The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga
This blog is a part of my classroom activity on The white Tiger by Aravind Adiga.
Click here to show worksheet of given task.
Monday, 29 January 2018
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga
This blog is a part of my classroom activity on The white Tiger by Aravind Adiga.
Arvind Adiga represents real life of Indian. The story reflects both darker and ligh side of Indian. We can see some problems or issues like corruption poverty, crime, education etc... in this novel and it is also a reflection of Indian people's life.
Deconstruction reading of Adiga’s “The white Tiger” Here in this novel we perceive that Balram Halwai's character that it may be those “autobiography of half-naked Indian". Because Adiga present reality of life or India.text itself gives for insight with deconstruction those content .
Friday, 26 January 2018
A cup of Tea by katherine Mansfield
A cup of Tea by Katherine Mansfield
Characters
O...... Rosemary Fell , a rich woman
O.......The antiquarian on Curzon Street
O.......Miss Smith , the poor girl picked up and fed by Rosemary
O.......Jeanne... a housemaid
O.......Philip.... Rosemary's husband
Summary
" A cup of Tea " is a 1922 Short story by Katherine Mansfield.
Rosemary Fell, a young, Wealthy woman, goes shopping at a florist's and in " Antique shop on Corzon street ." Before going to the car, Rosemary going to a poor girl who asks for enough money to buy tea. Rosemary instead the girl to her plush house. And Rosemary going to girl tea. It the night Rosemary and girl talking, coming in husband. Philip comes in, Although initially surprised, Philip recovers and asks to speak to Rosemary alone. In the library, and Rosemary resists dismissing miss smith. He play to Rosemary's jealousy by telling her how pretty Miss Smith is . Rosemary sends the girl away. Rosemary goes to her husband informs " Miss Smith won't dine with us tonight."She first asks about the antique box from the morning... Philip, 'She whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, " am i pretty?"
Major Themes
O..... Class Consciousness
O..... Feminism
O..... materialism
Thursday, 25 January 2018
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
1
1888
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
Oscar Wilde
Wilde, Oscar (1854-1900) - An Irish-born English poet, novelist,
and playwright. Considered an eccentric, he was the leader of the
aesthetic movement that advocated “art for art’s sake” and was
once imprisoned for two years with hard labor for homosexual
practices. The Nightingale and the Rose (1888) - A fairy tale about
a nightingale who presses her breast against a thorn until a rose is
born.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,”
cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red
rose.” From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard
him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes
filled with tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness depend!
I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of
philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made
wretched.” “Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale.
“Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not;
night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see
him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red
as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale
ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.” “The Prince
gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young Student, “and
my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will
dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in
my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her
hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my
garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have
no heed of me, and my heart will break.”
“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing
of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a
wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer
than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set
forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the
merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.” “The
musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “and
play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to
the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that
her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay
dresses will throng around her. But with me she will not dance, for
I have no red rose to give her”; and he flung himself down on the
grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past
him with his tail in the air.
“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.
“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low
voice.
“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose!” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow,
and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of
Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into
the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a
shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
song.” But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea,
and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother
who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you
what you want.” So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that
was growing round the old sun-dial.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
song.” But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the
daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with
his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s
window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
beneath the Student’s window.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
song.” But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are red,” it answered; “as red as the feet of the dove, and
redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean
cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has
nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I
shall have no roses at all this year.” “One red rose is all I want,”
cried the Nightingale. “Only one red rose! Is there any way by
which I can get it?” “There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is
so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.” “Tell it to me,” said the
Nightingale, “I am not afraid.” “If you want a red rose,” said the
Tree, “you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it
with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your
breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the
thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into
my veins, and become mine.” “Death is a great price to pay for a
red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “and Life is very dear to all. It is
pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his
chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the
scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the
valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better
than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a
man?” So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into
the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a
shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left
him, and the tears were not yet dry on his beautiful eyes.
“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your
red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with
my own heart’s-blood.
