Tuesday, December 24, 2019

The Death Of A Salesman By F. Scott Fitzgerald Essay

What does it take for true love to prosper? Can living the high life make a great impact? In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby, is one extraordinary novel that he wrote in 1925. F.Scott Fitzgerald s novel takes place in 1920’s and takes part of the 1st World War. It is written about a young man named Nick, he moved to west egg to take a new life occupation on the bond business. He ends up being neighbors with a mysterious man named Gatsby who ends up giving him an interesting aspect of his life. Similar to Biff in the Death Of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. The Death of a Salesman is a well composed play about a family in the struggles financially and a old man getting odd illusions remembering the good and the bad of the past. Biff is a guy who is trying to build money to improve his social class and extend to great wealth and impress his father. His family living is constant struggles and illusions. The American dream is a process to live as they attempt to make new changes and improve each of their livings days. In both revolutionary stories the American dream is sat in living with much wealth and finding true love. After Gatsby and his cousin Daisy find their way back in eachother s lives Gatsby seems to manage to bring back the  ¨lost love ¨. Jordan a professional golfer who is Daisy s best friend and is introduced to Nick at their dinner party, they had quite a connection that lead to helping Gatsby. Gatsby was a man that lives the American dream by hostingShow MoreRelatedDeath Of A Salesman By F. Scott Fitzgerald2062 Words   |  9 Pagestasks purpose. Dreams, however, are not always beneficial. They can often, like in these works, be build on nonrealistic ideals, which drive characters in the wrong direction and lead to self distruction. Both F. Scott Fitzgerald through The Great Gatsby and Arthur Miller through Death of a Salesman use these misshapen dreams and visions of the future to describe their characters, build towar d their downfalls or dramatic turning points, and to create a theme of the crushing power of broken dreams. WillyRead MoreDeath Of Salesman By F. Scott Fitzgerald1515 Words   |  7 Pagesthe future. John Fitzgerald Kennedy once said, â€Å"Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.† In the play Death of Salesman by Arthur Miller, the protagonist Willy Loman is depicted as a man who has failed in life; he spent most of his life reminiscing the past. This affected his life greatly, especially his relationship with his son, Biff Loman. Nevertheless, in the novel, The Great Gatsby by Francis Scott Fitzgerald, the protagonist,Read MoreMen and Their Music in Death of a Salesman by F. Scott Fitzgerald1085 Words   |  4 Pages Describing auditory sensations in text is often very difficult. Nevertheless, Arthur Miller in his play Death of a Salesman and F. Scott Fitzgerald in his novel The Great Gatsby. Music is a very useful method of communicating in prose because it can give off a sensation to the reader that mere text or dialogue cannot. Although the authors use drastically different types of music, one using popular music and the other using solo instrumental music, both authors are very effective. The authors useRead MoreThe American Dream By F. Scott Fitzgerald And Death Of A Salesman Essay1391 Words   |  6 PagesTruslow Adams once wrote, â€Å"The American Dream is that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement. In both The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, the main characters search for the achievement of the American dream in themselves and the worl d around them. While the American dream is defined differently for the main characters in each novel, both Willy LomanRead MoreComparing The Death Of A Salesman And The Great Gatsby By F. Scott Fitzgerald1259 Words   |  6 Pages English Essay: Compare and contrast After reading The Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller and The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, it is clear that there are associations that can be made between the two novels. There are many ways in which the life of Willy Loman compares or contrasts with the life of Jay Gatsby. The most obvious and simplest comparison is their pursuit of the American Dream which leads to their ultimate downfall. Although, Willy and Gatsby contrast in theRead MoreThe American Dream in Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, and The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald1096 Words   |  5 PagesThe American Dream in Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, and The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald In a majority