living water dashed from my cup? Do you think
because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I
am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I
have as much soul as you and full as much
heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty,
and much wealth, I should have made it as hard
for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave
you. I am not talking to you now through the
medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of
mortal flesh it is my spirit that addresses your
spirit just as if both had passed through the
grave, and we stood at Gods feet, equal as we
Extract 3
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden
desert this spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine.
I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw a
lizard run over the crag I saw a bee busy among
the sweet bilberries. I would fain at that moment
have become a bee or a lizard, that I might have
found fitting nutrient, permanent shelter here.
But I was a human being, and had a human beings
wants I must not linger where there was nothing
to supply them. I rose I looked back at the bed
I had left. Hopeless of the future I wished but
this that my Maker had that night thought good
to require my soul of me while I slept and that
this weary frame, absolved by death from further
conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly,
and mingle in peace with the soil of this
wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my
possession, with all its requirements, and pains,
and responsibilities. The burden must be carried
the want provided for the suffering endured the
responsibility fulfilled. I set out.
F Scott FitzgeraldTender is the Night Extract 1
(chapter 1)
At the hotel the girl made the reservation in
idiomatic but rather flat French, like something
remembered. When they were installed on the
ground floor she walked into the glare of the
French windows and onto the stone veranda that
ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she
carried herself like a ballet dancer, not slumped
down on her hips but held up in the small of her
back. Out there the hot light clipped close her
shadow and she retreated it was too bright to
see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded
up its pigments, moment by moment, to the brutal
sunshine below the balustrade a faded Buick
cooked on the hotel drive. Indeed, of all the
region, only the beach stirred with activity.
Three British nannies sat knitting the slow
pattern of Victorian England, the pattern of the
forties, the sixties, the eighties, into sweaters
and socks, to the tune of gossip as formalized as
incantation closer to the sea a dozen persons
kept house under striped umbrellas, while their
dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through
the shallows or lay naked and glistening with
cocoanut oil out in the sun.
As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve
ran past her and splashed into the sea with
exultant cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny of
strange faces, she took off her bathrobe and
followed. She floated face down for a few yards
and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and
plodded forward, dragging slim legs like weights
against the resistance of the water. When it was
about breast high, she glanced back toward shore
a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights, his
tufted chest thrown out, his brash navel sucked
in, was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary
returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle,
which went into hiding amid the facetious
whiskers of his chest, and poured himself a glass
of something from a bottle in his hand.
Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a
choppy little four-beat crawl out to the raft.
The water reached up for her, pulled her down
tenderly out of the heat, seeped in her hair and
ran into the corners of her body. She turned
round and round in it, embracing it, wallowing in
it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath, but
a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down
at her, and Rosemary, suddenly conscious of the
raw whiteness of her own body, turned on her back
and drifted toward shore. The hairy man holding
the bottle spoke to her as she came out. I say
they have sharks out behind the raft. He was
of indeterminate nationality, but spoke English
with a slow Oxford drawl. Yesterday they
devoured two British sailors from the flotte at
Golfe-Juan. Heavens! exclaimed Rosemary. They
come in for the refuse from the flotte. Glazing
his eyes to indicate that he had only spoken in
order to warn her, he minced off two steps and
poured himself another drink.
Extract 2 (chapter 3)
It was almost two when they went into the
dining-room. Back and forth over the deserted
tables a heavy pattern of beams and shadows
swayed with the motion of the pines outside. Two
waiters, piling plates and talking loud Italian,
fell silent when they came in and brought them a
tired version of the table dhôte luncheon. I
fell in love on the beach, said Rosemary. Who
with? First with a whole lot of people who
looked nice. Then with one man. Did you talk
to him? Just a little. Very handsome. With
reddish hair. She was eating, ravenously. Hes
married though its usually that way.
After lunch they were both overwhelmed by the
sudden flatness that comes over American
travellers in quiet foreign places. No stimuli
worked upon them, no voices called them from
without, no fragments of their own thoughts came
suddenly from the minds of others, and missing
the clamour of Empire they felt that life was not
continuing here. Lets stay only three days
Mother, Rosemary said when they were back in
their rooms. Outside a light wind blew the heat
around, straining it through the trees and
sending little hot gusts through the shutters.
The Great Gatsby (chapter 2)
Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my
ear Neither of them can stand the person
theyre married to. Cant they? Cant stand
them. She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom.
