Literature in English

Key unit competence: 

To be able to explore the structure of the plot, analyse the structural devices, and explain the effects of different types of narrators.

Introductory activity 

Read and answer the questions below.

2.1. Review of Prose

Activity 2.1

Read the text below and answer the questions that follow

Kino and Juana came slowly down to the beach and to Kino’s canoe, which was the one thing of value he owned in the world. It was very old. Kino’s grandfather had brought it from Nayarit, and he had given it to Kino’s father, and so it had come to Kino. It was at once property and source of  food; for a man with a boat can guarantee a woman that she will eat something. It is the bulwark against starvation. And every year Kino refinished his canoe with the hard shell-like plaster by the secret method that had also come to him from his father. Now he came to the canoe and touched the bow tenderly as he always did. He laid his diving rock and his basket and the two ropes in the sand by the canoe. And he folded his blanket and laid it in the bow.

Juana laid Coyotito on the blanket, and she placed her shawl over him so that the hot sun could not shine on him. He was quiet now, but the swelling on his shoulder had continued up his neck and under his ear and his face was puffed and feverish. Juana went to the water and waded in. 

She gathered some brown seaweed and made a flat damp poultice of it, and this she applied to the baby’s swollen shoulder, which was as good a remedy as any and probably better than the doctor could have done. But the remedy lacked his authority because it was simple and didn’t cost anything. 

The stomach cramps had not come to Coyotito. Perhaps Juana had sucked out the poison in time, but she had not sucked out her worry over her first-born. She had not prayed directly for the recovery of the baby - she had prayed that they might find a pearl with which to hire the doctor to cure the baby, for the minds of people are as unsubstantial as the mirage of the Gulf.

Now Kino and Juana slid the canoe down the beach to the water, and when the bow floated, Juana climbed in, while Kino pushed the stern in and waded beside it until it floated lightly and trembled on the little breaking waves. Then in co-ordination Juana and Kino drove their double-bladed paddles into the sea, and the canoe creased the water and hissed with speed. The other pearlers were gone out long since. In a few moments Kino could see them clustered in the haze, riding over the oyster bed.

Light filtered down through the water to the bed where the frilly pearl oysters lay fastened to the rubbly bottom, a bottom strewn with shells of broken, opened oysters. This was the bed that had raised the King of Spain to be a great power in Europe in past years, had helped to pay for his wars, and had decorated the churches for his soul’s sake. The gray oysters with ruffles like skirts on the shells, the barnaclecrusted oysters with little bits of weed clinging to the skirts and small crabs climbing over them. An accident could happen to these oysters; a grain of sand could lie in the folds of muscle and irritate the flesh until in self-protection the flesh coated the grain with a layer of smooth cement. But once started, the flesh continued to coat the foreign body until it fell free in some tidal flurry or until the oyster was destroyed. For centuries men had dived down and torn the oysters from the beds and ripped them open, looking for the coated grains of sand. Swarms of fish lived near the bed to live near the oysters thrown back by the searching men and to nibble at the shining inner shells. But the pearls were accidents, and the finding of one was luck, a little pat on the back by God or the gods or both.

Kino had two ropes, one tied to a heavy stone and one to a basket. He stripped off his shirt and trousers and laid his hat in the bottom of the canoe. The water was oily smooth. He took his rock in one hand and his basket in the other, and he slipped feet first over the side and the rock carried him to the bottom. The bubbles rose behind him until the water cleared and he could see. Above, the surface of the water was an undulating mirror of brightness, and he could see the bottoms of the canoes sticking through it. Kino moved cautiously so that the water would not be obscured with mud or sand. He hooked his foot in the loop on his rock and his hands worked quickly, tearing the oysters loose, some singly, others in clusters. 

He laid them in his basket. In some places the oysters clung to one another so that they came free in lumps.

Now, Kino’s people had sung of everything that happened or existed. They had made songs to the fishes, to the sea in anger and to the sea in calm, to the light and the dark and the sun and the moon, and the songs were all in Kino and in his people every song that had ever been made, even the ones forgotten. And as he filled his basket the song was in Kino, and the beat of the song was his pounding heart as it ate the oxygen from his held breath, and the melody of the song was the gray-green water and the little scuttling animals and the clouds of fish that flitted by and were gone. But in the song there was a secret little inner song, hardly perceptible, but always there, sweet and secret and clinging, almost hiding in the counter-melody, and this was the Song of the Pearl That Might Be, for every shell thrown in the basket might contain a pearl. 

                                                                                                                 “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck

Questions

Note: Prose refers simply to any special written piece of work that is built on sentences, paragraphs and grammatical structure rather than a rhythmic structure as in traditional poetry, where the common unit of verse is based on meter or rhyme. The term prose is used simply as a contrast to verse. It is what linguists call the “unmarked” form of language. Literary critics divide prose into fictional and nonfictional.  Examples of prose include novels, novellas, short stories, essays, letters, editorials, articles and journals.