of literature written in the 20th century, the theme of the American Dream has been a prevalent theme. This dream affects the plot and characters of many novels, and in some books, the intent of the author is to illustrate the reality of the American Dream. However, there is no one definition of the American Dream. Is it the right to pursue your hearts wish,Read MoreThe Great Gatsby By F. Scott Fitzgerald1684 Words   |  7 PagesAn inability to be at peace with oneself is a defining connection between the central characters of The Great Gatsby, a timeless classic written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, set in a hedonistic summer of 1922 America, and Death of a Salesman, written by American playwright Arthur Miller set in 1949 America. The characterisation of both Willy and Gatsby illustrate that they have similarities, in a way that are considered destitute, with imperfect ethical conduct. To a certain extent both protagonists haveRead MoreEssay On The American Dream In The Great Gatsby1652 Words   |  7 Pagesthe two novels, The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Death of a Salesman, by Arthur Miller. Both of the main characters in these novels had a specific dream and they based their entire lives off of these dreams. T he main characters from each novel, Gatsby and Willy, spend their entire lives fighting to achieve their goals and struggle with a multitude of different issues along the way. In The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, the American DreamRead MoreFailure Of The American Dream In The Writings Of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zora Neale Hurston, And August Wilson1418 Words   |  6 Pagesfailure of the †American Dream† in the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Arthur Miller, Zora Neale Hurston, and August Wilson. Fitzgerald’s account of the Jay Gatsby s rise to fame in the 1920s defines the failure of financial success as part of the American Dream. Gatsby will eventually die due to his excessive greed, which is not unlike the emotional death of Willy Loman as he fails to become a successful salesman in Author Miller’s Death of a Salesman. More so, Hurston’s depiction of Nanny’s own failuresRead MoreEssay about Great Gatsby862 Words   |  4 Pages F. Scott Fitzgeralds The Great Gatsby / Gatsbys Desire for Daisy exploring why Gatsby had such an obsessive desire for Daisy. The writer purports that Gatsby began by pursuing an ideal, not the real woman. In fact, he could not recognize the type of person she had become since they last saw each other. Gatsby lives in a dream world and Daisy is part of that dream. As the novel progresses, however, Gatsbys feelings change. Bibliography lists Fitzgeralds The Great Gatsby : The Role

Monday, December 16, 2019

The Amber Spyglass Chapter 24 Mrs. Coulter In Geneva Free Essays

Mrs. Coulter waited till nightfall before she approached the College of St. Jerome. We will write a custom essay sample on The Amber Spyglass Chapter 24 Mrs. Coulter In Geneva or any similar topic only for you Order Now After darkness had fallen, she brought the intention craft down through the cloud and moved slowly along the lakeshore at treetop height. The College was a distinctive shape among the other ancient buildings of Geneva, and she soon found the spire, the dark hollow of the cloisters, the square tower where the President of the Consistorial Court of Discipline had his lodging. She had visited the College three times before; she knew that the ridges and gables and chimneys of the roof concealed plenty of hiding places, even for something as large as the intention craft. Flying slowly above the tiles, which glistened with the recent rain, she edged the machine into a little gully between a steep tiled roof and the sheer wall of the tower. The place was only visible from the belfry of the Chapel of the Holy Penitence nearby; it would do very well. She lowered the aircraft delicately onto the roof, letting its six feet find their own purchase and adjust themselves to keep the cabin level. She was beginning to love this machine: it sprang to her bidding as fast as she could think, and it was so silent; it could hover above people’s heads closely enough for them to touch, and they’d never know it was there. In the day or so since she’d stolen it, Mrs. Coulter had mastered the controls, but she still had no idea how it was powered, and that was the only thing she worried about: she had no way of telling when the fuel or the batteries would run out. Once she was sure it had settled, and that the roof was solid enough to support it, she took off the helmet and climbed down. Her daemon was already prizing up one of the heavy old tiles. She joined him, and soon they had lifted