What I say is, why go on living with them if
they cant stand them? If I was them Id get a
divorce and get married to each other right
away. Doesnt she like Wilson either? The
answer to this was unexpected. It came from
Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it
was violent and obscene. You seem cried
Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice
again. Its really his wife thats keeping them
apart. Shes a Catholic and they dont believe in
divorce. Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a
little shocked at the elaborateness of the
lie. When they do get married, continued
Catherine, theyre going West to live for a
while until it blows over. Itd be more
discreet to go to Europe. Oh, do you like
Europe? she exclaimed surprisingly. I just got
back from Monte Carlo.
Really. Just last year. I went over there
with another girl. Stay long? No, we just
went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of
Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars
when we started, but we got gypped out of it all
in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful
time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I
hated that town! The late afternoon sky bloomed
in the window for a moment like the blue honey of
the Mediterranean then the shrill voice of Mrs
McKee called me back into the room. I almost
made a mistake, too, she declared vigorously. I
almost married a little kike whod been after me
for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept
saying to me Lucille, that mans way below
you! But if I hadnt met Chester, hed of got me
for sure. Yes, but listen, said Myrtle
Wilson, nodding her head up and down, at least
you didnt marry him. I know I
didnt. Well, I married him, said Myrtle
ambiguously. And thats the difference between
your case and mine. Why did you, Myrtle?
demanded Catherine. Nobody forced you
to. Myrtle considered.
I married him because I thought he was a
gentleman, she said finally. I thought he knew
something about breeding, but he wasnt fit to
lick my shoe. You were crazy about him for a
while, said Catherine. Crazy about him! cried
Myrtle increduously. Who said I was crazy about
him? I never was any more crazy about him than I
was about that man there. She pointed at me, and
everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show
by my expression that I expected no
affection. The only crazy I was was when I
married him. I knew right away I made a mistake.
He borrowed somebodys best suit to get married
in, and never even told me about it, and the man
came after it one day when he was out Oh, is
that your suit? I said. This is the first I
ever heard about it. But I gave it to him and
then I lay down and cried to beat the band all
afternoon. She really ought to get away from
him, resumed Catherine to me. Theyve been
living over that garage for eleven years. And
Toms the first sweetie she ever had. The bottle
of whiskey a second one was now in constant
demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who
felt just as good on nothing at all.
The Rich Boy
  • Begin with an individual, and before you know it
    you find that you have created a type begin with
    a type and you find that you have created
    nothing. That is because we are all queer fish,
    queerer behind out faces and voices than we want
    anyone to know or than we know ourselves. When I
    hear a man proclaiming himself an average,
    honest, open fellow, I feel pretty sure that he
    has some definite and perhaps terrible
    abnormality which he has agreed to conceal and
    his protestation of being average and honest and
    open is his way of reminding himself of his
  • There are no types, no plurals. There is a rich
    boy, and this is his and not his brothers story.

Thomas Hardy The Mayor of Casterbridge
Thus Casterbridge was in most respects but the
pole, focus, or nerve-knot of the surrounding
country life differing from the many
manufacturing towns which are as foreign bodies
set down, like boulders on a plain, in a green
world with which they have nothing in common.
Casterbridge lived by agriculture at one remove
further from the fountain-head than the adjoining
villages no more. The townsfolk understood
every fluctuation in the rustics condition, for
it affected their receipts as much as the
labourers they entered into the troubles and
joys which moved the aristocratic families ten
miles round for the same reason. And even at
the dinner-parties of the professional families
the subjects of discussion were corn,
cattle-disease, sowing and reaping, fencing and
planting while politics were viewed by them less
from their own standpoint of burgesses with
rights and privileges than form the standpoint of
their country neighbours Casterbridge
was the complement of the rural life around not
its urban opposite. Bees and butterflies in the
cornfields at the top of the town, who desired to
get to the meads at the bottom, took no
circuitous course, but flew straight down High
Street without any apparent consciousness that
they were traversing strange latitudes. And in
autumn airy spheres of thistledown floated into
the same street, lodged upon the shop fronts,
blew into drains and innumerable tawny and
yellow leaves skimmed along the pavement, and
stole through peoples door-ways into their
passages, with a hesitating scratch on the floor,
like the skirts of timid visitors.
Extract 2
The auctioneer selling old horses in the field
outside could be heard saying, Now this is the
last lot now wholl take the last lot for a
song? Shall I say forty shillings? Tis a very
promising brood-mare, a trifle over five years
old, and nothing the matter with the hoss at all,
except that shes a little holler in the back and
had her left eye knocked out by the kick of
another, her own sister, coming along the road.