All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for
Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier
than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings,
and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey,
and his breath is like frankincense.” The Student looked up from
the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the
Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that
are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of
the little nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely
when you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like
water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a
note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the
grove, “that cannot be denied her; but has she got feeling? I am
afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without
any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks
merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish.
Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her
voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any
practical good.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his
little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he
fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to
the Rosetree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long
she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold, crystal
Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the
thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her lifeblood
ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a
marvellous rose, petal followed petal, as song followed song. Pale
was it, as first, as the mist that hangs over the river- pale as the feet
of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the
shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a
water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of
the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day
will come before the rose is finished.” So the Nightingale pressed
closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for
she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like
the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of
the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s
heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can
crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day
will come before the rose is finished.” So the Nightingale pressed
closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a
fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and
wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is
perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the
eastern sky.
Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the
heart.But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began
to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her
song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The White Moon heard it,
and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose
heard it and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened it petals
to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the
hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It
floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message
to the sea.
“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the
Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long
grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red
rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so
beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned
down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with
the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding
blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red
rose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world.
You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together
it will tell you how I love you.” But the girl frowned.
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and,
besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels,
and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student,
angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the
gutter, and a cartwheel went over it.
“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude;
and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe
you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the
Chamberlain’s nephew has”; and she got up from her chair and
went into the house.
“What a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away.
“It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and
it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and
making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite
unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall
go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.”
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and
began to read.
THE END
1888
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
Oscar Wilde
Wilde, Oscar (1854-1900) - An Irish-born English poet, novelist,
and playwright. Considered an eccentric, he was the leader of the
aesthetic movement that advocated “art for art’s sake” and was
once imprisoned for two years with hard labor for homosexual
practices. The Nightingale and the Rose (1888) - A fairy tale about
a nightingale who presses her breast against a thorn until a rose is
born.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,”
cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red
rose.” From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard
him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes
filled with tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness depend!
I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of
philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made
wretched.” “Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale.
“Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not;
night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see
him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red
as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale
ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.” “The Prince
gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young Student, “and
my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will
dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in
my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her
hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my
garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have
no heed of me, and my heart will break.”
“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing
of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a
wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer
than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set
forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the
merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.” “The
musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “and
play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to
the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that
her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay
dresses will throng around her. But with me she will not dance, for
I have no red rose to give her”; and he flung himself down on the
grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past
him with his tail in the air.
“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.
“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low
voice.
“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose!” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow,
and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of
Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into
the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a
shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
song.” But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea,
and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother
who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you
what you want.” So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that
was growing round the old sun-dial.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
song.” But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the
daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with
his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s
window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
beneath the Student’s window.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
song.” But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are red,” it answered; “as red as the feet of the dove, and
redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean
cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has
nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I
shall have no roses at all this year.” “One red rose is all I want,”
cried the Nightingale. “Only one red rose! Is there any way by
which I can get it?” “There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is
so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.” “Tell it to me,” said the
Nightingale, “I am not afraid.” “If you want a red rose,” said the
Tree, “you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it
with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your
breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the
thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into
my veins, and become mine.” “Death is a great price to pay for a
red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “and Life is very dear to all. It is
pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his
chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the
scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the
valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better
than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a
man?” So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into
the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a
shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left
him, and the tears were not yet dry on his beautiful eyes.
“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your
red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with
my own heart’s-blood.
All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for
Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier
than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings,
and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey,
and his breath is like frankincense.” The Student looked up from
the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the
Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that
are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of
the little nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely
when you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like
water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a
note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the
grove, “that cannot be denied her; but has she got feeling? I am
afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without
any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks
merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish.
Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her
voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any
practical good.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his
little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he
fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to
the Rosetree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long
she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold, crystal
Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the
thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her lifeblood
ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a
marvellous rose, petal followed petal, as song followed song. Pale
was it, as first, as the mist that hangs over the river- pale as the feet
of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the
shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a
water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of
the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day
will come before the rose is finished.” So the Nightingale pressed
closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for
she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like
the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of
the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s
heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can
crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day
will come before the rose is finished.” So the Nightingale pressed
closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a
fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and
wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is
perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the
eastern sky.
Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the
heart.But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began
to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her
song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The White Moon heard it,
and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose
heard it and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened it petals
to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the
hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It
floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message
to the sea.
“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the
Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long
grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red
rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so
beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned
down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with
the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding
blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red
rose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world.
You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together
it will tell you how I love you.” But the girl frowned.
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and,
besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels,
and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student,
angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the
gutter, and a cartwheel went over it.
“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude;
and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe
you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the
Chamberlain’s nephew has”; and she got up from her chair and
went into the house.
“What a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away.
“It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and
it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and
making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite
unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall
go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.”
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and
began to read.
THE END
The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde
The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde
0......Introduction of Oscar Wilde
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900) was an Irish poet and playwright. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of London's most popular playwrights in the early 1890.
I have provided a link to the story below, it isn’t very long and very beautifully written. And also here is a video representation of the story…
O..........The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde
In this story, a young man, a student, is told by a woman that she would dance with him at the ball the next night if he brought her a red rose. However he has no red rose, but nightingale help to a student , The bird flies around trying to find a red rose. The student finds the rose and is thrilled, so he plucks it and brings it to his love interest. The girl rejects the rose saying it won’t match her dress, plus someone else brought her jewelry which is much better. The student walks away and throws the rose in the gutter where it is run over by a cart. He decided that love is ridiculous and logic is better.
I have provided a link to the story below, it isn’t very long and very beautifully written. And also here is a video representation of the story…
Wednesday, 24 January 2018
T. S. Eliot: Tradition and Individual Talent
T. S. Eliot: Tradition and Individual Talent
This blog is My part of classrom activity on T.S.Eliot : Tradition and Individual Talent.To show the worksheet of given task Click here
1.......How would you like to explain Eliot's concept of Tradition? Do you agree with it?
Eliot and I'd like to ask you that it Eliot is one of the seminal of the of the 20 the century.First of all I.A.Richards the twentieth century literary criticism begins with I. A.Richards and T.S.Eliot important works. While afterwards in the schools of now criticism we should remember three porsonsithree critics, who are very important and who are they ? First is Allan Tate whose important works is "Tension in poetry" J.C.Ransom famous work is " The New literature "and third is it I don't make mistake then it is cieanth Brooks whose famous work language of paradox. Is that the same as the language of poetry is the language paradox? Eliot own words that he wrote in the " Preface to for Lancelot Andrews" 1928 he that he is a classiest in literature.
And Eliot is decided in to 3 Parts
1 he said that he is classical in literature
2 he said that I am royalist
3 he said that I am in Anglo Catholic class
2.......What do you understand by Historical Sense? (Use these quotes to explain your understanding)
- The historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence"
- This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional.
while readind part one of Traditional and the Individual talent, the learners may he confused regarding T.S.Eliot concept of rendition , whether he uses this term with positive connection or negative.
Eliot mentions it , Eliot Eliot mentions that one means tradition often . in the 'Sense of the traditional' and traditional especially Eliot speaking from a modern critic's point of view , there is always this tension between somebody being traditional and somebody is modern as it modern automatically means good and traditional automatically moans not so good. Realized that Eliot is actually criticizing the romantics with their groat dial of emphasis on the individuals ' The writer with history on his bones ' Eliot says should write with history in his bones , and ' Eliot is very euricontric in his notion '
So tradition cannot be neglected Tradition and individual go together.
3..........What is the relationship between “tradition” and “the individual talent,” according to the poet T. S. Eliot?
" Some can absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it , Shakespeare acquired more essential history from Plutarch than most men could from the whole British museum "
As we just discussed in the immortality previous section that Eliot demands from his poets as we'll as from his readers a wide reading. What he also then finds is that is that Shakespeare soems to be unexceptional because it he says that every one has to be very well read every creative artist and then coming down to the modern readers.