half a dozen out of the way, and then she snapped off the battens on which they’d been hung, making a gap big enough to get through. â€Å"Go in and look around,† she whispered, and the daemon dropped through into the dark. She could hear his claws as he moved carefully over the floor of the attic, and then his gold-fringed black face appeared in the opening. She understood at once and followed him through, waiting to let her eyes adjust. In the dim light she gradually saw a long attic where the dark shapes of cupboards, tables, bookcases, and furniture of all kinds had been put into storage. The first thing she did was to push a tall cupboard in front of the gap where the tiles had been. Then she tiptoed to the door in the wall at the far end and tried the handle. It was locked, of course, but she had a hairpin, and the lock was simple. Three minutes later she and her daemon were standing at one end of a long corridor, where a dusty skylight let them see a narrow staircase descending at the other. And five minutes after that, they had opened a window in the pantry next to the kitchen two floors below and climbed out into the alley. The gatehouse of the College was just around the corner, and as she said to the golden monkey, it was important to arrive in the orthodox way, no matter how they intended to leave. â€Å"Take your hands off me,† she said calmly to the guard, â€Å"and show me some courtesy, or I shall have you flayed. Tell the President that Mrs. Coulter has arrived and that she wishes to see him at once.† The man fell back, and his pinscher daemon, who had been baring her teeth at the mild-mannered golden monkey, instantly cowered and tucked her tail stump as low as it would go. The guard cranked the handle of a telephone, and under a minute later a fresh-faced young priest came hastening into the gatehouse, wiping his palms on his robe in case she wanted to shake hands. She didn’t. â€Å"Who are you?† she said. â€Å"Brother Louis,† said the man, soothing his rabbit daemon, â€Å"Convener of the Secretariat of the Consistorial Court. If you would be so kind – â€Å" â€Å"I haven’t come here to parley with a scrivener,† she told him. â€Å"Take me to Father MacPhail. And do it now.† The man bowed helplessly and led her away. The guard behind her blew out his cheeks with relief. Brother Louis, after trying two or three times to make conversation, gave up and led her in silence to the President’s rooms in the tower. Father MacPhail was at his devotions, and poor Brother Louis’s hand shook violently as he knocked. They heard a sigh and a groan, and then heavy footsteps crossed the floor. The President’s eyes widened as he saw who it was, and he smiled wolfishly. â€Å"Mrs. Coulter,† he said, offering his hand. â€Å"I am very glad to see you. My study is cold, and our hospitality is plain, but come in, come in.† â€Å"Good evening,† she said, following him inside the bleak stone-walled room, allowing him to make a little fuss and show her to a chair. â€Å"Thank you,† she said to Brother Louis, who was still hovering, â€Å"I’ll take a glass of chocolatl.† Nothing had been offered, and she knew how insulting it was to treat him like a servant, but his manner was so abject that he deserved it. The President nodded, and Brother Louis had to leave and deal with it, to his great annoyance. â€Å"Of course you are under arrest,† said the President, taking the other chair and turning up the lamp. â€Å"Oh, why spoil our talk before we’ve even begun?† said Mrs. Coulter. â€Å"I came here voluntarily, as soon as I could escape from Asriel’s fortress. The fact is, Father President, I have a great deal of information about his forces, and about the child, and I came here to give it to you.† â€Å"The child, then. Begin with the child.† â€Å"My daughter is now twelve years old. Very soon she will approach the cusp of adolescence, and then it will be too late for any of us to prevent the catastrophe; nature and opportunity will come together like spark and tinder. Thanks to your intervention, that is now far more likely. I hope you’re satisfied.† â€Å"It was your duty to bring her here into our care. Instead, you chose to skulk in a mountain cave – though how a woman of your intelligence hoped to remain hidden is a mystery to me.† â€Å"There’s probably a great deal that’s mysterious to you, my Lord President, starting with the relations between a mother and her child. If you thought for one moment that I would release my daughter into the care – the care! – of a body of men with a feverish obsession with sexuality, men with dirty fingernails, reeking of ancient sweat, men whose furtive imaginations would crawl over her body like cockroaches – if you thought I would expose my child to that, my Lord President, you are more stupid than you take me for.