Foreshadowing and Symbolism in The Glass Menagerie (Journal #5, Marking Period 2)

It has been said many times that nothing in a play, film, or novel is accidental.
The same holds true for the ominous, almost spectral, portrait of the patriarch of the Wingfield family. His portrait hangs on the wall despite Amanda's supposed dislike of him.

In your journals, please consider the following:

What is the importance of having the photograph of Laura's father showing on the wall? Do you think this will be significant later in the play? If so, how will it be important? Does the picture foreshadow anything in the play?

The Southern Gothic Gets Redacted (Journal #4, Marking Period 2)

Many Southern writers were informed by Twain's ability to weave realism, satire, and local color together. Many scholars classify him as an author who contributed to the evolution between the Gothic of Poe and the Grotesque of O'Connor.

Another aspect of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that carries in the same vein of the Southern Gothic genre is the oppression of African Americans. You can even see evidence of it Scene One of The Glass Menagerie.

In Twain's book, Jim, the ever-faithful and dutiful slave, is depicted by the author with the utmost humanity, while remaining honest in his portrayal of Jim's character as a black male in antebellum America. Through the character of Jim, Twain records the African American experience during this times period. Jim is denied much because of his skin color; however, he stands to loose contact with his own immediate kin. Likewise, Jim faces preconceptions based on his status as a black male. Twain illustrates this point through the relationship between Huck and Jim at various stages throughout the work. Huck comes to view Jim not as a black man, but as his best friend. Due to the trials that they face on the Mississippi River, Huck witnesses Jim's faithful loyalty in the most precarious of situations; thus, Huck is able to cast aside the naturalistic forces that taught him to subordinate African Americans. Instead, Huck comes to view Jim as a endearing companion, a father-figure, and a true friend.

Taking all of this into account, the news came last year that the book would have all language considered insensitive removed from the book.

My question today is:

Why is it problematic to a reading audience to have "offensive" language removed from classic books like "The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn"? Does it run the risk of erasing the historical context of the book in the eyes of the reading public?

The Glass Menagerie - Scene 4 Questions: The Thin Line (12/12/16)

As we go from children to teens to adulthood, we seldom stop to think about how difficult it can be for people to raise children in today's world. Truth be told, it was always hard.

As long as people have been young, there has always been temptation. Even more true, there has always been resentment. Are their instances where this does not exist?

Of course.

For some, raising children is not as hard as it is for others.
In the case of the Wingfield family, there is a growing hostility that threatens to destroy the line between love and hate - concern and overbearing, meddlesome behavior.

As children, we often tell ourselves that we will be different from our own parents. The truth is that's very hard to accomplish. We are the sum total of our experiences.

Southern Gothic relies heavily on the idea that parents/authority figures (especially ones like Laura Wingfield) lord over their children in a way that is overbearing because they are trying to deal with their feelings of inadequacy as people...and parents.

This is key to understanding intricate psychology that is the "push-pull" in the Wingfield family.

1. Choose one important symbol in this scene. Discuss why the symbol is appropriate to the character it is associated with.
2 Give two themes that are suggested in this scene. For each theme statement, provide supporting details.
3. Outline an unresolved conflict in this scene. Discuss why the conflict is unresolved.
4. The scene ends with Amanda making a telephone call to sell magazine subscriptions. Briefly explain why the scene ends this way.

5. What are Amanda's concerns about Tom?
6. Are they legitimate (meaning, does she have good reason to be afraid for him)?
7. Do you think her concern has in any way shaped the way he is? Explain.

8. How have your parents or guardians shaped you, in either positive or negative ways?
9. What have your parents done or said to cause you have to develop these character traits?
10. What will you do to influence your own children (or children you may already influence in some way, such as a niece or nephew, etc)?



Questions for Scene Four are due at the end of class, Wednesday (12/14/16). Please keep in mind that this is a 25 point assignment. I would like to see well formed responses and complete sentences.

The Weight (Journal #3, Marking Period 2)

In Scene Two, we discover that Laura has been lying to Amanda about something very important. Amanda's reaction is equal parts outrage and distress.

In the midst of this, we find out that Amanda belongs to the D.A.R.

What is this organization and what are they about?

Does her membership in this organization strike you as a bit strange?
Why or why not?

We also find out that Laura is literally and figuratively "crippled" under the weight of her mother's expectations for her.

On a personal level, please answer this question as well:

Have you ever done something that has disappointed someone who has great expectations for you?
Have you ever felt that you did not want what someone else wanted for you?
Was this a burden to you?
Was there some other way to handle this issue?

What became of the situation when it was settled?

The Glass Menagerie - Scene One Questions (12/5/16)

The following questions are due on Wednesday, 12/7/16. They should be shared with me using Googledocs.

1) Describe what Amanda, the mother, is expecting, the event for which she is waiting.
2) Then, speculate on how Tom and Laura might be feeling about her expectations.
3) Do Tom and Laura share her expectations? How do they react to their mother's behavior?
4) How does the dialogue and the action lead you to believe your opinion?
5) Since The Glass Menagerie is a memory play (and a Coming of Age story), it puts the reader in the place of Tom and Laura as the recipients of Amanda's smothering behavior. How might you feel if you were Tom?
6) How might you feel if you were Laura?
7) Why do you believe Laura tells Tom they should allow their mother to tell her stories, even if they have heard them before? Is this kindness or cruelty? Explain.

The Memoir Essay (Journal #2, Marking Period 2)

Writing a Memoir Essay

This play lends itself to writing what is called a memoir essay. A memoir essay takes an event from memory and shows its significance.

Begin by making a list of at least five significant memories. Usually, this assignment works best when you avoid “bad” memories and instead stick to good ones. One of my earliest childhood memories centers around sitting in the backseat of my father's car and listening to the radio whenever we went anywhere. I remember how much music shaped my childhood. I remember asking my father to buy me my first guitar because I wanted to learn how to play the songs I loved.

Think of your own memories.

Once you have a list, choose one of these to be the subject of their paper. Your essay should run one to two pages in length.

What the paper must have:

You need to use details (sight, sound, scent, touch) in order to create the scene so that a reader can visualize the setting of the memory.

You must choose whether to tell the memory in chronological order or tell it as a flashback (looking back on the memory from the present time).

You must describe the characters’ personalities and characteristics. You need to make them come alive. You should include detail, description and dialogue.

The essay should have a balance between thought and action. Things should happen in the paper, but you also need to explain the meaning behind the action.

By the end of the paper, you need to show the reader why the memory is important. For instance, using my memory of my listening to music as a child, I can give the reader some idea of the events that shaped my life. In fact, they springboard into more adult memories. I can't help but think about how music has given me everything I have in this life. I don't know where I would be without music. I really don't.

The Southern Gothics (11/30/16)

General Housekeeping

Later this week, we will begin reading "The Glass Menagerie" by Tennessee Williams.
This play is another example of what is considered Southern Gothic literature. You will begin to see how Stoker's vision of characters morphs slowly into something more dramatic in the hands of an American author. For those of you in my English class, you have already seen some glimpses of this in "To Kill A Mockingbird."

You will also see how the Southern Gothic writers take on the same social issues being discussed in Dracula. They just do it a little differently.

Additionally, tell me how the play and the characters are examples of Southern Gothic.

Can you find examples from some of the 20th century representations of Southern Gothic literature that allude to what we traditionally refer to as European Gothic literature?

The Doomsday Clock (Journal #1, Marking Period 2)

The best fiction is a mirror of the times. If you ever want to know what was going on in a society that has disappeared, try to find some record of their arts.