Characteristics of prose

Basing on its characteristics given above, prose can be broken into four categories, divided by purpose:

1. Narrative: writing which tells a story (can be fiction or non-fiction); usually told in chronological order; has characters; follows the basic plot-line/ development/chart/diagram - exposition, rising action, climax, falling action.

2. Expository: It gives basic information; used often in speeches and essays; does not tell a story or argue.

3. Descriptive: It describes something in detail, again without telling a story or arguing a point; used most often in combination with another mode of writing, but alone is often found in scientific or medical reports.

4. Persuasive: It tries to convince (persuade) someone to take a particular issue or point.

Note: Modern prose exhibits natural flow of speech and grammatical structure in written form whereas traditional prose was in form of rhythmic structure as in poetry. The common unit of verse was based on meter and rhyme.

Application activity 2.1

Using the library, look for more examples of prose texts and compare their plot structure. Present and share your findings with the class.

2.2. Review of plot development

Activity 2.2 

Read the following extract from the story “When the Sun Goes Down” by Goro  wa Kamau and answer the questions.

Maureen stole a glance at Kanja. The poor man was fidgeting and sweating. She rose and opened the window. She served several glasses of fruit juice and passed them round. Kanja held the glass cautiously, his fingers shaking like an alcoholic’s. “Welcome Kanja.” It is great to have you visit,” She said.

“Kanja has no idea how good it was for him to come.” When you are suffering from AIDS, one good friend is all you need to make lifeless suffocating. A person is only a person through other persons”. Steve observed.

“You too? Suffering from AIDS?” Kanja breathed the one question he had been afraid to ask. He sounded perplexed. Steve smiled vaguely. But before he could speak, Maureen weighed in. The story, she seemed to suggest, was hers to tell. “I remember I had gone for a routine prenatal check when the doctor broke the news. When I was diagnosed with AIDS, I had only one player. In that moment, when the sun seemed to set on my life, I prayed that my unborn child be free of the virus. 

I prayed that somehow Steve would be free of the virus too. Oh, how intently I prayed. When my son was born and he turned out negative, my night suddenly went ablaze with a thousand stars. But there was one problem.  Steve would not take the test when he finally acquiesced, He was positive I was devastated. My stars waned….”

Steve knew the signs all too well. The clouds were gathering and soon there would be storm, a deluge, he knew. He did not like the way she spoke. Her earnestness sounded almost unnatural. And why must she try to sanitise him?

“I have forbidden you to blame yourself for anything!” Steve growled.

“Oh, you don’t know how it feels seeing you suffer and knowing that I brought this pestilence on you but I swear I have been a faithful woman……. I was faithful to my husband. I was faithful to you, Steve……” her voice broke and she burst into tears.

“Listen Maureen,” Steve spoke with a tenderness that surprised Kanja. A strange light played in his eyes. “Never cry when the sun goes down for if you do, the tears will not let you see the stars,” He pleaded.

She heaved and gasped painfully, trying to get hold of her emotions. Finally, she wiped her tears and looked at her son, playing innocently on his father’s lap. She had two daughters from her first marriage but this boy, the fruit of the only true love she had ever known in her thirty and five years under the sun, was the crown of her life. Still, a fear tugged at her heart leaving her belly feeling an airy hollowness. Would she leave to see him grow up into a man? And if she died, would Steve care for him or would h let the boy to wonder unloved, unwanted on the harsh streets of life? Maureen had no doubt that Steve would live: He had the will. She wished she too could summon up that Kind of sprit. She looked at Steve and their son again, the way a seer peers at the contents of his diviner-gourd to read the secrets of life and she smiled wearily. These were her men. She could die but these two, father and son, would always be together. Nothing could separate them. She could see that in the way they sat and played so snugly with his father, in the way Steve held him as if he would never let go. 

It was such a perfect picture. Just as if the whole world was just the two of them. Still, she wanted reassurance but when she tried to speak, the words would not form. Steve held her eyes in his in that judicious manner of his and she knew he knew what she wanted to us. And the answer was in his eyes –a more profound answer than any words could speak. In that moment, Maureen felt strangely relaxed and her heart sang: Ngûmbûkanyumethîî, Magegania meekwo thîî, matarîmekwo? Yes! She would fly out of this world and wonders hitherto unseen would be performed on earth…Maureen felt ready to fly.

Source: “When The Sun Goes Down” by Goro wa Kamau

Questions

Note: Plot development can be simply defined as the progression of events leading to a resolution. The events can provide obstacles and questions, making the going difficult for the protagonist and exciting for the reader to follow. In a narrative or creative writing of course, a plot is a sequence of events that makes up a story. A complete plot contains the following elements: exposition rising action, climax, falling action and resolution.

Application activity 2.2 

Read and answer the questions below.

2.3. Structural devices

2.3.1 Stream of consciousness

Activity 2.3.1 

Read and answer the questions below.

Arrest development 

I have been standing at Max’s garage for almost three hours trying to hitch a ride to Beit bridge. I am not the only one here though; there must be at least fifty people, maybe even a hundred. Or more, I do not know, whatever; it is hot and I am tired.