† There was a knock on the door before he could reply, and Brother Louis came in with two glasses of chocolatl on a wooden tray. He laid the tray on the table with a nervous bow, smiling at the President in hopes of being asked to stay; but Father MacPhail nodded toward the door, and the young man left reluctantly. â€Å"So what were you going to do?† said the President. â€Å"I was going to keep her safe until the danger had passed.† â€Å"What danger would that be?† he said, handing her a glass. â€Å"Oh, I think you know what I mean. Somewhere there is a tempter, a serpent, so to speak, and I had to keep them from meeting.† â€Å"There is a boy with her.† â€Å"Yes. And if you hadn’t interfered, they would both be under my control. As it is, they could be anywhere. At least they’re not with Lord Asriel.† â€Å"I have no doubt he will be looking for them. The boy has a knife of extraordinary power. They would be worth pursuing for that alone.† â€Å"I’m aware of that,† said Mrs. Coulter. â€Å"I managed to break it, and he managed to get it mended again.† The President wondered why she was smiling. Surely she didn’t approve of this wretched boy? â€Å"We know,† he said shortly. â€Å"Well, well,† she said. â€Å"Fra Pavel must be getting quicker. When I knew him, it would have taken him a month at least to read all that.† She sipped her chocolatl, which was thin and weak; how like these wretched priests, she thought, to take their self-righteous abstinence out on their visitors, too. â€Å"Tell me about Lord Asriel,† said the President. â€Å"Tell me everything.† Mrs. Coulter settled back comfortably and began to tell him – not everything, but he never thought for a moment that she would. She told him about the fortress, about the allies, about the angels, about the mines and the foundries. Father MacPhail sat without moving a muscle, his lizard daemon absorbing and remembering every word. â€Å"And how did you get here?† he asked. â€Å"I stole a gyropter. It ran out of fuel and I had to abandon it in the countryside not far from here. The rest of the way I walked.† â€Å"Is Lord Asriel actively searching for the girl and the boy?† â€Å"Of course.† â€Å"I assume he’s after that knife. You know it has a name? The cliff-ghasts of the north call it the god-destroyer,† he went on, crossing to the window and looking down over the cloisters. â€Å"That’s what Asriel is aiming to do, isn’t it? Destroy the Authority? There are some people who claim that God is dead already. Presumably, Asriel is not one of those, if he retains the ambition to kill him.† â€Å"Well, where is God,† said Mrs. Coulter, â€Å"if he’s alive? And why doesn’t he speak anymore? At the beginning of the world, God walked in the Garden and spoke with Adam and Eve. Then he began to withdraw, and he forbade Moses to look at his face. Later, in the time of Daniel, he was aged – he was the Ancient of Days. Where is he now? Is he still alive, at some inconceivable age, decrepit and demented, unable to think or act or speak and unable to die, a rotten hulk? And if that is his condition, wouldn’t it be the most merciful thing, the truest proof of our love for God, to seek him out and give him the gift of death?† Mrs. Coulter felt a calm exhilaration as she spoke. She wondered if she’d ever get out alive; but it was intoxicating, to speak like that to this man. â€Å"And Dust?† he said. â€Å"From the depths of heresy, what is your view of Dust?† â€Å"I have no view of Dust,† she said. â€Å"I don’t know what it is. No one does.† â€Å"I see. Well, I began by reminding you that you are under arrest. I think it’s time we found you somewhere to sleep. You’ll be quite comfortable; no one will hurt you; but you’re not going to get away. And we shall talk more tomorrow.† He rang a bell, and Brother Louis came in almost at once. â€Å"Show Mrs. Coulter to the best guest room,† said the President. â€Å"And lock her in.† The best guest room was shabby and the furniture was cheap, but at least it was clean. After the lock had turned behind her, Mrs. Coulter looked around at once for the microphone and found one in the elaborate light-fitting and another under the frame of the bed. She disconnected them both, and then had a horrible surprise. Watching her from the top of the chest of drawers behind the door was Lord Roke. She cried out and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. The Gallivespian was sitting cross-legged, entirely at his ease, and neither she nor the golden monkey had seen him. Once the pounding of her heart had subsided, and her breathing had slowed, she said, â€Å"And when would you have done me the courtesy of letting me know you were here, my lord? Before I undressed, or afterwards?† â€Å"Before,† he said. â€Å"Tell your daemon to calm down, or I’ll disable him.