When writer Alan Moore, artist Dave Gibbons, and colorist John Higgins sat down to create "The Watchmen", they probably did not realize they were creating a graphic novel that would earn a place on Time Magazine's list of greatest novels of the twentieth century. * (Don't believe me? Follow the link at the bottom of this page.)

They did this by constructing a dense story that takes place in an alternate reality where Richard Nixon is a five-term president and the government employs freelance masked heroes to help the United States win The Vietnam War.

In the story, the United States is drifting dangerously close to a nuclear conflict with the Soviet Union. The ultimate destruction of mankind is manifested in the film's opening as one of its greatest heroes is found murdered.

A closer look at why this happened reveals the darker side of the public's perception of fame and the idea of what makes a person a hero.

"As the mystery unraveled, we would be led deeper and deeper into the real heart of this super-hero's world, and show a reality that was very different to the general public image of the super-hero." - Alan Moore



We all know that there are no super-heroes in the conventional sense of the word. But, there are super-powers. There are forces, created by man, that could destroy us.

In 1952, Albert Einstein broke his silence about his part in the development of the atomic bomb. He said:

"My part in producing the atomic bomb consisted in a single act: I signed a letter to President Roosevelt, pressing the need for experiments on a larger scale in order to explore the possibilities for the production of an atomic bomb.

I was fully aware of the terrible danger to mankind in case this attempts succeeded. But the likelihood that the Germans were working on the same problem with a chance of succeeding forced me to this step. I could do nothing else although I have always been a convinced pacifist. To my mind, to kill in war is not a whit better than to commit ordinary murder."

Einstein's statement is an eerie reminder that man often uses his power to create things that are only meant to destroy. In "The Watchmen", magical realism is used to create a cautionary tale about man's need to seize power and the depths he will sink to in order to claim it.

In your journals, write about something that should have never been invented.

Are there any good uses for this thing? If so, what are they?
Could any argument be made to the contrary?

* http://www.time.com/time/2005/100books/0,24459,watchmen,00.html

"The First Rule of Fight Club Is..." (Homework Assignment: 11/21/16)

Today, you are going to see some scenes from the film "Fight Club".
Take note of the similarities between this story and Kafka's "The Metamorphosis".
Take note of the things that are also present in "The Green Mile".

Are the characters in the film as you picture them from the excerpt you read?
Today, the film clips will start showing you how Kafka's ideas morph into something bizarre and ultra-modern.

No matter how far we come, people are still dealing with the same frustrations.
That is worth further consideration.

The following prompt is to be answered in Googledocs. It is to be submitted on 11/23/16.
Make sure your piece is thorough and your answer is well-formed.

After viewing the clips, think about the characters and how they deal with reality and adversity.

Which character would prevail in our society: Tyler or The Narrator? Why? Present your choice in a logical and clear thesis with some evidence from the film. This requires you to pay carefully attention in class and participate in the discussion that follows. Remember to use our society as the context and not the society in the film.

The Fight Club and Post-Modern Magical Realism (11/21/16)

When Chuck Palahniuk wrote "The Fight Club", he probably didn't realize he was creating a work of fiction that somehow transcended the idea of existentialism and punched a hole into the universe of magical-realism.

But, he did.

This story is about a man caught in a more modern labyrinth of self. He is consumed by his desire to find meaning. His job and everything around him represent his inability to know his true self. His desire to consume has shifted the emphasis away from real self-discovery and shifted his focus to finding dishware that defines him as a person.

Consequently, he cannot sleep.
He is beginning to have a psychic break - and this is when you catch glimpses of his true nature.

Literally.

It is also around the time that he starts shifting his own need for self-discovery into his desire to be a support-group junkie.

Suddenly, his pain disappears into the pain of others.

You can see some eerie similarities between this and "The Metamorphosis".
Specifically, the way the character suddenly feels that he is losing his humanity.

The Fight Club - Excerpt (11/18/16)

This week the insomnia is back. Insomnia, and now the whole world figures to stop by and take a dump on my grave.

My boss is wearing his gray tie so today must be a Tuesday.

My boss brings a sheet of paper to my desk and asks if I’m looking for something. This paper was left in the copy machine, he says, and begins to read:

“The first rule of fight club is you don’t talk about fight club.”

His eyes go side to side across the paper, and he giggles.

“The second rule of fight club is you don’t talk about fight club.”

I hear Tyler’s words come out of my boss, Mister Boss with his midlife spread and family photo on his desk and his dreams about early retirement and winters spent at a trailer park hookup in some Arizona desert. My boss, with his extra-starched shirts and standing appointment for a haircut every Tuesday after lunch, he looks at me, and he says:
“I hope this isn’t yours.”

I am Joe’s Blood-Boiling Rage.

Tyler asked me to type up the fight club rules and make him ten copies. Not nine, not eleven. Tyler says, ten. Still I have the insomnia, and can’t remember sleeping since three nights ago. This must be the original I typed. I made ten copies, and forgot the original. The paparazzi flash of the copy machine in my face. The insomnia distance of everything, a copy of a copy of a copy. You can’t touch anything, and nothing can touch you.

My boss reads:
“The third rule of fight club is two men per fight.”

Neither of us blinks.

My boss reads:
“One fight at a time.”

I haven’t slept in three days unless I’m sleeping now. My boss shakes the paper under my nose. What about it, he says. Is this some little game I’m playing on company time? I’m paid for my full attention, not to waste time with little war games. And I’m not paid to abuse the copy machines.

What about it? He shakes the paper under my nose. What do I think, he asks, what should he do with an employee who spends company time in some little fantasy world. If I was in his shoes, what would I do?

What would I do?

The hole in my cheek, the blue-black swelling around my eyes, and the swollen red scar of Tyler's kiss on the back of my hand, a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy.
Speculation.

Why does Tyler want ten copies of the fight club rules?

Hindu cow.

What I would do, I say, is I’d be very careful who I talked to about this paper.
I say, it sounds like some dangerous psycho killer wrote this, and this buttoned-down schizophrenic could probably go over the edge at any moment in the working day and stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-180 carbine gas-operated semiautomatic.

My boss just looks at me.

The guy, I say, is probably at home every night with a little rattail file, filing a cross into the tip of every one of his rounds. This way, when he shows up to work one morning and pumps a round into his nagging, ineffectual, petty, whining, butt-sucking, candy-ass boss, that one round will split along the filed grooves and spread open the way a dumdum bullet flowers inside you to blow a bushel load of your stinking guts out through your spine. Picture your guy chakra opening in a slow-motion explosion of sausage-casing small intestine.

My boss takes the paper out from under my nose.
Go ahead, I say, read some more.
No really, I say, it sounds fascinating. The work of a totally diseased mind.
And I smile. The little butthole-looking edges of the hole in my check are the same blue-black of a dog’s gums. The skin stretched tight across the swelling around my eyes feels varnished.

My boss just looks at me.

Let me help you, I say.

I say, the fourth rule of fight club is one fight at a time.

My boss looks at the rules and then looks at me.

I say, the fifth rule is no shoes, no shirts in the fight.

My boss looks at the rules and looks at me.

Maybe, I say, this totally diseased would use an Eagle Apache carbine because an Apache takes a thirty-shot mag and only weighs nine pounds. The Armalite only takes a five-round magazine. With thirty shots, our totally ed hero could go the length of mahogany row and take out every vice-president with a cartridge left over for each director.

Tyler’s words coming out of my mouth. I used to be such a nice person.
I just look at my boss. My boss has blue, blue, pale cornflower blue eyes.
The J and R 68 semiautomatic carbine also takes a thirty-shot mag, and it only weighs seven pounds.

My boss just looks at me.
It’s scary, I say. This is probably somebody he’s known for years. Probably this guy knows all about him, where he lives, and where his wife works and his kids go to school.