The point is there is a sizeable crowd of would- be travelers with things to do and places to be and we are all waiting. Desperately! So much about life here and now entails waiting.

If you are serious about life, if you are ago-getter and you want to make things happen then you need to know how to wait seriously. You take a deep breath, put your ’game face’ on, brace yourself and wait. I had to wait two hours to get money from the bank to pay for my journey and now here am waiting again. It is what we do we wait for transport for electricity, for rain, for slow- speed internet connections at the dingy cyber-cafés in town where we check our mail if a nifty little website has found us a job in Dubai or a scholarship to on obscure foreign university, anything really to get us out of here. And there is never anything, mind you, but you know how hope is. It never dies. So we tell ourselves that there isn’t anything yet. We will find a way out; in the meal time let us wait. If you are serious about your life, about surviving, about the future, then you sow some seeds, invest in yourself and you wait. It is my favourite oxymoron, arrested development.

I am not hard to spot in this crowd at the barely functioning filling station. I am the sore thumb a twenty something years old women wearing high-end sunglasses and trend jeans, carrying minimal luggage and standing in a statuesque pose that is supposed to convince motorists that I would be great company on a major road trip so they should stop for me. 

I have been here for three hours so clearly something is not working. Maybe they can tell that behind the cool-as-a-cucumber façade of togetherness I am trying to portray is a quivering, fearful little girl with just dying for someone to take her by the hand and help her cross a busy road. People around me have started grumbling that it is not fair that there are so many cars going to Esigodin but nothing going to Beitbridge or even Gwanda. They are right. No one seems to be going as far as beitbfridge and the longer I stand here the more asinine I feel for thinking that I could do an entire research project on border jumper in just one lousy weekend.

                                                                                            “Arrested development” by Sandisile Tshuma

Questions

Note: Stream of consciousness is a narrative mood or method that attempts to show the innumerable thoughts and feelings which pass through the mind of characters. 

It is also called “inertial monologue” where the individual thoughts precede the character. This is associated to his actions, portrayed in the form of a monologue, addressed to the character itself. Therefore, it is different from the dramatic monologue or soliloquy, where the speaker addresses the audience or the third person.

Application activity 2.3.1 

Re-read carefully the passage above “Arrested development by Sandisile Tshuma above and answer the following questions.Uraelleris vit. Tilis ina, quos furor

Questions

2.3.2. Flashback

Activity 2.3.2

Read the extract from the story, “The mirror” by Haruki Murakami then answer the questions.

The mirror

All stories you have been telling tonight seem to fall into two categories. There is the type where you have the world of the leaving on one side, the world of the dead on the other, and some force that allows for crossing over from one side to the other. This would include and the like. The second type involves paranormal abilities, premonitions, and the ability to predict the future. All of your stories belong to one of these two groups.

In fact, your experiences pend to fall almost total under one of this category or the other. What I mean is, people who see ghosts just see ghosts and never have premonitions. And those who have premonitions do not see ghosts. 

I do not know why, but there would appear to be some individual predilection for one or the other. At least that is the impression I get.

Of course, some people do not fall into either category. Me, for instance. In my thirtyodd years I have never once seen a ghost never once had a premonition or prophetic dream. There was one time I was riding an elevator with a couple of friends and they swore they saw a ghost riding with us, but I did not see a thing. They claimed there was a woman in a grey suit standing right next to me, but there was no woman with us, at least as far as I could make out. The three of us were the only one in the elevator. No kidding. And these two friends were not the type to deliberately play tricks on me. The whole thing was really weird, but the fact remained that I have still never seen a ghost.

But there was one time- just the one time- when I had an experience that scared me out of my wits. This happened over ten years ago, and I have never told anybody about it. I was afraid to even talk about it. I felt that if I did, it might happen all over again, so I have never brought it up. But tonight, each of having related his own scary experience, and as the host I cannot very well call it a night without contributing something of my own. So, I have decided to just come right out and tell you the story.

I graduated from high school at the end of the 1960s, just when the student movement was in full swing. I was part of the hippie generation, and refused to go to college. Instead, I wandered all over Japan working at various labour jobs. I was convinced that was the most righteous way to live. Young and impetuous, I guess you would call me. Looking back on it now, though, I think I had a pretty fun life back then. Whether that was the right choice or not, if I had to do it over again, I am pretty sure I would.

n the fall of my second year of my roaming all over the country, I got a job for a couple of months as a night watchman at junior high school. This was in a school in a tiny town in Niigata prefecture. I had got pretty worn out working over the summer and wanted to it easy for a while. Being a night watchman in exactly rocket science. During the day I slept in the janitor’s office and at night all I had to do was go twice around the whole school making sure ever thing was okay. The rest of the time I listened to record in the music room, read books in the library, played basketball by myself in the gymnasium. Being alone all night in a school is not so bad, really. Was I afraid? No way. When you are eighteen or nineteen, nothing fazes you.

                                                                                                                “The mirror” by Haruki Murakami

Questions

Note: Flash back is an interjected scene that takes the narrative back in time from the current point in the story. Itare often used to recount events that happened before in the story’s primary sequence of events to fill in crucial back story. It interrupts the normal chronological order of events in theshort story. In the opposite direction, a flash-forward reveals events that will occur in the future.