It we look at Shakespeare blograihy , we find that there is no motion that Shakespeare went to any university.Mathew Arnold in the essay called Function of criticism at the present Time .'groat opochs of creativity' doesn't come often and he mentions .Critics have a very important role to play . critics should provide fresh ideas to the authors .
4...........Explain: "Some can absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it. Shakespeare acquired more essential history from Plutarch than most men could from the whole British Museum".
This indeed is very interesting . In fact this essay becomes one of the very interesting essays because early in the twentieth century, it then tries to brins in the elements of science and the vigor of science into humanities and arts
.
T.S.Eliot refers to is the laboratory the formation of sulfurle acid , which is our H2SO4 , Now in order that sulturle acid forms , it requires ingredients sulfur triexide , SC3.
Now It's interesting that the creative process since long if we look at
T.S.Eliot refers to is the laboratory the formation of sulfurle acid , which is our H2SO4 , Now in order that sulturle acid forms , it requires ingredients sulfur triexide , SC3.
Now It's interesting that the creative process since long if we look at
#) Plato in our earlier units , Plato thought that poets create through a grlp of frenzy.
#) Aristotle deferred and he says , no poets make something , they create something .
#) Dryden in his preiace to aunus mirabilis , which is a very significant preface for Dryden as a critic , he captured the creative precess in three different stages.
5...........Explain: "Honest criticism and sensitive appreciation is directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry"
T.S.Eliot a very short name . Tradition and Individual talent a long title but the essays very shot but the critical , pronouncements contained in this essay have far- reaching consequences for the 20 the century critics .
First he denounces the romantic criticism . 2 he puts emphasis on tradition and individual turn and third . 3. he declared the death of water so Essay is divided into three parts in the First Section of the essay earlier talks about tradition he defines tradition and examines the relationship of any particular point more quiet to the poetic tradition in which that point works are in which point is written in the Second Part Eliot talks about relationship between the appointment the going and in the Third Parties you said it as a TED talks about the shift Indian from the author to the text as you said the the death of the other not the physical not the a physical one but the biographical element in work and he shifts the emphasis and he puts the text in the center.
First he denounces the romantic criticism . 2 he puts emphasis on tradition and individual turn and third . 3. he declared the death of water so Essay is divided into three parts in the First Section of the essay earlier talks about tradition he defines tradition and examines the relationship of any particular point more quiet to the poetic tradition in which that point works are in which point is written in the Second Part Eliot talks about relationship between the appointment the going and in the Third Parties you said it as a TED talks about the shift Indian from the author to the text as you said the the death of the other not the physical not the a physical one but the biographical element in work and he shifts the emphasis and he puts the text in the center.
Offer Eliot served it says are very sungnificant
1) His of tradition
2) Second section he disapproves the romatic criticism
3) The principle of the New criticism are barsicaly verbal
4) stresses the need for concentrating on the close reading of the text and begin the new criticism as we know it today.
6...........How would you like to explain Eliot's theory of ddepersonalization? You can explain with the help of chemical reaction in presence of catalyst agent, Platinum.
The theory of depersonalization of honest criticism and sensitive appreciations directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry theory of depersonalization is chemical process.
7........Explain: " Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality."
According to Eliot poet write poetry not realize his emotion but he want to escape from his emotion
8............Write two points on which one can write critique on 'T.S. Eliot as a critic'.
T.S.Eliot as critic and he given some ideas to understanding new criticism to understanding in another way . New criticism is totally different from previous one because new criticism does not includes plot , diction and characters.
Robert Frost By Desing
Robert
Frost By Desing
Here I am sharing my view about Robert Frost poem “ Desing "
Introduction about Robert Frost
Robert Frost was born on March 26, 1874, in San Francisco,
where his father, William Prescott Frost Jr., and his mother, Isabelle Moodie,
had moved from Pennsylvania shortly after marrying. After the death of his
father from tuberculosis when Frost was eleven years old, he moved with his
mother and sister, Jeanie, who was two years younger, to Lawrence,
Massachusetts.