This is exhausting, and all of a sudden very, very boring.

And why does Tyler need ten copies of the fight club rules?

What I don’t have to say is I know about the leather interiors that cause birth defects. I know about the counterfeit brake linings that looked good enough to pass the purchasing agent, but fail after two thousand miles.

I know about the air-conditioning rheostat that gets so hot it sets fire to the maps in your glove compartment. I know how many people burn alive because of fuel-injector flashback. I’ve seen people’s legs cut off at the knee when turbochargers star exploding and send their vanes through the firewall and into the passenger compartment. I’ve been out in the field and seen the burned-up cars and seen the reports where CAUSE OF FAILURE is recorded as “unknown.”

No, I say, the paper’s not mine. I take the paper between two fingers and jerk it out of his hand. The edge must slice his thumb because his hand flies to his mouth, and he’s sucking hard, eyes wide open. I crumble the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash can next to my desk.

Maybe, I say, you shouldn’t be bringing me every little piece of trash you pick up.

Magical Realism - Writing Prompt (11/16/16)

The rough draft for this story is due on Wednesday, 11/30/16.

Write a story that portrays a character who somehow, someway is "trapped" in a relationship that is unfulfilling, or perhaps "trapped" in a job that they detest. Even possibly consider exploring a character who is physically trapped by his/her environment. We will be seeing more examples of this genre in class before we break for Thanksgiving.

To write your story, carefully consider the examples we discussed in class.


Groundhog Day, Barton Fink - Absurdism (The man trapped in the labyrinth of self)



The Green Mile - Post slavery, racial and social injustice



Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor, A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings, Pan's Labyrinth - A response to the turbulence of a hostile political climate, struggles with religion, writing in code to avoid governmental prosecution.



The Metamorphosis - 20th Century Frustrations with modern living and existentialism.

Groundhog Day: Getting Life "Right" (Journal #1, Marking Period 2)

In the comedy “Groundhog Day” Bill Murray experienced the same day again and again, stuck in a time loop until he got the day “right.” What day would you choose to repeat until you got it right? Do you think it’s ever possible to get life “right”?

Groundhog Day - Viewing Questions (11/7/16)

Directions: Please answer these questions as you watch the film. We will finish watching the film on Wednesday.
Your responses to these questions/prompts are due in Googledocs by Thurdsday, 11/10/16.

Groundhog Day
Viewing Questions

A) Exposition
1) Setting

Where is the movie set?
Give an approximate time period for the setting of the film.

2)Characters

Who are the main characters?
Who is the protagonist?
Who are the secondary characters?

3)Complication

What is the conflict/complication in the story?

B) First conflict

1) What does he want and why can't he get it?

"Oh, no! I make the weather!"

2) What type of conflict is featured in this film?

___Person vs. Person
___Person vs. Society
___Person vs. Destiny or Fate
___Person vs. Nature
___Person vs. The Unknown
___Person vs. Machine
___Person vs. Self

3) How do we know he has lost (any of these conflicts)?

C) Protagonist (During the first 30 minutes of the movie)

1) His actions demonstrate...
....and show he is what type of person?

2) His likes are...
....and show he values?

3) His hates are...
.....and shows he disrespects?

4) His words to others are...
....and show his attitude to be?

5) What do others say/think about him?

The Metamorphosis - Quiz Questions (11/4/16)

Directions: Answer the following questions in complete sentences. Your responses for questions 1-5 are due on Monday, 11/7/16.

We will be watching pieces of the film "Groundhog Day" in class.

1. What is the “metamorphosis” referred to in the title? Is the metamorphosis sudden or gradual? What is the reason for this sudden or gradual transformation of the main character? In other words, Why do you think Kafka made this artistic decision?
2. The last word of the first line is sometimes translated as bug, cockroach, or insect, but Kafka intended it to be “vermin.” Definition for vermin: “Vermin is a term given to animals which are considered by humans to be pests or nuisances, most associated with the carrying of disease. Disease-carrying rodents and insects are the usual case but the term can also apply to larger animals, on the basis that they exist out of ecological balance with their environment.” Why did Kafka leave the term abstract? What might the bug transformation symbolize??
3. Consider Gregor’s relationships with his family members. Do they behave well or badly to the bug in their midst? Explain your answer.
4. What things are left unexplained? Why do you think Kafka left them unexplained??
5. How is "The Metamorphosis" a good example of magical realism? What conventions of the genre are present in these excerpts?
6. In the second excerpt from the story, the protagonist mentions that even his voice has changed. He mentions that his mother doesn't notice the change. What does he believe keeps her from noticing the change?
7. The protagonist mentions that he locks all the doors to his bedroom. Where does he say he learned this behavior?
8. What excuse does he decide to offer for the change in his voice?
9. How does the Samsa family’s life change after Gregor is transformed into an insect? In what ways has it remained the same?
10. What three members of his family try to get him out of bed? Describe their methods they use to try and get into his room. How do they differ?
11. What is "The Myth of Sisyphus" and how does it relate to both "Groundhog Day and Kafka's work?
12. What are the similarities between "Groundhog Day" and Kafka's work?

Franz Kafka - The Metamorphosis (Excerpt 4)

Gregor did not go now into the living room, but leaned against the inside of the firmly shut wing of the door, so that only half his body was visible and his head above it bending sideways to look at the others. The light had meanwhile strengthened; on the other side of the street one could see clearly a section of the endlessly long, dark gray building opposite-it was a hospital-abruptly punctuated by its row of regular windows; the rain was still falling, but only in large singly discernible and literally singly splashing drops. The breakfast dishes were set out on the table lavishly, for. breakfast was the most important meal of the day to Gregor's father, who lingered it out for hours over various newspapers. Right opposite Gregor on the wall hung a photograph of himself on military service, as a lieutenant, hand on sword, a carefree smile on his face, inviting one to respect his uniform and military bearing. The door leading to the hall was open, and one could see that the front door stood open too, showing the landing beyond and the beginning of the stairs going down.

"Well," said Gregor, knowing perfectly that he was the only one who had retained any composure, "I'll put my clothes on at once, pack up my samples and start off. Will you only let me go? You see, sir, I'm not obstinate, and I'm willing to work; traveling is a hard life, but I couldn't live without it. Where are you going, sir? To the office? Yes? Will you give a true account of all this? One can be temporarily incapacitated, but that's just the moment for remembering former services and bearing in mind that later on, when the incapacity has been got over, one will certainly work with all the more industry and concentration. I'm loyally bound to serve the chief, you know that very well. Besides, I have to provide for my parents and my sister. I'm in great difficulties, but I'll get out of them again. Don't make things any worse for me than they are. Stand up for me in the firm. Travelers are not popular there, I know. People think they earn sacks of money and just have a good time. A prejudice there's no particular reason for revising. But you, sir, have a more comprehensive view of affairs than the rest of the staff, yes, let me tell you in confidence, a more comprehensive view than the chief himself, who, being the owner, lets his judgment easily be swayed against one of his employees. And you know very well that the traveler, who is never seen in the office almost the whole year round, can so easily fall a victim to gossip and ill luck and unfounded complaints, which he mostly knows nothing about, except when he comes back exhausted from his rounds, and only then suffers in person from their evil consequences, which he can no longer trace back to the original causes. Sir, sir, don't go away without a word to me to show that you think me in the right at least to some extent!"

But at Gregor's very first words the chief clerk had already backed away and only stared at him with parted lips over one twitching shoulder. And while Gregor was speaking he did not stand still one moment but stole away towards the door, without taking his eyes off Gregor, yet only an inch at a time, as if obeying some secret injunction to leave the room. He was already at the hall, and the suddenness with which he took his last step out of the living room would have made one believe he had burned the sole of his foot. Once in the hall he stretched his right arm before him towards the staircase, as if some supernatural power were waiting there to deliver him.