Application activity 

2.3.3. Foreshadowing

Activity 2.3.3 

Read the passage below from “Diamond Dust” by Anita Desai and answer the questions.

Diamond Dust

“That dog will kill me, kill me one day!” Mrs. Das moaned, her hand pressed to her large, soft, deep bosom when Diamond leapt at the shop she had cooked and set on the table for Mr. Das, or when Diamond dashed past her, bumping against her knees and making her collapse against the door when she was going to receive a parcel from the postman who stood there, shaking, as he fended off the black lightening hurled at him. “Diamond! Why did you call him Diamond? He is Satan, a shaitan, a devil. Call him a devil instead,” Mrs. Das cried as she washed and bandaged the ankle of a grandchild who had only run after a ball and had that shaitan snap his teeth over his small foot.

But to Mr. Dos he was Diamond and had been Diamond ever since he had bought him, as a puppy of an indecipherable breed, blunt-faced, with his wet noise gleaming and paws flailing for action. Mr. Das could not explain how he had come upon that name. Feebly, he would laugh when questioned by friends he met in the park at five o’clock in the morning when he took Diamond for a walk before leaving in the office, and say, “yes, yes, black Diamond you see, black Diamond.”C.P Biswas, baring his terribly stained yellow teeth in an unpleasant laugh, said, “Ah, coal-then call him, my dear fellow, coal, Koyla- and we would all understand.”

                                                                                                           “Diamond Dust” by Anita Desai

Questions

Note:  Foreshadowing has been defined like a literary device in which a writer gives an advance hint of what is to come later in the story. It often appears at the beginning of a story. To develop expectation about the upcoming events is its role to the reader. 

Foreshadowing in fiction creates an atmosphere of suspense in a story, so that the readers are interested to know more. This, literary device is generally used to build anticipation in the mind of readers about what might happen next. Moreover, foreshadowing can make extraordinary and bizarre events appear credible as the events are predicted beforehand so that readers are mentally prepared for them.

Application activity 2.3.3 

Read and answer the questions below.

1. Read “Animal Farm” by George Orwell and; 

         a) Examine how the author starts the chapters. 

         b) Explain where the author uses foreshadowing in the novel. 

2. a) Compose a story using foreshadowing.   

    b) Summarize its plot.

2.3.4 Motif

Activity 2.3.4

Read the passage below “I stand here ironing” by Tillie Olsen and answer the questions.

I stand here ironing

I stand here ironing, and what you asked me moves tormented back and forth with the iron. 

“I wish you would manage the time to come in and talk with me about you daughter. I ‘m sure you can help me understand her. She’s a younger who needs help and who I’ m deeply interested in helping 

“Who needs help…?” even if I come, what good would it do? You think because I am her mother I have a key, or that in some way you could use me as a key? She has lived for nineteen years. There is all that life that has happened outside of me, beyond me. 

And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weight, to estimate, to total? I will start and there will be an interruption and I will have together again. Or I will become engulfed with all I did or did not do, with what should have been and what cannot be helped. 

She was a beautiful baby. The first and only one of our five that was beautiful birth. You did not know how all those years she was thought homely, or see her poring over her baby pictures, making me tell her over and over how beautiful she had been-and would be, I would tell her- and was now to the Seeing Eye. But the seeing eyes were few or nonexistent. Including mine. 

I nursed her. They feel that it is important nowadays. I nursed all the children, but with her, with all the fierce rigidity of first motherhood, I did like the books then said. Though her cries battered me to trembling, I waited until the clock decreed. 

Why do I put that first? I do not even know if it matters at all, or if it explains anything. 

She was beautiful baby. She blew shining bubbles of sound. She loved motion, loved light, loved color and music and textures. She would lie on floor in her blue overalls patting the surface so hard in ecstasy her hands and feet would blur. 

She was a miracle to me, but when she was eight months old I had to leave her daytimes with the woman downstairs, to whom she was no miracle at all, for I worked or looked for a work and for Emily’s father, who “could no longer endure” (he wrote in his goodbye note)”sharing want with us”

I was nineteen. It was the pre-relief, pre-WPA world of the depression. I would start running as soon as I got off the streetcar, running up the stairs, the place smelling sour, and awake or asleep, when she saw me she would break into a clogged weeping that could not be comforted, a weeping I can hear yet.

After a while, I found a job hashing at night so I could be with her during the day, and it was better. But it came to where I had to bring her to his family and leave her.

It took a long time to raise the money for her fare back. Then she got chicken pox and I had to wait longer. When she finally came, I hardly knew her, walking quick and nervous like her father, looking like her father, thin, and dressed in a shoddy red that yellowed her skin and glared at the pockmarks. All the baby loveliness gone.

She was two. Old enough for nursery school they said, and I did not know then what I know now- the fatigue of the long day, and the lacerations of group life in the kinds of nurseries that are only parking places for children.