Frost drifted through a string of occupations after
leaving school, working as a teacher, cobbler, and editor of the Lawrence Sentinel. His first
published poem, “My Butterfly," appeared on November 8, 1894, in the New
York newspaper The Independent.
About his works.
“Fire and Ice”
“The Gift Outright”
“Design”
“Mending wall”
“Home Burial”
v About his Poems.
Design :-
‘Design’ is a
very impressive sonnet. It is about an isty‐bisty spider, a
flower and a Moth. Frost changing the meaning of Design.
The poem begins with a simple setup—the first three lines introduce us to the
main characters. We have a big white spider on a white flower, poised to eat a
white moth. The speaker sees this bizarre little albino meeting as some weird
witches' brew, as all three are brought together for some awful reason.
That observation leads
the speaker to a series of questions: Why is this flower white, when it is
usually blue? What brought the spider to that particular flower? What made the
moth decide to flutter by right then?
Frost concludes that if it were "design" that brought these three
together, it must be some pretty dark design. In other words, it's not a
comforting thought to think that God went out of his way just to make sure this
moth got eaten. But that's the crucial "if" of the last line: if
design does govern these small things.
Tuesday, 23 January 2018
To New York By Leopold Seder senghor
To New York
By Leopold Seder senghor
About the poet
Léopold Sédar Senghor (9 October 1906 – 20 December 2001) was a Senegalese poet, politician, and cultural theorist who for two decades served as the first president of Senegal (1960–80). Ideologically an African socialist, he was associated with the Négritude movement. He was the founder of the Senegalese Democratic Bloc party.
Senghor was the first African elected as a member of the Académie française. He is regarded by many as one of the most important African intellectuals of the 20th century.
Poem
New York! At first I was bewildered by your beauty,
Those huge, long-legged, golden girls.
So shy, at first, before your blue metallic eyes and icy smile,
So shy. And full of despair at the end of skyscraper streets
Raising my owl eyes at the eclipse of the sun.
Your light is sulphurous against the pale towers
Whose heads strike lightning into the sky,
Skyscrapers defying storms with their steel shoulders
And weathered skin of stone.
But two weeks on the naked sidewalks of Manhattan—
At the end of the third week the fever
Overtakes you with a jaguar’s leap
Two weeks without well water or pasture all birds of the air
Fall suddenly dead under the high, sooty terraces.
No laugh from a growing child, his hand in my cool hand.
No mother’s breast, but nylon legs. Legs and breasts
Without smell or sweat. No tender word, and no lips,
Only artificial hearts paid for in cold cash
And not one book offering wisdom.
The painter’s palette yields only coral crystals.
Sleepless nights, O nights of Manhattan!
Stirring with delusions while car horns blare the empty hours
And murky streams carry away hygenic loving
Like rivers overflowing with the corpses of babies.
II
Now is the time of signs and reckoning, New York!
Now is the time of manna and hyssop.
You have only to listen to God’s trombones, to your heart
Beating to the rhythm of blood, your blood.
I saw Harlem teeming with sounds and ritual colors
And outrageous smells—
At teatime in the home of the drugstore-deliveryman
I saw the festival of Night begin at the retreat of day.
And I proclaim Night more truthful than the day.
It is the pure hour when God brings forth
Life immemorial in the streets,
All the amphibious elements shinning like suns.
Harlem, Harlem! Now I’ve seen Harlem, Harlem!
A green breeze of corn rising from the pavements
Plowed by the Dan dancers’ bare feet,
Hips rippling like silk and spearhead breasts,
Ballets of water lilies and fabulous masks
And mangoes of love rolling from the low houses
To the feet of police horses.
And along sidewalks I saw streams of white rum
And streams of black milk in the blue haze of cigars.