Gregor perceived that the chief clerk must on no account be allowed to go away in this frame of mind if his position in the firm were not to be endangered to the utmost. His parents did not understand this so well; they had convinced themselves in the course of years that Gregor was settled for life in this firm, and besides they were so preoccupied with their immediate troubles that all foresight had forsaken them. Yet Gregor had this foresight. The chief clerk must be detained, soothed, persuaded and finally won over; the whole future of Gregor and his family depended on it! If only his sister had been there! She was intelligent; she had begun to cry while Gregor was still lying quietly on his back. And no doubt the chief clerk so partial to ladies, would have been guided by her; she would have shut the door of the flat and in the hall talked him out of his horror. But she was not there, and Gregor would have to handle the situation himself. And without remembering that he was still unaware what powers of movement he possessed, without even remembering that his words in all possibility, indeed in all likelihood, would again be unintelligible, he let go the wing of the door, pushed himself through the opening, started to walk towards the chief clerk, who was already ridiculously clinging with both hands to the railing on the landing; but immediately, as he was feeling for a support, he fell down with a little cry upon all his numerous legs. Hardly was he down when he experienced for the first time this morning a sense of physical comfort; his legs had firm ground under them; they were completely obedient, as he noted with joy; they even strove to carry him forward in whatever direction he chose; and he was inclined to believe that a final relief from all his sufferings was at hand. But in the same moment as he found himself on the floor, rocking with suppressed eagerness to move, not far from his mother, indeed just in front of her, she, who had seemed so completely crushed, sprang all at once to her feet, her arms and fingers outspread, cried: "Help, for God's sake, help!" bent her head down as if to see Gregor better, yet on the contrary kept backing senselessly away; had quite forgotten that the laden table stood behind her; sat upon it hastily, as if in absence of mind, when she bumped into it; and seemed altogether unaware that the big coffee pot beside her was upset and pouring coffee in a flood over the carpet.

"Mother, Mother," said Gregor in a low voice, and looked up at her. The chief clerk for the moment, had quite slipped from his mind; instead, he could not resist snapping his jaws together at the sight of the streaming coffee. That made his mother scream again, she fled from the table and fell into the arms of his father, who hastened to catch her. But Gregor had now no time to spare for his parents; the chief clerk was already on the stairs; with his chin on the banisters he was taking one last backward look. Gregor made a spring, to be as sure as possible of overtaking him; the chief clerk must have divined his intention, for he leaped down several steps and vanished; he was still yelling "Ugh!" and it echoed through the whole staircase.

Unfortunately, the flight of the chief clerk seemed completely to upset Gregor's father, who had remained relatively calm until now, for instead of running after the man himself, or at least not hindering Gregor, in his pursuit, he seized in his right hand the walking stick which the chief clerk had left behind on a chair, together with a hat and greatcoat, snatched in his left hand a large news paper from the table and began stamping his feet and flourishing the stick and the newspaper to drive Gregor back into his room. No entreaty of Gregor's availed, indeed no entreaty was even understood, however humbly he bent his head his father only stamped on the floor the more loudly. Behind his father his mother had torn open a window, despite the cold weather, and was leaning far out of it with her face in her hands. A strong draught set in from the street to the staircase, the window curtains blew in, the newspapers on the table fluttered, stray pages whisked over the floor. Pitilessly Gregor's father drove him back, hissing and crying "Shoo!" like a savage. But Gregor was quite unpracticed in walking backwards, it really was a slow business. If he only had a chance to turn round he could get back to his room at once, but he was afraid of exasperating his father by the slowness of such a rotation and at any moment the stick in his father's hand might hit him a fatal blow on the back or on the head. In the end, however, nothing else was left for him to do since to his horror he observed that in moving backwards he could not even control the direction he took; and so, keeping an anxious eye on his father all the time over his shoulder, he began to turn round as quickly as he could, which was in reality very slowly. Perhaps his father noted his good intentions, for he did not interfere except every now and then to help him in the manoeuvre from a distance with the point of the stick. If only he would have stopped making that unbearable hissing noise! It made Gregor quite lose his head. He had turned almost completely round when the hissing noise so distracted him that he even turned a little the wrong way again. But when at last his head was fortunately right in front of the doorway, it appeared that his body was too broad simply to get through the opening. His father, of course, in his present mood was far from thinking of such a thing as opening the other half of the door, to let Gregor have enough space. He had merely the fixed idea of driving Gregor back into his room as quickly as possible. He would never have suffered Gregor to make the circumstantial preparations for standing up on end and perhaps slipping his way through the door. Maybe he was now making more noise than ever to urge Gregor forward, as if no obstacle impeded him; to Gregor, anyhow, the noise in his rear sounded no longer like the voice of one single father; this was really no joke, and Gregor thrust himself-come what might-into the doorway. One side of his body rose up, he was tilted at an angle in the doorway, his flank was quite bruised, horrid blotches stained the white door, soon he was stuck fast and, left to himself, could not have moved at ale his legs on one side fluttered trembling in the air, those on the other were crushed painfully to the floor-when from behind his father gave him a strong push which was literally a deliverance and he flew far into the room, bleeding freely. The door was slammed behind him with the stick, and then at last there was silence.

Franz Kafka - The Metamorphosis (Excerpt 3)

That was something falling down in there," said the chief clerk in the next room to the left. Gregor tried to suppose to himself that something like what had happened to him today might some day happen to the chief clerk; one really could not deny that it was possible. But as if in brusque reply to this supposition the chief clerk took a couple of firm steps in the next-door room and his patent leather boots creaked. From the right-hand room his sister was whispering to inform him of the situation: "Gregor, the chief clerk's here." "I know," muttered Gregor to himself; but he didn't dare to make his voice loud enough for his sister to hear it.

"Gregor," said his father now from the left-hand room, "the chief clerk has come and wants to know why you didn't catch the early train. We don't know what to say to him. Besides, he wants to talk to you in person. So open the door, please. He will be good enough to excuse the untidiness of your room." "Good morning, Mr. Samsa," the chief clerk was calling amiably meanwhile. "He's not well," said his mother to the visitor, while his father was still speaking through the door, "he's not well, sir, believe me. What else would make him miss a train! The boy thinks about nothing but his work. It makes me almost cross the way he never goes out in the evenings; he's been here the last eight days and has stayed at home every single evening. He just sits there quietly at the table reading a newspaper or looking through railway timetables. The only amusement he gets is doing fretwork. For instance, he spent two or three evenings cutting out a little picture frame; you would be surprised to see how pretty it is; it's hanging in his room; you'll see it in a minute when Gregor opens the door. I must say I'm glad you've come, sir; we should never have got him to unlock the door by ourselves; he's so obstinate; and I'm sure he's unwell, though he wouldn't have it to be so this morning." "I'm just coming," said Gregor slowly and carefully, not moving an inch for fear of losing one word of the conversation. "I can't think of any other explanation, madam," said the chief clerk, "I hope it's nothing serious. Although on the other hand I must say that we men of business-fortunately or unfortunately-very often simply have to ignore any slight indisposition, since business must be attended to." "Well, can the chief clerk come in now?" asked Gregor's father impatiently, again knocking on the door. "No," said Gregor. In the left-hand room a painful silence followed this refusal, in the right-hand room his sister began to sob.