Except that it would have made no difference if I had known, it was the only place there was. It was the only way we could be together; the only way I could hold a job.

And even without knowing, I knew. I knew the teacher that was evil because all this year it has curdled into my memory, the little boy hunched in the Conner, her rasp,” why aren’t you outside, because Alvin hits you? That’s no reason, goes out, and scared.” I knew Emily hated it even if she did not clutch and implore” don’t go mommy” likes the other children…

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  By Tillie Olsen

Questions

Note: A motif is a literary term that is an idea, object, or concept that repeats itself throughout a text. It gives clues to theme or reinforces ideas an author wants to emphasize. Motif and Theme are very similar and closely related. One finds it difficult to distinguish between them easily. Below are a few pointers to make it easy:

• A theme is the underlying dominant idea in every written piece, while a motif is a repetition of certain patterns, ideas or images to reinforce the main theme.

• A theme is broader than a motif. For example, if love is the underlying theme of a book, motifs may be in the form of a good-looking hero.

The author uses motifs to highlight the theme of his story. If the writer takes revenge as his theme, he will highlight it by using related motifs, like crime being committed, someone being wronged, person going through agony, protagonist planning revenge – all pointers to the main theme of the writing.

Application activity 2.3.4

1. Read and analyse “Animal  Farm”  by George Orwell, then explain motif and themes used by the author in the novel. 

2. Create your own short story and identify the motif that pushed you to write about it. 

At last the day came when Snowball’s plans were completed. At the Meeting on the following Sunday the question of whether or not to begin work on the windmill was to be put to the vote. When the animals had assembled in the big barn, Snowball stood up and, though occasionally interrupted by bleating from the sheep, set forth his reasons for advocating the building of the windmill. 

Then Napoleon stood up to reply. He said very quietly that the windmill was nonsense and that he advised nobody to vote for it, and promptly sat down again; he had spoken for barely thirty seconds, and seemed almost indifferent as to the effect he produced. At this Snowball sprang to his feet, and shouting down the sheep, which had begun bleating again, broke into a passionate appeal in favour of the windmill. Until now the animals had been about equally divided in their sympathies, but in a moment Snowball’s eloquence had carried them away. In glowing sentences, he painted a picture of Animal Farm as it might be when sordid labour was lifted from the animals’ backs. His imagination had now run far beyond chaff-cutters and turnip-slicers. Electricity, he said, could operate threshing machines, ploughs, harrows, rollers, and reapers and binders, besides supplying every stall with its own electric light, hot and cold water, and an electric heater. By the time he had finished speaking, there was no doubt as to which way the vote would go. But just at this moment Napoleon stood up and, casting a peculiar sidelong look at Snowball, uttered a high-pitched whimper of a kind no one had ever heard him utter before.

At this there was a terrible baying sound outside, and nine enormous dogs wearing brass-studded collars came bounding into the barn. They dashed straight for Snowball, who only sprang from his place just in time to escape their snapping jaws. In a moment he was out of the door and they were after him. Too amazed and frightened to speak, all the animals crowded through the door to watch the chase. Snowball was racing across the long pasture that led to the road. 

He was running as only a pig can run, but the dogs were close on his heels. Suddenly he slipped and it seemed certain that they had him. Then he was up again, running faster than ever, and then the dogs were gaining on him again. One of them all but closed his jaws on Snowball’s tail, but Snowball whisked it free just in time. Then he put on an extra spurt and, with a few inches to spare, slipped through a hole in the hedge and was seen no more.

Silent and terrified, the animals crept back into the barn. In a moment the dogs came bounding back. At first no one had been able to imagine where these creatures came from, but the problem was soon solved: they were the puppies whom Napoleon had taken away from their mothers and reared privately. Though not yet full-grown, they were huge dogs, and as fierce-looking as wolves. They kept close to Napoleon. It was noticed that they wagged their tails to him in the same way as the other dogs had been used to do to Mr. Jones.

Napoleon, with the dogs following him, now mounted on to the raised portion of the floor where Major had previously stood to deliver his speech. He announced that from now on the Sunday-morning Meetings would come to an end. They were unnecessary, he said, and wasted time. In future all questions relating to the working of the farm would be settled by a special committee of pigs, presided over by him. These would meet in private and afterwards communicate their decisions to the others. 

The animals would still assemble on Sunday mornings to salute the flag, sing ‘Beasts of England’, and receive their orders for the week; but there would be no more debates.

In spite of the shock that Snowball’s expulsion had given them, the animals were dismayed by this announcement. Several of them would have protested if they could have found the right arguments. Even Boxer was vaguely troubled. He set his ears back, shook his forelock several times, and tried hard to marshal his thoughts; but in the end he could not think of anything to say. Some of the pigs themselves, however, were more articulate. Four young porkers in the front row uttered shrill squeals of disapproval, and all four of them sprang to their feet and began speaking at once. But suddenly the dogs sitting round Napoleon let out deep, menacing growls, and the pigs fell silent and sat down again. Then the sheep broke out into a tremendous bleating of “Four legs good, two legs bad!” which went on for nearly a quarter of an hour and put an end to any chance of discussion.

Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to explain the new arrangement to the others.

“Comrades,” he said, “I trust that every animal here appreciates the sacrifice that Comrade Napoleon has made in taking this extra labour upon him. Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure! On the contrary, it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes more firmly than Comrade Napoleon that all animals are equal. He would be only too happy to let you make your decisions for yourselves. But sometimes you might make the wrong decisions, comrades, and then where should we be? Suppose you had decided to follow Snowball, with his moonshine of windmills — Snowball, who, as we now know, was no better than a criminal?”

                                                                                                          “Animal Farm” by George Orwell

2.3.5. Juxtaposition

Activity 2.3.5

Read the extract below, from “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck, and answer the questions.

A town is a thing like a colonial animal. A town has a nervous system and a head and shoulders and feet. A town is a thing separate from all other towns, so that there are no two towns alike. And a town has a whole emotion. How news travels through a town is a mystery not easily to be solved. News seems to move faster than small boys can scramble and dart to tell it, faster than women can call it over the fences.

Before Kino and Juana and the other fishers had come to Kino’s brush house, the nerves of the town were pulsing and vibrating with the news - Kino had found the Pearl of the World. Before panting little boys could strangle out the words, their mothers knew it. The news swept on past the brush houses, and it washed in a foaming wave into the town of stone and plaster. It came to the priest walking in his garden, and it put a thoughtful look in his eyes and a memory of certain repairs necessary to the church. He wondered what the pearl would be worth. And he wondered whether he had baptized Kino’s baby, or married him for that matter. The news came to the shopkeepers, and they looked at men’s clothes that had not sold so well.

The news came to the doctor where he sat with a woman whose illness was age, though neither she nor the doctor would admit it. And when it was made plain who Kino was, the doctor grew stern and judicious at the same time. “He is a client of mine,” the doctor said. “I am treating his child for a scorpion sting.” And the doctor’s eyes rolled up a little in their fat hammocks and he thought of Paris. 

He remembered the room he had lived in there as a great and luxurious place. The doctor looked past his aged patient and saw he sitting in a restaurant in Paris and a waiter was just opening a bottle of wine.The news came early to the beggars in front of the church, and it made them giggle a little with pleasure, for they knew that there is no alms giver in the world like a poor man who is suddenly lucky.

Kino has found the Pearl of the World. In the town, in little offices, sat the men who bought pearls from the fishers. They waited in their chairs until the pearls came in, and then they cackled and fought and shouted and threatened until they reached the lowest price the fisherman would stand. But there was a price below which they dared not go, for it had happened that a fisherman in despair had given his pearls to the church. And when the buying was over, these buyers sat alone and their fingers played restlessly with the pearls, and they wished they owned the pearls. For there were not many buyers really - there was only one, and he kept these agents in separate offices to give a semblance of competition. The news came to these men, and their eyes squinted and their finger-tips burned a little, and each one thought how the patron could not live forever and someone had to take his place. And each one thought how with some capital he could get a new start.

All manner of people grew interested in Kino - people with things to sell and people with favours to ask. Kino had found the Pearl of the World. The essence of pearl mixed with essence of men and a curious dark residue was precipitated. Every man suddenly became related to Kino’s pearl, and Kino’s pearl went into the dreams, the speculations, the schemes, the plans, the futures, the wishes, the needs, the lusts, the hungers, of everyone, And only one person stood in the way and that was Kino, so that he became curiously every man’s enemy. The news stirred up something infinitely black and evil in the town; the black distillate was like the scorpion, or like hunger in the smell of food, or like loneliness when love is withheld. The poison sacs of the town began to manufacture venom, and the town swelled and puffed with the pressure of it.

But Kino and Juana did not know these things. Because they were happy and excited they thought everyone shared their joy. Juan Tomás and Apolonia did, and they were the world too. In the afternoon, when the sun had gone over the mountains of the Peninsula to sink in the outward sea, Kino squatted in his house with Juana beside him. 

And the brush house was crowded with neighbors. Kino held the great pearl in his hand, and it was warm and alive in his hand. And the music of the pearl had merged with the music of the family so that one beautified the other. The neighbors looked at the pearl in Kino’s hand and they wondered how such luck could come to any man. And Juan Tomás, who squatted on Kino’s right hand because he was his brother, asked, “What will you do now that you have become a rich man?”

Kino looked into his pearl, and Juana cast her eyelashes down and arranged her shawl to cover her face so that her excitement could not be seen. And in the incandescence of the pearl the pictures formed of the things Kino’s mind had considered in the past and had given up as impossible. In the pearl he saw Juana and Coyotito and himself standing and kneeling at the high altar, and they were being married now that they could pay. He spoke softly: “We will be married - in the church.”

In the pearl he saw how they were dressed - Juana in a shawl stiff with newness and a new skirt, and from under the long skirt Kino could see that she wore shoes. It was in the pearl - the picture glowing there. He himself was dressed in new white clothes, and he carried a new hat - not of straw but of fine black felt - and he too wore shoes - not sandals but shoes that laced. But Coyotito - he was the one - he wore a blue sailor suit from the United States and a little yachting cap such as Kino had seen once when a pleasure boat put into the estuary.All of these things Kino saw in the lucent pearl and he said: “We will have new clothes.” And the music of the pearl rose like a chorus of trumpets in his ears.