And at night I saw cotton flowers snow down
From the sky and the angels’ wings and sorcerers’ plumes.
Listen, New York! O listen to your bass male voice,
Your vibrant oboe voice, the muted anguish of your tears
Falling in great clots of blood,
Listen to the distant beating of your nocturnal heart,
The tom-tom’s rhythm and blood, tom-tom blood and tom-tom.
III
New York! I say New York, let black blood flow into your blood.
Let it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life
Let it give your bridges the curve of hips and supple vines.
Now the ancient age returns, unity is restored,
The reconciliation of the Lion and Bull and Tree
Idea links to action, the ear to the heart, sign to meaning.
See your rivers stirring with musk alligators
And sea cows with mirage eyes. No need to invent the Sirens.
Just open your eyes to the April rainbow
And your eyes, especially your ears, to God
Who in one burst of saxophone laughter
Created heaven and earth in six days,
And on the seventh slept a deep Negro sleep.
Those huge, long-legged, golden girls.
So shy, at first, before your blue metallic eyes and icy smile,
So shy. And full of despair at the end of skyscraper streets
Raising my owl eyes at the eclipse of the sun.
Your light is sulphurous against the pale towers
Whose heads strike lightning into the sky,
Skyscrapers defying storms with their steel shoulders
And weathered skin of stone.
But two weeks on the naked sidewalks of Manhattan—
At the end of the third week the fever
Overtakes you with a jaguar’s leap
Two weeks without well water or pasture all birds of the air
Fall suddenly dead under the high, sooty terraces.
No laugh from a growing child, his hand in my cool hand.
No mother’s breast, but nylon legs. Legs and breasts
Without smell or sweat. No tender word, and no lips,
Only artificial hearts paid for in cold cash
And not one book offering wisdom.
The painter’s palette yields only coral crystals.
Sleepless nights, O nights of Manhattan!
Stirring with delusions while car horns blare the empty hours
And murky streams carry away hygenic loving
Like rivers overflowing with the corpses of babies.
II
Now is the time of signs and reckoning, New York!
Now is the time of manna and hyssop.
You have only to listen to God’s trombones, to your heart
Beating to the rhythm of blood, your blood.
I saw Harlem teeming with sounds and ritual colors
And outrageous smells—
At teatime in the home of the drugstore-deliveryman
I saw the festival of Night begin at the retreat of day.
And I proclaim Night more truthful than the day.
It is the pure hour when God brings forth
Life immemorial in the streets,
All the amphibious elements shinning like suns.
Harlem, Harlem! Now I’ve seen Harlem, Harlem!
A green breeze of corn rising from the pavements
Plowed by the Dan dancers’ bare feet,
Hips rippling like silk and spearhead breasts,
Ballets of water lilies and fabulous masks
And mangoes of love rolling from the low houses
To the feet of police horses.
And along sidewalks I saw streams of white rum
And streams of black milk in the blue haze of cigars.
And at night I saw cotton flowers snow down
From the sky and the angels’ wings and sorcerers’ plumes.
Listen, New York! O listen to your bass male voice,
Your vibrant oboe voice, the muted anguish of your tears
Falling in great clots of blood,
Listen to the distant beating of your nocturnal heart,
The tom-tom’s rhythm and blood, tom-tom blood and tom-tom.
III
New York! I say New York, let black blood flow into your blood.
Let it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life
Let it give your bridges the curve of hips and supple vines.
Now the ancient age returns, unity is restored,
The reconciliation of the Lion and Bull and Tree
Idea links to action, the ear to the heart, sign to meaning.
See your rivers stirring with musk alligators
And sea cows with mirage eyes. No need to invent the Sirens.
Just open your eyes to the April rainbow
And your eyes, especially your ears, to God
Who in one burst of saxophone laughter
Created heaven and earth in six days,
And on the seventh slept a deep Negro sleep.