Why didn't his sister join the others? She was probably newly out of bed and hadn't even begun to put on her clothes yet. Well, why was she crying? Because he wouldn't get up and let the chief clerk in, because he was in danger of losing his job, and because the chief would begin dunning his parents again for the old debts? Surely these were things one didn't need to worry about for the present. Gregor was still at home and not in the least thinking of deserting the family. At the moment, true, he was lying on the carpet and no one who knew the condition he was in could seriously expect him to admit the chief clerk. But for such a small discourtesy, which could plausibly be explained away somehow later on, Gregor could hardly be dismissed on the spot. And it seemed to Gregor that it would be much more sensible to leave him in peace for the present than to trouble him with tears and entreaties. Still, of course, their uncertainty bewildered them all and excused their behavior.

"Mr. Samsa," the chief clerk called now in a louder voice, "what's the matter with you? Here you are, barricading yourself in your room, giving only 'yes' and 'no' for answers, causing your parents a lot of unnecessary trouble and neglecting-I mention this only in passing-neglecting your business duties in an incredible fashion. I am speaking here in the name of your parents and of your chief, and I beg you quite seriously to give me an immediate and precise explanation. You amaze me, you amaze me. I thought you were a quiet, dependable person, and now all at once you seem bent on making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself. The chief did hint to me early this morning a possible explanation for your disappearance-with reference to the cash payments that were entrusted to you recently-but I almost pledged my solemn word of honor that this could not be so. But now that I see how incredibly obstinate you are, I no longer have the slightest desire to take your part at all. And your position in the firm is not so unassailable. I came with the intention of telling you all this in private, but since you are wasting my time so needlessly I don't see why your parents shouldn't hear it too. For some time past your work has been most unsatisfactory; this is not the season of the year for a business boom, of course, we admit that, but a season of the year for doing no business at all, that does not exist, Mr. Samsa, must not exist."

"But, sir," cried Gregor, beside himself and in his agitation forgetting everything else, "I'm just going to open the door this very minute. A slight illness, an attack of giddiness, has kept me from getting up. I'm still lying in bed. But I feel all right again. I'm getting out of bed now. Just give me a moment or two longer! I'm not quite so well as I thought. But I'm all right, really. How a thing like that can suddenly strike one down! Only last night I was quite welt my parents can tell you, or rather I did have a slight presentiment. I must have showed some sign of it. Why didn't I report it at the office! But one always thinks that an indisposition can be got over without staying in the house. Oh sir, do spare my parents! All that you're reproaching me with now has no foundation; no one has ever said a word to me about it. Perhaps you haven't looked at the last orders I sent in. Anyhow, I can still catch the eight o'clock train, I'm much the better for my few hours' rest. Don't let me detain you here, sir; I'll be attending to business very soon, and do be good enough to tell the chief so and to make my excuses to him!"

And while all this was tumbling out pell-mell and Gregor hardly knew what he was saying, he had reached the chest quite easily, perhaps because of the practice he had had in bed, and was now trying to lever himself upright by means of it. He meant actually to open the door, actually to show himself and speak to the chief clerk; he was eager to find out what the others, after all their insistence, would say at the sight of him. If they were horrified then the responsibility was no longer his and he could stay quiet. But if they took it calmly, then he had no reason either to be upset, and could really get to the station for the eight o'clock train if he hurried. At first he slipped down a few times from the polished surface of the chest, but at length with a last heave he stood upright; he paid no more attention to the pains in the lower part of his body, however they smarted. Then he let himself fall against the back of a near-by chair, and clung with his little legs to the edges of it. That brought him into control of himself again and he stopped speaking, for now he could listen to what the chief clerk was saying.

"Did you understand a word of it?" the chief clerk was asking; "surely he can't be trying to make fools of us?" "Oh dear," cried his mother, in tears, "perhaps he's terribly ill and we're tormenting him. Grete! Grete!" she called out then. "Yes Mother?" called his sister from the other side. They were calling to each other across Gregor's room. "You must g_o this minute for the doctor. Gregor is ill. Go for the doctor, quick. Did you hear how he was speaking?" "That was no human voice," said the chief clerk in a voice noticeably low beside the shrillness of the mother's. "Anna! Anna!" his father was calling through the hall to the kitchen, clapping his hands, "get a locksmith at once!" And the two girls were already running through the hall with a swish of skirts-how could his sister have got dressed so quickly? -and were tearing the front door open. There was no sound of its closing again; they had evidently left it open, as one does in houses where some great misfortune has happened.

But Gregor was now much calmer. The words he uttered were no longer understandable, apparently, although they seemed clear enough to him, even clearer than before, perhaps because his ear had grown accustomed to the sound of them. Yet at any rate people now believed that something was wrong with him, and were ready to help him. The positive certainty with which these first measures had been taken comforted him. He felt himself drawn once more into the human circle and hoped for great and remarkable results from both the doctor and the locksmith, without really distinguishing precisely between them. To make his voice as clear as possible for the decisive conversation that was now imminent he coughed a little, as quietly as he could, of course, since this noise too might not sound like a human cough for all he was able to judge. In the next room meanwhile there was complete silence. Perhaps his parents were sitting at the table with the chief clerk, whispering, perhaps they were all leaning against the door and listening.

Slowly Gregor pushed the chair towards the door, then let go of it, caught hold of the door for support- the soles at the end of his little legs were somewhat sticky-and rested against it for a moment after his efforts. Then he set himself to turning the key in the lock with his mouth. It seemed, unhappily, that he hadn't really any teeth-what could he grip the key with?-but on the other hand his jaws were certainly very strong; with their help he did manage to set the key in motion, heedless of the fact that he was undoubtedly damaging them somewhere, since a brown fluid issued from his mouth, flowed over the key and dripped on the floor. "Just listen to that," said the chief clerk next door; "he's turning the key." That was a great encouragement to Gregor; but they should all have shouted encouragement to him, his father and mother too: "Go on, Gregor," they should have called out, "keep going, hold on to that key!" And in the belief that they were all following his efforts intently, he clenched his jaws recklessly on the key with all the force at his command. As the turning of the key progressed he circled round the lock, holding on now only with his mouth, pushing on the key, as required, or pulling it down again with all the weight of his body. The louder click of the finally yielding lock literally quickened Gregor. With a deep breath of relief he said to himself: "So I didn't need the locksmith," and laid his head on the handle to open the door wide.

Since he had to pull the door towards him, he was still invisible when it was really wide open. He had to edge himself slowly round the near half of the double door, and to do it very carefully if he was not to fall plump upon his back just on the threshold. He was still carrying out this difficult manoeuvre, with no time to observe anything else, when he heard the chief clerk utter a loud "Oh!"-it sounded like a gust of wind-and now he could see the man, standing as he was nearest to the door, clapping one hand before his open mouth and slowly backing away as if driven by some invisible steady pressure. His mother-in spite of the chief clerk's being there her hair was still undone and sticking up in all directions-first clasped her hands and looked at his father, then took two steps towards Gregor and fell on the floor among her outspread skirts, her face quite hidden on her breast. His father knotted his fist with a fierce expression on his face as if he meant to knock Gregor back into his room, then looked uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes with his hands and wept till his great chest heaved.

The Green Mile - Response (10/31/16)

Directions: As we begin to immerse ourselves in magical realism, I am going to be asking you to write a series of responses that will eventually lead to the story you write for this genre. I want you to choose one of the following prompts and construct a response (it does not have to be a five paragraph essay) that will answer the question thoroughly using examples from the film and little research on your part. You will be taking your Coming of Age piece and adding a layer on that character that allows him/her to live in a world populated with the conventions of magical realism. The Green Mile was the first example. This week, we will be focusing on Kafka's "The Metamorphosis" and how it relates to the film Groundhog Day. The next piece will be about "the labyrinth of self." Your response is due in Googledocs on Wednesday, 11/2/16.

1)Someone who maintains a set of beliefs and is murdered because of them is called a martyr. In your opinion, is John Coffey a martyr? Give three main points that show he is or is not.