Then to the lovely gray surface of the pearl came the little things Kino wanted: a harpoon to take the place of one lost a year ago, a new harpoon of iron with a ring in the end of the shaft; and - his mind could hardly make the leap - a rifle - but why not, since he was so rich? And Kino saw Kino in the pearl, Kino holding a Winchester carbine. It was the wildest day-dreaming and very pleasant. His lips moved hesitantly over this - “A rifle,” he said. “Perhaps a rifle.”

It was the rifle that broke down the barriers. This was impossibility, and if he could think of having a rifle whole horizon were burst and he could rush on. For it is said that humans are never satisfied, that you give them one thing and they want something more. And this is said in disparagement, whereas it is one of the greatest talents the species has and one that has made it superior to animals that are satisfied with what they have.

The neighbors close pressed and silent in the house nodded their heads at his wild imaginings. And a man in the rear murmured: “A rifle. He will have a rifle.”

                                                                                                        “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck

Questions

1. After reading the extract above, identify the lines where the narrator has used juxtaposition. 

2. How does the author describe the process of a Pearl being made in an oyster? 

Note: In literature, juxtaposition is a useful device for writers to describe their characters in great detail, to create suspense, and achieve a rhetorical effect. It is a human quality to comprehend one thing easily by comparing it to another. Therefore, a writer can make readers sense “goodness” in a particular character by placing him or her side-by-side with a character that is predominantly “evil.” Consequently, goodness in one character is highlighted by evil in the other character. Juxtaposition in this case is useful in the development of characters.

Juxtaposition enable to writers  to surprise their readers and evoke their interest, by means of developing a comparison between two dissimilar things by placing them side by side. The comparison drawn adds brightness to a given image, controls the stepping of the poem or a narrative, and provides a logical connection between two vague concepts.

Application activity 2.3.5 

Answer the questions below.

1. Why would an author choose to use juxtaposition as a literary technique? 

2. Indicate where the writerhas used juxtaposition as one of the literary devices.

2.4. Narrator (objective, omniscient)

2.4.1 Objective narrator

Activity 2.4.1

Read the following extract “White Hands” by Jane Katjavivi and answer the questions.

……..She could rest in her single student room, away from the noise of other people and their praying eyes. She could study while she rested. She could afford to eat well, her scholarship allowing her the fruit and vegetables that were difficult to afford at home. She told Tembi but asked her not to tell anyone else. 

She dared not even tell her husband; for fear that something might go wrong. But the Lord was with her. The baby stayed and grew. She felt it kick.

Angelika approached the church once more and asked to stay in England until the baby was born. She could not face returning to the hospital in Windhoek. They offered her assistance from an emergence fund so she could give birth in Birmingham and continue her studies afterwards. When she became so large that no one could deny it, she told her husband of the news. When she had safely delivered she sent a message home…

                                                                                       “White hands” by Jane Katjavivi

Questions

Note: Objective narrator: Is a third person narrator that describes characters from the outside only, never revealing their thoughts. He functions like a video-recorder, telling the reader the action and dialogue of the characters but never entering the character’s thoughts.  

The narrator is an observer,” a fly in the wall narrator,” as it is often called, is to describe character’s appearance, speech and actions in a way that enables us to infer their thoughts.

He/she does not know more about the character than what they choose to show. When it comes to figuring people out, objective narrators are more like us, humans. We never know what’s on someone else’s mind and neither does an objective narrator. They might be useful because they will try to interpret other characters’ body language and the reader will get that challenge too.

Application activity 2.4.1     

Answer the questions below.

2.4.2 Omniscient narrator

Read  the short story below Roman Fever by Edith Wharton and then answer the questions.

Roman Fever

From the table at which they had been lunching two American ladies of ripe but well-cared-for middle age moved across the lofty terrace of the Roman restaurant and, leaning on its parapet, looked first at each other, and then down on the outspread glories of the Palatine and the Forum, with the same expression of vague but benevolent approval.

As they learned there a girlish voice echoed up gaily from the stairs leading to the court below. “Well, come along, then,” it cried, not to them but to an invisible companion, “and let’s leave the young things to their knitting,” and a voice as fresh laughed back: “Oh, look here, Babs, not actually knitting!” Well, I mean figuratively,” rejoined the first. “After all, we haven’t left our poor parents much else to do…” At that point the turn of the stairs engulfed the dialogue. 

The two ladies looked at each other again, this time with a tinge of smiling embarrassment, and the smaller and paler one shook her head and coloured slightly. “Barbara!” she murmured, sending an unheard rebuke after the mocking voice in the stairway.

The other lady, who was fuller, and higher in colour, with a small determined nose supported by vigorous black eyebrows, gave a good-humoured laugh. “That’s what our daughters think of us.” 