† The golden monkey’s teeth were bared, and all his fur was standing on end. The scorching malice of his expression was enough to make any normal person quail, but Lord Roke merely smiled. His spurs glittered in the dim light. The little spy stood up and stretched. â€Å"I’ve just spoken to my agent in Lord Asriel’s fortress,† he went on. â€Å"Lord Asriel presents his compliments and asks you to let him know as soon as you find out what these people’s intentions are.† She felt winded, as if Lord Asriel had thrown her hard in wrestling. Her eyes widened, and she sat down slowly on the bed. â€Å"Did you come here to spy on me, or to help?† she said. â€Å"Both, and it’s lucky for you I’m here. As soon as you arrived, they set some anbaric work in motion down in the cellars. I don’t know what it is, but there’s a team of scientists working on it right now. You seem to have galvanized them.† â€Å"I don’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed. As a matter of fact, I’m exhausted, and I’m going to sleep. If you’re here to help me, you can keep watch. You can begin by looking the other way.† He bowed and faced the wall until she had washed in the chipped basin, dried herself on the thin towel, and undressed and got into bed. Her daemon patrolled the room, checking the wardrobe, the picture rail, the curtains, the view of the dark cloisters out of the window. Lord Roke watched him every inch of the way. Finally the golden monkey joined Mrs. Coulter, and they fell asleep at once. Lord Roke hadn’t told her everything that he’d learned from Lord Asriel. The allies had been tracking the flight of all kinds of beings in the air above the frontiers of the Republic, and had noticed a concentration of what might have been angels, and might have been something else entirely, in the west. They had sent patrols out to investigate, but so far they had learned nothing: whatever it was that hung there had wrapped itself in impenetrable fog. The spy thought it best not to trouble Mrs. Coulter with that, though; she was exhausted. Let her sleep, he decided, and he moved silently about the room, listening at the door, watching out of the window, awake and alert. An hour after she had first come into the room, he heard a quiet noise outside the door: a faint scratch and a whisper. At the same moment a dim light outlined the door. Lord Roke moved to the farthest corner and stood behind one of the legs of the chair on which Mrs. Coulter had thrown her clothes. A minute went by, and then the key turned very quietly in the lock. The door opened an inch, no more, and then the light went out. Lord Roke could see well enough in the dim glow through the thin curtains, but the intruder was having to wait for his eyes to adjust. Finally the door opened farther, very slowly, and the young priest Brother Louis stepped in. He crossed himself and tiptoed to the bed. Lord Roke prepared to spring, but the priest merely listened to Mrs. Coulter’s steady breathing, looked closely to see whether she was asleep, and then turned to the bedside table. He covered the bulb of the battery light with his hand and switched it on, letting a thin gleam escape through his fingers. He peered at the table so closely that his nose nearly touched the surface, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. Mrs. Coulter had put a few things there before she got into bed – a couple of coins, a ring, her watch – but Brother Louis wasn’t interested in those. He turned to her again, and then he saw what he was looking for, uttering a soft hiss between his teeth. Lord Roke could see his dismay: the object of his search was the locket on the gold chain around Mrs. Coulter’s neck. Lord Roke moved silently along the skirting board toward the door. The priest crossed himself again, for he was going to have to touch her. Holding his breath, he bent over the bed, and the golden monkey stirred. The young man froze, hands outstretched. His rabbit daemon trembled at his feet, no use at all: she could at least have kept watch for the poor man, Lord Roke thought. The monkey turned over in his sleep and fell still again. After a minute poised like a waxwork, Brother Louis lowered his shaking hands to Mrs. Coulter’s neck. He fumbled for so long that Lord Roke thought the dawn would break before he got the catch undone, but finally he lifted the locket gently away and stood up. Lord Roke, as quick and as quiet as a mouse, was out of the door before the priest had turned around. He waited in the dark corridor, and when the young man tiptoed out and turned the key, the Gallivespian began to follow him. Brother Louis made for the tower, and when the President opened his door, Lord Roke darted through and made for the priedieu in the corner of the room. There he found a shadowy ledge where he crouched and listened. Father MacPhail was not alone: Fra Pavel, the alethiometrist, was busy with his books, and another figure stood nervously by the window. This was Dr. Cooper, the experimental theologian from Bolvangar. They both looked up. â€Å"Well done, Brother Louis,† said the President. â€Å"Bring it here, sit down, show me, show me. Well done!