2)Through the film, Paul Edgecombe is portrayed as a fairly religious man. Cite at least three examples in the film where you could argue that religion or morality affected his decision-making process, and what the outcome was each time.

3)Mr. Jingles, the mouse, could be said to represent freedom (being the only thing or person that could come and go as he pleased). Give at least three reasons why you believe Delacroix and the others so readily accepted his presence.

4)''The Green Mile'' involves assorted acts of cruelty and one lurid, extended electrocution scene that makes the horrors of the death penalty grotesquely clear, but much of it is very gentle. The mystical healing of Edgecomb's bladder trouble brings on some funny moments with Bonnie Hunt, who does a charming turn as his wife. Coffey's peculiar innocence is also given a lot of screen time. The way in which this huge black man, who calls the guards Boss, is given a magical capacity for self-sacrifice has its inadvertently racist overtones as well as its Christlike ones. But as Mr. Duncan plays him, Coffey is too flabbergasting a figure to be easily pigeonholed anyhow." (Maslin, New York Times)

Is Stephen King for or against the death penalty? From what you saw in the film, discuss instances that clearly prove your point.

5)Paul Edgecombe changes over the course of the story. What changes can your see? Explain the changes and what causes them.

The Green Mile & Magical Realism (Journal #12, Marking Period 1)

Once again, the gritty realism of life and its horrors run up against a set of circumstances that inspire wonder, fear, hope...even magic.

In the 20th century, writers who picked up the mantle of magical realism addressed a completely different set of societal ills. Issues of race, poverty and segregation became the focus for African-American writers like Toni Morrison. Stories like "The Beloved" and "Song of Solomon" dealt with the issues faced during the national shame of slavery and how those freed from bondage attempted to find their place in a post-slavery society.

When Stephen King published "The Green Mile", he focused his work on the capricious nature of the death-penalty - particularly, in the southern United States.

The Green Mile is about a man named Paul Edgecomb. He is a slightly cynical veteran prison guard on Death row in the 1930's. His faith, and sanity, deteriorated by watching men live and die, Edgecomb is about to have a complete turn around in attitude. Enter John Coffey (for all you fans of religious symbolism 101 - initials JC), He's eight feet tall. He has hands the size of waffle irons. He's been accused of the murder of two children... and he's afraid to sleep in a cell without a night-light. And Edgecomb, as well as the other prison guards - Brutus, a sympathetic guard, and Percy, a stuck up, perverse, and violent person, are in for a strange experience that involves intelligent mice, brutal executions, and the revelation about Coffey's innocence and his true identity.

Before all that, it's just another normal day on the Green Mile for prison guard Paul Edgecomb - a man suffering with horrible kidney-stones. That is until huge John Coffey "helps". Unlike the hulking brute that Coffey looks like, he is in fact much more than the meets the eye. Whilst watching over Coffey, Edgecomb learns that there is more to Coffey than can any one man could possibly discover in a lifetime of searching.


In the film clips that you are going to see, take note of the instances of magical realism used to tell the story.


In your journals, discuss the following:

1) What are some of the physical traits of the characters that make them seem ordinary?

2) Discuss how the film's setting (death row) adds contrast to the magic that occurs on The Green Mile.

3) John Coffey's name is an overt religious symbol. Are there any other religious symbols present in the clips we viewed? If so, what are they and what religious beliefs do they represent?

4) What themes are being developed in the thread of the film clips we viewed in class?

5) What are the similarities between "The Green Mile" and the other excerpts we have read regarding magical realism?

Franz Kafka - The Metamorphosis: Excerpt 2 (10/24/16)

Reminder:

Please read the following excerpt from "The Metamorphosis."
Next week, we are going to read two more excerpts from the book.
You will be tested on the material and what we covered in class.


Just as he was thinking all this over at top speed, without being able to decide to get out of bed--the alarm clock had just struck a quarter to seven--he heard a cautious knocking at the door next to the head of his bed. "Gregor," someone called--it was his mother--"it's a quarter to seven. Didn't you want to catch the train?" What a soft voice! Gregor was shocked to hear his own voice answering, unmistakably his own voice, true, but in which, as if from below, an insistent distressed chirping intruded, which left the clarity of his words intact only for a moment really, before so badly garbling them as they carried that no one could be sure if he had heard right. Gregor had wanted to answer in detail and to explain everything, but, given the circumstances, confined himself to saying, "Yes, yes, thanks, Mother, I'm just getting up." The wooden door must have prevented the change in Gregor's voice from being noticed outside, because his mother was satisfied with this explanation and shuffled off. But their little exchange had made the rest of the family aware that, contrary to expectations, Gregor was still in the house, and already his father was knocking on one of the side doors, feebly but with his fist. "Gregor, Gregor," he called, "what's going on?" And after a little while he called again in a deeper, warning voice, "Gregor! Gregor!" At the other side door, however, his sister moaned gently, "Gregor? Is something the matter with you? Do you want anything?" Toward both sides Gregor answered: "I'm all ready," and made an effort, by meticulous pronunciation and by inserting long pauses between individual words, to eliminate everything from his voice that might betray him. His father went back to his breakfast, but his sister whispered, "Gregor, open up, I'm pleading with you." But Gregor had absolutely no intention of opening the door and complimented himself instead on the precaution he had adopted from his business trips, of locking all the doors during the night even at home.

First of all he wanted to get up quietly, without any excitement; get dressed; and, the main thing, have breakfast, and only then think about what to do next, for he saw clearly that in bed he would never think things through to a rational conclusion. He remembered how even in the past he had often felt some kind of slight pain, possibly caused by lying in an uncomfortable position, which, when he got up, turned out to be purely imaginary, and he was eager to see how today's fantasy would gradually fade away. That the change in his voice was nothing more than the first sign of a bad cold, an occupational ailment of the traveling salesman, he had no doubt in the least.

It was very easy to throw off the cover; all he had to do was puff himself up a little, and it fell off by itself. But after this, things got difficult, especially since he was so unusually broad. He would have needed hands and arms to lift himself up, but instead of that he had only his numerous little legs, which were in every different kind of perpetual motion and which, besides, he could not control. If he wanted to bend one, the first thing that happened was that it stretched itself out;* and if he finally succeeded in getting this leg to do what he wanted, all the others in the meantime, as if set free, began to work in the most intensely painful agitation. "Just don't stay in bed being useless," Gregor said to himself.

First he tried to get out of bed with the lower part of his body, but this lower part--which by the way he had not seen yet and which he could not form a clear picture of--proved too difficult to budge; it was taking so long; and when finally, almost out of his mind, he lunged forward with all his force, without caring, he had picked the wrong direction and slammed himself violently against the lower bedpost, and the searing pain he felt taught him that exactly the lower part of his body was, for the moment anyway, the most sensitive.

He therefore tried to get the upper part of his body out of bed first and warily turned his head toward the edge of the bed. This worked easily, and in spite of its width and weight, the mass of his body finally followed, slowly, the movement of his head. But when at last he stuck his head over the edge of the bed into the air, he got too scared to continue any further, since if he finally let himself fall in this position, it would be a miracle if he didn't injure his head. And just now he had better not for the life of him lose consciousness; he would rather stay in bed.

But when, once again, after the same exertion, he lay in his original position, sighing, and again watched his little legs struggling, if possible more fiercely, with each other and saw no way of bringing peace and order into this mindless motion, he again told himself that it was impossible for him to stay in bed and that the most rational thing was to make any sacrifice for even the smallest hope of freeing himself from the bed. But at the same time he did not forget to remind himself occasionally that thinking things over calmly--indeed, as calmly as possible--was much better than jumping to desperate decisions. At such moments he fixed his eyes as sharply as possible on the window, but unfortunately there was little confidence and cheer to be gotten from the view of the morning fog, which shrouded even the other side of the narrow street. "Seven o'clock already," he said to himself as the alarm clock struck again, "seven o'clock already and still such a fog." And for a little while he lay quietly, breathing shallowly, as if expecting, perhaps, from the complete silence the return of things to the way they really and naturally were.

