In A Midsummer’s Night Dream by William Shakespeare, the main character of the play are almost interchangeable, adding to the delightful confusion and hilarity of the play. Hermia and Helena the two main women from the play, are almost as difficult to distinguish as there names, however, distinguishing characteristics do exists. Continue reading “Not Merely “Two lovely berries molded on one stem””
The flashlight was, of course, dead. The lightbulb could have fried or the battery could have been drained, either way it illuminate absolutely bupkis, which is to say it had become nothing more than a decently heavy sturdy weapon in the case one of the bats, twittering and squeaking in the darkness overhead decided to attack or more unlikely, but more terrifyingly turned into a vampire and attempt to suck my blood. With the dark clawing at my clothes, and shoving it’s way down my throat the creatures of the night were beginning to feel more and more real and less and less like some sort of crazy fantasy.
My voice rasped as I called out for the seventeenth time, yes I was keeping count their was little else to do and gave my mind something to focus on. It was just my fucking luck that I would get lost. There was something about being lost, that sucked all the confidence out of your body and reduced you to a five year old, wandering the halls of the grocery store screaming for your mother. Small, fragile, and very alone, everything was an obstacle, an enemy keeping you from you beloved companions. My foot squelched and I really should have realized, as soon as I shifted my weight, my foot slipped, my ankle rolling, and all my hundred twenty pounds slammed into the cold damp cave floor.
In Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour”, Mrs. Mallard, for all intents and purposes, is a women trapped by circumstance. The circumstance of her time, and the society she resides in. She lives in a world where women get married and stayed married; despite their marital bliss—present or otherwise. She is a young woman, who has barely lived her life, and due to the constraints of her society feels imprisoned in her marriage. Her husband was described to be a perfectly acceptable man who “never looked save with love upon her” (16). Mrs. Mallard is trapped in a kind marriage, but a marriage nonetheless. At first, Mrs. Mallard is thoroughly distraught by the death of her husband but as time passes, something changes, “she felt it, creeping out of the sky” and feeling of freedom and relief (15). This was a rather startling reaction, clearly, only a cold, heartless women would have “monstrous joy” at the loss of a spouse (16). Continue reading “The sympathy of a character: “The Story of an Hour” compared to “A Sorrowful Woman””
Anidora-Kiladra Talianna Isilee, Crown Princess of Kildenree didn’t open her eyes for the first three days fo her life, not until her aunt whispered stories to her. Stories of tasting words on tongues and understanding things that many chose not to listen too. Raised on fantastic stories and taught to understand the language fo the birds Ani, is an outcast within her home, misunderstood and terrified by the responsibilities on her shoulders. However, when the threat of Bayern, the neighboring kingdom, grows Ani must accept her duty and face the unknown. The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale is an original tale of magic and words, about a young girl growing to understand herself and her abilities and rising up to face those who wish her ill.
Odette stroked the tiny unassuming heart inked on her inner wrist trying to gain reassurance from it, confidence would have been preferable. There was something so nerve wracking about meeting a new potential, if her evaluation was well received she would find herself manipulating lives. Though she could not deny the joy when a true loving couple found each other.
Flint stood before her, thumb reaching over to crack a knuckle, the only sign at all that he felt her same apprehensions. Their job was nerve wracking, and took a great deal of finesse but she found it was well worth it.
Description is a powerful tool, it can be used to give an understanding of location, to paint a picture, and to bring forth characteristics in unique and fantastic ways. Using description allows an author to reveal hidden qualities without bluntly stating them. In William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning”, we are given a further understanding of the character of Abner by means of his physical description through the eyes of his ten-year-old son.
The man, one Mister Lyon Caswell, looked as if he had one foot in the grave. With skin so paper thin you could see the veins beneath it, a dark contrast of blue to pale white. His eyes were no better, glassy orbs of nearly colorless existence, marred only by the dark pupil. His body was spindly and long, appearing stretched, as if he had suffered some great medieval torture. The expanse of his shoulders was practically touching his ears, and he was hunched, his back burdened with a massive weight.
Well it’s been quite a year hasn’t it? I started blogging, that was a surprise I’ve got to say, really didn’t see that coming. I’ll be honest I definitely did better than I expected, even if I lost a lot of momentum the last few months. I have not been able to spend the time and dedication I wished to. I have neglected supporting other bloggers and have gone from four posts a week to one if I am lucky. Let’s hope I can get my momentum back. This blog if you haven’t notice is quite dedicated to reading, literature I must admit is my everything. I though it might be neat for you all to see a little blip of my journey with reading.
This year has really been lovely, I was able to read so much and experience so many insane worlds and meet so many wonderful characters. I was able to reach my goal of a hundred books and I couldn’t be more pleased. Continue reading “My Year in Books”
“I’ll never forget…” she murmured, eyes glazed over as she stared ahead. “You can’t make me forget.” Hands tied her down, rough and unwavering, moving with bleak efficiency. The straps cut into her wrists, bound her torso, her feet, cut into the soft skin of her checks, the bright florescent light was imprinted upon her retinas.
She captured the memory in her mind, the tilted of her jaw, the long locks of her hair, the warm crystal blue of her eyes, the gentle touch of her hand. She wrapped those memories around her like a blanket, keeping herself warm, in the stark metallic room, with the impressions of the women who had raised her, had shaped and moulded her.