Poetry Analysis: Leopold Sedar Senghor’s “New York”
New York is the commercial capital of America. Therefore it stands an emblem of financial stability and exponential growth. The poet Leopold Sedar Senghor exclaims that at first the beauty of New York held him spell-bound as it was superficial. It was limited to physicality of the “great long-legged golden girls.” The poet appears to be timid at the first sight of the City of Skyscrapers. Firstly, owing to his inferiority complex as the city held him in awe. Secondly, he could not confront the “blue metallic eyes”.
The adjective “metallic” has various connotations here. The term may refer to the lifelessness of the eyes. It may also allude to the nerve of steel. Furthermore, it points to the frigidity of the eyes. The phrase”frosty smile” appears to be a simile from a consumer society. The poet refers to the depth of the skyscrapers, when he should be talking about the height of the same. The line “lifting up owl eyes in the sun’s eclipse” reveals how the warmth of life is denied to them. The adjective “sulphurous” indicates pollution.
The skyscrapers seem to defy ‘cyclones’ as if challenging the very notion of God. The stone of the skyscrapers has weathered well against the climatic conditions. The sidewalks of Manhattan seem bald as compared to the grassy areas of nature. There are wells and pastures. All the birds seem to limit themselves to terraces. Nothing is deemed innocent here in this pretentious sophistication, pseudo-modern existence. No child’s laughter is to be heard, no mother suckling her baby. Only “legs in nylon” and “breasts with no sweat and smell.” In a consumer society, mouths are lipless due to lack of genuine expression and communication; what ultimately matters is profit and gain. Hard cash buys even love as people confine themselves to mercantilism.
No books are to be found that impart wisdom, as people are reluctant to part with wisdom too. The poet goes out to criticize European art asserting that the painter’s palette is filled with crystals of coral. The nights in Manhattan are characterized by insomnia. People give in to their impulsive needs. The term ‘hygienic loves’ refer to contraceptives, as they floated in the dark waters. The sanctity of love is treated as sewage.
The poet warns the superficial world to pay attention to the heeding of God-“signs and reckonings.” In Apoc., ii, 17, manna symbolizes the happiness of heaven. It is with hyssop that the blood of a bird offered in sacrifice is to be sprinkled for the cleansing of a man or a house affected with leprosy (Lev. 14: 4-7, 49-51).Senghor states that it was high time for manna and hyssop, the time for heavenly purity to descend on earth. The poet entreats with them to listen to the heart beating to the rhythm of one’s own blood, thereby making a distinction between the self and the conscious. The poet sees Harlem humming with sounds, solemn color and flamboyant smells. The three sensory perceptions are subject to artificial stimulations. This is the only interval to the man delivering pharmaceutical products. The pseudo-artificial products come into focus. The night holds more truth as compared to the day. The true colour of all things come to the fore .It is the purest form that sets life germinating before memory. All the amphibious elements-those pertaining to water and land are shining the suns.
Harlem is a neighborhood in the New York City borough of Manhattan, which since the 1920s has been a major African-American residential, cultural, and business center. The term “Harlem” refers to the Amalgamation of African-American life as it was expressed, and as it stood for. Therefore the “corn springing from the pavements” represent the marriage of Africa and America, of nature and sophistication It stands for the assimilation of the ‘white rum” and “black milk.”The masks adorned are “fabulous masks” as one cannot tell apart the African from the American.”
I have seen the sky at evening snowing cotton flowers and
wings of seraphin and wizards plumes
Listen, New York listen to your brazen male voice your
vibrate oboe voice, the muted anguish of your tears
falling in great clots of blood
Listen to the far beating of your nocturnal heart,, rhythm
And blood of the drum, drum and blood and drum.
This drum stands for the spiritual pulse of African traditional life as echoed in Gabriel Okara’s “Mystic Drum.” The alternation of the words “drum” and “blood” reflect a pulse-like rhythm that emphasizes the same.