But then he said to himself, "Before it strikes a quarter past seven, I must be completely out of bed without fail. Anyway, by that time someone from the firm will be here to find out where I am, since the office opens before seven." And now he started rocking the complete length of his body out of the bed with a smooth rhythm. If he let himself topple out of bed in this way, his head, which on falling he planned to lift up sharply, would presumably remain unharmed. His back seemed to be hard; nothing was likely to happen to it when it fell onto the carpet. His biggest misgiving came from his concern about the loud crash that was bound to occur and would probably create, if not terror, at least anxiety behind all the doors. But that would have to be risked.

When Gregor's body already projected halfway out of bed--the new method was more of a game than a struggle, he only had to keep on rocking and jerking himself along--he thought how simple everything would be if he could get some help. Two strong persons--he thought of his father and the maid--would have been completely sufficient; they would only have had to shove their arms under his arched back, in this way scoop him off the bed, bend down with their burden, and then just be careful and patient while he managed to swing himself down onto the floor, where his little legs would hopefully acquire some purpose. Well, leaving out the fact that the doors were locked, should he really call for help? In spite of all his miseries, he could not repress a smile at this thought.

He was already so far along that when he rocked more strongly he could hardly keep his balance, and very soon he would have to commit himself, because in five minutes it would be a quarter past seven--when the doorbell rang. "It's someone from the firm," he said to himself and almost froze, while his little legs only danced more quickly. For a moment everything remained quiet. "They're not going to answer," Gregor said to himself, captivated by some senseless hope. But then, of course, the maid went to the door as usual with her firm stride and opened up. Gregor only had to hear the visitor's first word of greeting to know who it was--the office manager himself. Why was only Gregor condemned to work for a firm where at the slightest omission they immediately suspected the worst? Were all employees louts without exception, wasn't there a single loyal, dedicated worker among them who, when he had not fully utilized a few hours of the morning for the firm, was driven half-mad by pangs of conscience and was actually unable to get out of bed? Really, wouldn't it have been enough to send one of the apprentices to find out--if this prying were absolutely necessary--did the manager himself have to come, and did the whole innocent family have to be shown in this way that the investigation of this suspicious affair could be entrusted only to the intellect of the manager? And more as a result of the excitement produced in Gregor by these thoughts than as a result of any real decision, he swung himself out of bed with all his might. There was a loud thump, but it was not a real crash. The fall was broken a little by the carpet, and Gregor's back was more elastic than he had thought, which explained the not very noticeable muffled sound. Only he had not held his head carefully enough and hit it; he turned it and rubbed it on the carpet in anger and pain.

Franz Kafka - The Metamorphosis: Excerpt 1 (10/20/16)

It's time to get back to making magic - back into the maze of magical-realism.

"The Metamorphosis"is a great example of writing that could fall into the category of magical realism for its stark portrayal of one man's "transformation" into a bug...specifically, a cockroach.

His characters' lonely search for the meaning of individual existence in a meaningless or indifferent world reflects Kafka's existentialist views of life. People who are not dependent on older belief systems or institutions have freedom that also brings anxiety and guilt with the responsibility for constructing the meaning of one's own existence. Kafka had no association with Surrealist writers or artists, who saw hidden miracles of existence behind everyday reality. Kafka's works are sometimes called surreal because of his blend of matter-of-fact everyday reality and dream or nightmare images, but his vision of the ordinary person's impossible struggles to control life is quite different from the views of the Surrealists who came after him. Like absurdist writers of the mid-twentieth century, Kafka depicted irrational, anguished people in nightmarish situations, unable to form significant relationships with(in) their environment. Later in the twentieth century, the development of magic realism might also be compared with Kafka's writing, as fantastic events are depicted as if they are a part of everyday reality.

EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1

When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-shaped ribs, to whose dome the cover, about to slide off completely, could barely cling. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, were waving helplessly before his eyes.

"What's happened to me?" he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human room, only a little on the small side, lay quiet between the four familiar walls. Over the table, on which an unpacked line of fabric samples was all spread out--Samsa was a traveling salesman--hung the picture which he had recently cut out of a glossy magazine and lodged in a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady done up in a fur hat and a fur boa, sitting upright and raising up against the viewer a heavy fur muff in which her whole forearm had disappeared.

Gregor's eyes then turned to the window, and the overcast weather--he could hear raindrops hitting against the metal window ledge--completely depressed him. "How about going back to sleep for a few minutes and forgetting all this nonsense," he thought, but that was completely impracticable, since he was used to sleeping on his right side and in his present state could not get into that position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rocked onto his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes so as not to have to see his squirming legs, and stopped only when he began to feel a slight, dull pain in his side, which he had never felt before.

"Oh God," he thought, "what a grueling job I've picked! Day in, day out--on the road. The upset of doing business is much worse than the actual business in the home office, and, besides, I've got the torture of traveling, worrying about changing trains, eating miserable food at all hours, constantly seeing new faces, no relationships that last or get more intimate. To the devil with it all!" He felt a slight itching up on top of his belly; shoved himself slowly on his back closer to the bedpost, so as to be able to lift his head better; found the itchy spot, studded with small white dots which he had no idea what to make of; and wanted to touch the spot with one of his legs but immediately pulled it back, for the contact sent a cold shiver through him.

He slid back again into his original position. "This getting up so early," he thought, "makes anyone a complete idiot. Human beings have to have their sleep. Other traveling salesmen live like harem women. For instance, when I go back to the hotel before lunch to write up the business I've done, these gentlemen are just having breakfast. That's all I'd have to try with my boss; I'd be fired on the spot. Anyway, who knows if that wouldn't be a very good thing for me. If I didn't hold back for my parents' sake, I would have quit long ago, I would have marched up to the boss and spoken my piece from the bottom of my heart. He would have fallen off the desk! It is funny, too, the way he sits on the desk and talks down from the heights to the employees, especially when they have to come right up close on account of the boss's being hard of hearing. Well, I haven't given up hope completely; once I've gotten the money together to pay off my parents' debt to him--that will probably take another five or six years--I'm going to do it without fail. Then I'm going to make the big break. But for the time being I'd better get up, since my train leaves at five."

And he looked over at the alarm clock, which was ticking on the chest of drawers. "God Almighty!" he thought. It was six-thirty, the hands were quietly moving forward, it was actually past the half-hour, it was already nearly a quarter to. Could it be that the alarm hadn't gone off? You could see from the bed that it was set correctly for four o'clock; it certainly had gone off, too. Yes, but was it possible to sleep quietly through a ringing that made the furniture shake? Well, he certainly hadn't slept quietly, but probably all the more soundly for that. But what should he do now? The next train left at seven o'clock; to make it, he would have to hurry like a madman, and the line of samples wasn't packed yet, and he himself didn't feel especially fresh and ready to march around. And even if he did make the train, he could not avoid getting it from the boss, because the messenger boy had been waiting at the five-o'clock train and would have long ago reported his not showing up. He was a tool of the boss, without brains or backbone. What if he were to say he was sick? But that would be extremely embarrassing and suspicious because during his five years with the firm Gregor had not been sick even once. The boss would be sure to come with the health-insurance doctor, blame his parents for their lazy son, and cut off all excuses by quoting the health-insurance doctor, for whom the world consisted of people who were completely healthy but afraid to work. And, besides, in this case would he be so very wrong? In fact, Gregor felt fine, with the exception of his drowsiness, which was really unnecessary after sleeping so late, and he even had a ravenous appetite.