For my part I dont see why men who have
got wives and dont mant em shouldnt get rid of
em as these gipsy fellows do their old horses,
said the man in the tent. Why shouldnt they put
em up and sell em by auction to men who are in
need of such articles? Hey? Why, begad, Id sell
mine this minute if anybody would buy her!
Theres them that would do that, some of the
guests replied, looking at the woman, who was by
no means ill-favoured. True, said a
smoking gentleman, whose coat had the fine polish
about the collar, elbows, seams, and shoulder
blades that long-continued friction with grimy
surfaces will produce, and which is usually more
desired on furniture than on clothes. From his
appearance he had possibly been in former time
groom or coachman to some neighbouring county
family. Ive had my breedings in as good
circles, I may say, as any man, he added, and I
know true cultivation, or nobody do and I can
declare shes got it in the bone, mind ye, I
say as much as any female in the fair though
it may want a little bringing out. Then crossing
his legs, he resumed his pipe with a
nicely-adjusted gaze at a point in the air.
The fuddled young husband stared for a few
seconds at this unexpected praise of his wife,
half in doubt of the wisdom of his own attitude
towards the possessor of such qualities. But he
speedily lapsed into his former conviction, and
said harshly Well, then, now is your
chance I am open to an offer for this gem o
creation. She turned to her husband and
murmured, Michael, you have talked this nonsense
in public places before. A joke is a joke, but
you may make it once too often, mind! I
know Ive said it before I meant it. All I want
is a buyer. At the moment a swallow, one
among the last of the season, which had by chance
found its way through an opening into the upper
part of the tent, flew to and fro in quick curves
above their heads, causing all eyes to follow it
absently. In watching the bird till it made its
escape the assembled company neglected to respond
to the workmans offer, and the subject dropped.
Joseph Conrad Heart of Darkness
  • I was thinking of very old times, when the
    Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years
    ago the other day Light came out this river
    since you say Knights? Yes but it is like a
    running blaze on a plain, like a flash of
    lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker
    may it last as long as the earth keeps rolling!
    But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the
    feelings of a commander of fine what dye call
    em? trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered
    suddenly to the north run overland across the
    Gauls in a hurry put in charge of one of these
    craft the legionaries a wonderful lot of handy
    men they must have been too used to build,
    apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if
    we may believe what we read. Imagine him here
    the very end of the world, a sea the colour of
    lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship
    about as rigid as a concertina and going up
    this river with stores, or orders, or what you
    like. Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages
    precious little to eat fit for a civilised man,
    nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian
    wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a
    military camp lost in the wilderness, like a
    needle in a bundle of hay cold, fog, tempests,
    disease, exile and death death skulking in the
    air, in the water, in the bush. They must be
    dying like flies here. Oh yes he did it. Did it
    very well too, no doubt, and without thinking
    much about it either, except afterwards to brag
    of what he had gone through in time, perhaps.
    They were men enough to face the darkness. And
    perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a
    chance promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and
    by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived
    the awful climate. Or thing of a decent young
    citizen in a toga perhaps too much dice, you
    know coming out here in the train of some
    prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader, even, to
    mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through
    the woods, and in some inland post feel the
    savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round
    him all that mysterious life of the wilderness
    that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the
    hearts of wild men. Theres no initiation either
    in such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of
    the incomprehensible, which is also detestable.
    And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work
    upon him. The fascination of the abomination
    you know. Imagine the growing regrets, the
    longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the
    surrender, the hate.

  • He paused.
  • Mind, he began again, lifting an arm from the
    elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that,
    with his legs folded before him, he had the pause
    of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and
    without a lotus-flower Mind, none of us would
    feel exactly like this. What saves us is
    efficiency the devotion to efficiency. But
    these chaps were not much account, really. They
    were no colonists their administration was
    merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect.
    They were conquerors, and for that you want only
    brute force nothing to boast of, when you have
    it, since your strength is just an accident
    arising from a weakness of others. They grabbed
    what they could get for the sake of what was to
    be got. It was robbery with violence, aggravated
    murder on a grand scale, and men going blind at
    it as is very proper for those who tackle a
    darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly
    means the taking it away from those who have a
    different complexion or slightly fatter noses
    than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you
    look into it too much. What redeems it is the
    idea only. An idea at the back of it not a
    sentimental pretence but an idea and an
    unselfish belief in the idea something you can
    set up, and bow down before, and offer sacrifice