Senghor claims that unity is to be discovered in the reconciliation of the Lion, the Bull and the Tree; the wild, the domestic and the vegetative world. Eventually he comes to comprehend that there is no significant meaning to this sort of life. The end becomes the means. The meaning of the journey no longer holds significance in a fast-forward life. In fact, they do not have possess a heritage at all; therefore, there is no need “to invent the mermaids”. America is always questioned regarding a history of its own, its roots and tradition. Senghor asserts that there is no need to indulge in a culture of myth that they do not possess in the first place. The life prevalent there is based on the formula of success, in an era of competition. Life has lost its true purpose and rusted in the ‘steel articulations”. The steel articulations refer to the Industrial Revolution. Besides, it may also allude to the steel nerve of the colonizers. It connotes their rigid stanc.
e and policies. The poet wants the black blood to act as a lubricant and life-force in such a situation.
New York! I say New York, let the
black blood flow into your blood Cleaning the rust from your steel articulations, like an oil of life.
It is also said to be the “oil of life”. Blood is red in colour, and is therefore universal. Here the poet renders this blood unique by attributing it with the adjective “black”. But again, it acts as the “oil of life”;or sustains life that is a universal phenomenon.
“To New York’
Beauty of New York : Blue eye, Golden Girl. The poet Leopold Sedar Senghor exclaims that at first the beauty of New York held him spell-bound as it was superficial. It was limited to physicality of the “great long-legged golden girls.” The adjective “metallic” has various connotations here. The term may refer to the lifelessness of the eyes. It may also allude to the nerve of steel.
Night in New York
Sun’s eclipse
No Natural environment
The line “lifting up owl eyes in the sun’s eclipse” reveals how the warmth of life is denied to them. The adjective “sulphurous” indicates pollution. The stone of the skyscrapers has weathered well against the climatic conditions.
Beauty of New York –
“New York! At first I was bewildered by your beauty,”
“No laugh from a growing child”
Nothing is deemed innocent here in this pretentious sophistication, pseudo-modern existence. No child’s laughter is to be heard, no mother suckling her baby. The poet goes out to criticize European art asserting that the painter’s palette is filled with crystals of coral. The nights in Manhattan are characterized by insomnia.
“ long-legged, golden girls”
“blue metallic eyes”
“icy smile”
The poet warns the superficial world to pay attention to the heeding of God-“signs and reckonings.” Senghor states that it was high time for manna and hyssop, the time for heavenly purity to descend on earth.
“Now is the time of manna and hyssop.”
Manna symbolizes the happiness of heaven. Hyssop that the blood of a bird offered in sacrifice is to be sprinkled for the cleansing of a man or a house affected with leprosy. The three sensory perceptions are subject to artificial stimulations. This is the only interval to the man delivering pharmaceutical products.
Artificiality
Cultural heritage
Life without interest
Birds don’t have home
Harlem is a neighbourhood in the New York City borough of Manhattan, which since the 1920s has been a major African-American residential, cultural, and business center. It stands for the assimilation of the”white rum” and “black milk. The masks adorned are “fabulous masks”
The third stanza picks up the tempo, and Senghor is earnestly imploring New York to “let black blood flow into your blood..” Senghor seeks to make New York aware of just how much of Africa’s culture is held within it. He encourages the people to “Let it give your bridges the curve of hips and supplvines. Idea links to action, the ear to the heart, sign to meaning. Means claims that unity is to be discovered in the reconciliation of the Lion, the Bull and the Tree.
“your world needs sweetening, “
The air will not deny you. Like a top Spin you on the navel of the storm. The end becomes the means. The meaning of the journey no longer holds significance in a fast-forward life. In fact, they do not have possess a heritage at all; therefore, there is no need “to invent the mermaids”The steel articulations refer to the Industrial Revolution. Besides, it may also allude to the steel nerve of the colonizers.
“New York! I say New York, let the black blood flow into your blood Cleaning the rust from your steel articulations, like an “oil of life.” He tries to purify New York, by washing away the old being the rust and the tainted ways and bringing it back to it once was. Negritude into a people who were probably very closed off, and rallies his Negro brethren to take pride in their heritage. Do not have equal position Lets black blood flow on New York
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