Her companion replied by a deprecating gesture. “Not of us individually. We must remember that. It’s just the collective modern idea of Mothers. And you see!”” Half guiltily she drew from her handsomely mounted black handbag a twist of crimson silk run through by two fine knitting needles. “One never knows,” she murmured. “The new system has certainly given us a good deal of time to kill; and sometimes I get tired just looking!” even at this.” Her gesture was now addressed to the stupendous scene at their feet. 

The dark lady laughed again, and they both relapsed upon the view, contemplating it in silence, with a sort of diffused serenity which might have been borrowed from the spring effulgence of the Roman skies. The luncheon hour was long past, and the two had their end of the vast terrace to themselves. At its opposite extremity a few groups, detained by a lingering look at the outspread city, were gathering up guidebooks and fumbling for tips. The last of them scattered, and the two ladies were alone on the air-washed height.

 “Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t just stay here,” said Mrs. Slade, the lady of the high color and energetic brows. Two derelict basket chairs stood near, and she pushed them into the angle of the parapet, and settled herself in one, her gaze upon the Palatine. “After all, it’s still the most beautiful view in the world.”

“It always will be, to me,” assented her friend Mrs. Ansley, with so slight a stress on the “me” that Mrs. Slade, though she noticed it, wondered if it were not merely accidental, like the random underlining’s of old-fashioned letter writers. 

“Grace Ansley was always old-fashioned,” she thought; and added aloud, with a retrospective smile: “It’s a view we’ve both been familiar with for a good many years. When we first met here we were younger than our girls are now. You remember!”

 “Oh, yes, I remember,” murmured Mrs. Ansley, with the same indefinable stress!” There’s that head-waiter wondering,” she interpolated. She was evidently far less sure than her companion of herself and of her rights in the world. 

“I’ll cure him of wondering,” said Mrs. Slade, stretching her hand toward a bag as discreetly opulent-looking as Mrs. Ansley’s. Signing to the headwaiter, she explained that she and her friend were old lovers of Rome, and would like to spend the end of the afternoon looking down on the view! “that is, if it did not disturb the service! The headwaiter, bowing over her gratuity, assured her that the ladies were most welcome, and would be still more so if they would condescend to remain for dinner. A full moon night, they would remember.... 

Mrs. Slade’s black brows drew together, as though references to the moon were out of place and even unwelcome. But she smiled away her frown as the headwaiter retreated. “Well, why not! We might do worse. There’s no knowing, I suppose, when the girls will be back. Do you even know back from where? I don’t!” Mrs. Ansley again coloured slightly. “I think those young Italian aviators we met at the Embassy invited them to fly to Tarquinia for tea. I suppose they’ll want to wait and fly back by moonlight.”

“Moonlight!” moonlight! What a part it still plays. Do you suppose they’re as sentimental as we were?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t in the least know what they are,” said Mrs. Ansley. “And perhaps we didn’t know much more about each other.” “No, perhaps we didn’t.” Her friend gave her a shy glance. “I never should have supposed you were sentimental, Alida.”……

                                                                                                  “Roman Fever” by Edith Wharton

Questions

Note: An omniscient narrator is a narrator who knows what thecharacter thinks and what is happening everywhere H/she is not restricted by time or space.  Such narrators can provide us with broader over views, can describe events involving various characters, and can dip into the minds of any number of characters to tell us their thoughts. The omniscient Narrator relates all the action of the work using a third-person pronoun such as “he, she or they it.” Omniscient narrators are like the super heroes of narrators, and that is because they know everything. They can jump from characters’ head to another, they know when you have been good and bad, they move from character to character, from scene to scene, from one place to another because they just know it all. Knowing it all means these narrators know the details of pretty much everything.

Application activity 2.4.2   

Read and answer the questions below.

Application activity 2.4.3

Read the story below, and answer the questions that follow.

The War of the Ears.

Beeda stood on the school veranda watched the last pupils disappear down the road. He thought of this as the road swallowed the pupils. The day’s climax, a question-and- answer session, came back to him and he heard this voice rise to fill the classroom:

“What are twelve times five?” 

“Sixty,” the pupils sang cheerfully. 

“What is twelve times seven?” 

“Eighty-four.” 

“What are twelve times twelve?” 

“One hundred and forty-four.” 

He loved the interaction and the pupils’ rapt attention, which placed him at the center of their world, made him feel alive. The world outside school was full of questions he could not answer and things he could not control. But when he stood in front of his class, he knew everything there was nothing he could not do. Now his class was gone and he was back on the periphery of their lives, and the school, with its abandoned classrooms and silent playground, made him think of an empty shell. When he tried to imagine what would happen if the road did not regurgitate pupil’s tomorrow, a feeling of near panic crept over him. Night was falling. On the left side of the school, the trees in the forests were slowly sinking into darkness. On the right side, the details of on the hills were disappearing, the profiles hardening. This was loneliest time of the day and Beeda hated it.

“The War of the Ears” by Moses Isegawa

Questions

End unit assessment activities 

Read and analyse the novel, “Animal Farm” by George Orwell, then answers the following questions.

Questions