† Fra Pavel moved some of his books, and the young priest laid the gold chain on the table. The others bent over to look as Father MacPhail fiddled with the catch. Dr. Cooper offered him a pocketknife, and then there was a soft click. â€Å"Ah!† sighed the President. Lord Roke climbed to the top of the desk so that he could see. In the naphtha lamplight there was a gleam of dark gold: it was a lock of hair, and the President was twisting it between his fingers, turning it this way and that. â€Å"Are we certain this is the child’s?† he said. â€Å"I am certain,† came the weary voice of Fra Pavel. â€Å"And is there enough of it, Dr. Cooper?† The pale-faced man bent low and took the lock from Father MacPhail’s fingers. He held it up to the light. â€Å"Oh yes,† he said. â€Å"One single hair would be enough. This is ample.† â€Å"I’m very pleased to hear it,† said the President. â€Å"Now, Brother Louis, you must return the locket to the good lady’s neck.† The priest sagged faintly: he had hoped his task was over. The President placed the curl of Lyra’s hair in an envelope and shut the locket, looking up and around as he did so, and Lord Roke had to drop out of sight. â€Å"Father President,† said Brother Louis, â€Å"I shall of course do as you command, but may I know why you need the child’s hair?† â€Å"No, Brother Louis, because it would disturb you. Leave these matters to us. Off you go.† The young man took the locket and left, smothering his resentment. Lord Roke thought of going back with him and waking Mrs. Coulter just as he was trying to replace the chain, in order to see what she’d do; but it was more important to find out what these people were up to. As the door closed, the Gallivespian went back into the shadows and listened. â€Å"How did you know where she had it?† said the scientist. â€Å"Every time she mentioned the child,† the President said, â€Å"her hand went to the locket. Now then, how soon can it be ready?† â€Å"A matter of hours,† said Dr. Cooper. â€Å"And the hair? What do you do with that?† â€Å"We place the hair in the resonating chamber. You understand, each individual is unique, and the arrangement of genetic particles quite distinct†¦ Well, as soon as it’s analyzed, the information is coded in a series of anbaric pulses and transferred to the aiming device. That locates the origin of the material, the hair, wherever she may be. It’s a process that actually makes use of the Barnard-Stokes heresy, the many-worlds idea†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"Don’t alarm yourself, Doctor. Fra Pavel has told me that the child is in another world. Please go on. The force of the bomb is directed by means of the hair?† â€Å"Yes. To each of the hairs from which these ones were cut. That’s right.† â€Å"So when it’s detonated, the child will be destroyed, wherever she is?† There was a heavy indrawn breath from the scientist, and then a reluctant â€Å"Yes.† He swallowed, and went on, â€Å"The power needed is enormous. The anbaric power. Just as an atomic bomb needs a high explosive to force the uranium together and set off the chain reaction, this device needs a colossal current to release the much greater power of the severance process. I was wondering – â€Å" â€Å"It doesn’t matter where it’s detonated, does it?† â€Å"No. That is the point. Anywhere will do.† â€Å"And it’s completely ready?† â€Å"Now we have the hair, yes. But the power, you see†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"I have seen to that. The hydro-anbaric generating station at Saint-Jean-les-Eaux has been requisitioned for our use. They produce enough power there, wouldn’t you say?† â€Å"Yes,† said the scientist. â€Å"Then we shall set out at once. Please go and see to the apparatus, Dr. Cooper. Have it ready for transportation as soon as you can. The weather changes quickly in the mountains, and there is a storm on the way.† The scientist took the little envelope containing Lyra’s hair and bowed nervously as he left. Lord Roke left with him, making no more noise than a shadow. As soon as they were out of earshot of the President’s room, the Gallivespian sprang. Dr. Cooper, below him on the stairs, felt an agonizing stab in his shoulder and grabbed for the banister; but his arm was strangely weak, and he slipped and tumbled down the whole flight, to land semiconscious at the bottom. Lord Roke hauled the envelope out of the man’s twitching hand with some difficulty, for it was half as big as he was, and set off in the shadows toward the room where Mrs. Coulter was asleep. The gap at the foot of the door was wide enough for him to slip through. Brother Louis had come and gone, but he hadn’t dared to try and fasten the chain around Mrs. Coulter’s neck: it lay beside her on the pillow. Lord Roke pressed her hand to wake her up. She was profoundly exhausted, but she focused on him at once and sat up, rubbing her eyes. He explained what had happened and gave her the envelope. â€Å"You should destroy it at once,† he told her. â€Å"One single hair would be enough, the man said.† She looked at the little curl of dark blond hair and shook her head. â€Å"Too late for that,† she said. â€Å"This is only half the lock I cut from Lyra. He must have kept back some of it.† Lord Roke hissed with anger. â€Å"When he looked around!† he said. â€Å"Ach – I moved to be out of his sight – he must have set it aside then†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"And there’s no way of knowing where he’ll have put it,† said Mrs. Coulter. â€Å"Still, if we can find the bomb – â€Å" â€Å"Shh!† That was the golden monkey. He was crouching by the door, listening, and then they heard it, too: heavy footsteps hurrying toward the room. Mrs. Coulter thrust the envelope and the lock of hair at Lord Roke, who took it and leapt for the top of the wardrobe. Then she lay down next to her daemon as the key turned noisily in the door. â€Å"Where is it? What have you done with it? How did you attack Dr. Cooper?† said the President’s harsh voice as the light fell across the bed. Mrs. Coulter threw up an arm to shade her eyes and struggled to sit up. â€Å"You do like to keep your guests entertained,† she said drowsily. â€Å"Is this a new game? What do I have to do? And who is Dr. Cooper?† The guard from the gatehouse had come in with Father MacPhail and was shining a torch into the corners of the room and under the bed. The President was slightly disconcerted: Mrs. Coulter’s eyes were heavy with sleep, and she could hardly see in the glare from the corridor light. It was obvious that she hadn’t left her bed. â€Å"You have an accomplice,† he said. â€Å"Someone has attacked a guest of the College. Who is it? Who came here with you? Where is he?† â€Å"I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. And what’s this†¦?† Her hand, which she’d put down to help herself sit up, had found the locket on the pillow. She stopped, picked it up, and looked at the President with wide-open sleepy eyes, and Lord Roke saw a superb piece of acting as she said, puzzled, â€Å"But this is my†¦ what’s it doing here? Father MacPhail, who’s been in here? Someone has taken this from around my neck. And – where is Lyra’s hair? There was a lock of my child’s hair in here. Who’s taken it? Why? What’s going on?† And now she was standing, her hair disordered, passion in her voice – plainly just as bewildered as the President himself. Father MacPhail took a step backward and put his hand to his head. â€Å"Someone else must have come with you. There must be an accomplice,† he said, his voice rasping at the air. â€Å"Where is he hiding?† â€Å"I have no accomplice,† she said angrily. â€Å"If there’s an invisible assassin in this place, I can only imagine it’s the Devil himself. I dare say he feels quite at home.† Father MacPhail said to the guard, â€Å"Take her to the cellars. Put her in chains. I know just what we can do with this woman; I should have thought of it as soon as she appeared.† She looked wildly around and met Lord Roke’s eyes for a fraction of a second, glittering in the darkness near the ceiling. He caught her expression at once and understood exactly what she meant him to do. How to cite The Amber Spyglass Chapter 24 Mrs. Coulter In Geneva, Essay examples

Sunday, December 8, 2019

A Farewell To Arms Analysis Essay Example For Students

A Farewell To Arms Analysis Essay John Stubbs essay is an examination of the defense which he believes Henry and Catherine use to protect themselves from the discovery of their insignificance andpowerlessnessin a world indifferent to their well being He asserts that role-playing by the two main characters, and several others in the book, is a way to escape the realization of human mortality which is unveiled by war. Stubbs thinks that Hemingway utilized role-playing as a way to explore the strengths and weaknesses of his two characters. Stubbs says that by placing Henrys ordered life in opposition to Catherines topsy-turvy one, and then letting each one assume a role which will bring them closer together, Hemingway shows the pairs inability to accept the hard, gratuitous quality of life. Stubbs begins by showing other examples, notably in In Our Time and The Sun Also Rises, in which Hemingways characters revert to role-playing in order to escape or retreat from their lives. The ability to create characters who play roles, he says, either to maintain self-esteem or to escape, is one Hemingway exploits extraordinarily well in A Farewell to Arms and therefore it is his richest and most successful handling of human beings trying to come to terms with their vulnerability. As far as Stubbs is concerned, Hemingway is quite blatant in letting us know that role-playing is what is occurring. He tells that the role-playing begins during Henry and Catherines third encounter, when Catherine directly dictates what is spoken by Henry. After this meeting the two become increasingly comfortable with their roles and easily adopt them whenever the other is nearby. This is apparent also in that they can only successfully play their roles when they are in private and any disturbance causes thegame to be disrupted. The intrusion of the outside world in any form makes their role-playing impossible, as evidenced at the race track in Milan, where they must be alone. The people surrounding them make Catherine feel uncomfortable and Henry has to take her away from the crowd. He goes on to describe how it is impossible for them to play the roles when they are apart and how they therefore become more dependent upon each others company. Stubbs goes on to explain how, neither mistakes role-playing for a truly intimate relationship, but both recognize that it can be a useful device for satisfying certain emotional needs. He says that originally Henry and Catherine are playing the game for different reasons but eventually move to play it as a team. Henry is role-playing to regain the sense of order he has lost when he realizes the futility of the war and his lack of place in it. Catherine is role-playing to deal with the loss of her fiance and to try to find order in the arena of the war. When they are able to role-play together, the promise of mutual support is what becomes so important to them as they try  to cope with their individual human vulnerability. He also analyzes the idyllic world introduced early in the story by the priest at the mess and later realized by Henry and Catherine in Switzerland. They fall fully into their roles when they row across the lake on their way to their idealized world. The fact that they actually are able to enter this make-believe world strengthens their game and allows it to continue longer than it would have otherwise. And once they are in this new world they adopt new roles which allow them to continue their ruse. They also need to work harder to maintain the game because far from the front they are both still aware the war is proceeding and they are no longer a part of it. The world in which they exist in reality ! is not conducive to role-playing because it tries repeatedly to end their game. .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d , .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .postImageUrl , .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d , .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:hover , .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:visited , .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:active { border:0!important; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:active , .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .uf5a7798551cd876eb8a2f9372e9ef29d:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: The last supper - movie satire analysis EssayStubbs manages to uncover numerous instances in which the two are role-playing and he makes a very interesting case that this is exactly what they are doing and not just his imagination reading into the story. He does make certain assumptions, that their love is not real, that the characters are searching for order, which are not completely justified or even necessary to prove his point. He also forces an intentionality upon Hemingway which could have been avoided without harming his theory. Towards the end of the essay Stubbs infers that their role-playing is inferior to true intimacy, which is a point that, although he defends well, is not central to his theory and seems to detract from his objectivity. The essay is a valuable tool to help the reader understand this view of what is happening through Henry and Catherines relationship and how they use each other to maintain their self-images, provide themselves with psychological support, and in a way escape the war. Hemingway may not have been trying to purposely create a role-playing scenario, but Stubbs essay will benefit someone wishing to explore this aspect of the relationship of the two main characters in greater depth.