The Green Mile (Journal #11, Marking Period 1)

By now, you should see that a thread weaves its way through the stories we have read dealing with magical realism. In the last century, American authors have attempted to tackle the genre using modern examples of oppression and social injustice. Marquez and Kafka represented artistic points-of-view that were unique to the trials of their background. Marquez's fiction was born from the oppressive living conditions of a turbulent political backdrop that had people fearing for their lives in the light of day. Kafka's writing talked about the modern frustrations of living in a society where people are dehumanized as they work for a governmental system that takes everything and gives nothing in return.

It seemed that no matter where you lived, you merely traded one set of problems for another. The societal ill that ties these two authors together is the notion that people are trapped hopelessly in a world where they are oppressed. The magic they create is their only window out of reality.

In Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings" features a character who is supposed to be heaven's chosen. In the body of the story, an angel falls to Earth and is subsequently abused - treated like a sideshow attraction, held prisoner before being blamed for failing to do what angels are "supposed to do".

Again, the common thread through all of this is the idea that the characters are mired in hopeless living situations that they must somehow endure. The fantasy world they create and inhabit offers them their only hope.

As American writers dealt with the societal issues of racism, slavery, segregation and poverty - they also began constructing elaborate myths that blended fantasy and reality to foster the idea that their subjects could only hope to endure by having magical/supernatural powers/abilities that would help them transcend the situations that bound them in helpless despair.

Which brings us to our current example....

One of the trademarks of Stephen King's writing is the moral earnestness with which he approaches a wide range of social issues. The Green Mile is, however, the most overtly didactic of his works. Its purpose is to kindle the reader's outrage at the inhumanity and capriciousness of the death penalty. Victims of the death penalty are, King suggests, overwhelmingly, the poor, social or racial minorities, or the mentally impaired. The three men executed during the course of the novel are a Native American, a lowlife French Canadian, and a man whose guilt is questionable. In contrast, "the President," a well-connected white man who had killed his father, stays on E Block only briefly before his sentence is commuted to life in prison.


Please read the following excerpt for Friday's class and answer the following questions in your journals. Be prepared.

1) What are the societal ills King introduces to instill a sense of injustice in the reader?

2) What examples of the afterlife are mentioned in this piece?

3) How are these mention(s) uniquely American?

4) How do these experiences mirror that of the characters in some of the other examples of magical realism we have read?

Chapter One

This happened in 1932, when the state penitentiary was still at Cold Mountain. And the electric chair was there, too, of course.

The inmates made jokes about the chair the way people always make jokes about things that frighten them but can't be gotten away from. They called it Old Sparky, or the Big Juicy. They made cracks about the Power bill, and how Warden Moores would cook his Thanksgiving dinner that fall, with his wife, Melinda, too sick to cook.

But for the ones who actually had to sit down in that chair, the humor went out of the situation in a hurry I presided over seventy-eight executions during my time at Cold Mountain (that's one figure I've never been confused about; I'll remember it on my deathbed), and I think that, for most of those men, the truth of what was happening to them finally hit all the way home when their ankles were being damped to the stout oak of "Old Sparky's" legs. The realization came then (you would see it rising in their eyes, a kind of cold dismay) that their, own legs had finished their careers. The blood still ran in them, the muscles were still strong, but they were finished, all the same; they were never going to walk another country mile or dance with a girl at a barn-raising. Old Sparky's clients came to a knowledge of their deaths from the ankles up. There was a black silk bag that went over their heads after they had finished their rambling and mostly disjointed last remarks. It was supposed to be for them, but I always thought it was really for us, to keep us from seeing the awful tide of dismay in their eyes as they realized they were going to die with their knees bent.

There was no death row at Cold Mountain, only E Block, set apart from the other four and about a quarter their size, brick instead of wood, with a horrible bare metal roof that glared in the summer sun like a delirious eyeball. Six cells inside, three on each side of a wide center aisle, each almost twice as big as the cells in the other four blocks. Singles, too. Great accommodations for a prison (especially in the thirties), but the inmates would have traded for cells in any of the other four. Believe me, they would have traded.

There was never a time during my years as block superintendent when all six cells were occupied at one time -- thank God for small favors. Four was the most, mixed black and white (at Cold Mountain, there was no segregation among the walking dead), and that was a little piece of hell. One was a woman, Beverly McCall. She was black as the ace of spades and as beautiful as the sin you never had nerve enough to commit. She put up with six years of her husband beating her, but wouldn't put up with his creeping around for a single day. On the evening after she found out he was cheating, she stood waiting for the unfortunate Lester McCall, known to his pals (and, presumably, to his extremely short-term mistress) as Cutter, at the top of the stairs leading to the apartment over his barber shop. She waited until he got his overcoat half off, then dropped his cheating guts onto his tu-tone shoes. Used one of Cutter's own razors to do it. Two nights before she was due to sit in Old Sparky, she called me to her cell and said she had been visited by her African spirit-father in a dream. He told her to discard her slave-name and to die under her free name, Matuomi. That was her request, that her deathwarrant should be read under the name of Beverly Matuomi. I guess her spirit-father didn't give her any first name, or one she could make out, anyhow. I said yes, okay, fine. One thing those years serving as the bull-goose screw taught me was never to refuse the condemned unless I absolutely had to. In the case of Beverly Matuomi, it made no difference, anyway. The governor called the next day around three in the afternoon, commuting her sentence to life in the Grassy Valley Penal Facility for Women -- all penal and no penis, we used to say back then. I was glad to see Bev's round ass going left instead of right when she got to the duty desk, let me tell you.

Thirty-five years or so later -- had to be at least thirty-five -- I saw that name on the obituary page of the paper, under a picture of a skinny-faced black lady with a cloud of white hair and glasses with rhinestones at the comers. It was Beverly. She'd spent the last ten years of her life a free woman, the obituary said, and had rescued the small-town library of Raines Falls pretty much single-handed. She had also taught Sunday school and had been much loved in that little backwater. LIBRARIAN DIES OF HEART FAILURE, the headline said, and below that, in smaller type, almost as an afterthought: Served Over Two Decades in Prison for Murder. Only the eyes, wide and blazing behind the glasses with the rhinestones at the comers, were the same. They were the eyes of a woman who even at seventy-whatever would not hesitate to pluck a safety razor from its blue jar of disinfectant, if the urge seemed pressing. You know murderers, even if they finish up as old lady librarians in dozey little towns. At least you do if you've spent as much time minding murderers as I did. There was only one time I ever had a question about the nature of my job. That, I reckon, is why I'm writing this.

The wide corridor up the center of E Block was floored with linoleum the color of tired old limes, and so what was called the Last Mile at other prisons was called the Green Mile at Cold Mountain. It ran, I guess, sixty long paces from south to north, bottom to top. At the bottom was the restraint room. At the top end was a T-junction. A left turn meant life -- if you called what went on in the sunbaked exercise yard life, and many did; many lived it for years, with no apparent ill effects. Thieves and arsonists and sex criminals, all talking their talk and walking their walk and making their little deals.

A right turn, though -- that was different. First you went into my office (where the carpet was also green, a thing I kept meaning to change and not getting around to), and crossed in front of my desk, which was flanked by the American flag on the left and the state flag on the right. On the far side were two doors. One led into the small W.C. that I and the E Block guards (sometimes even Warden Moores) used; the other opened on a kind of storage shed. This was where you ended up when you walked the Green Mile.



It was a small door -- I had to duck my head when I went through, and John Coffey actually had to sit and scoot. You came out on a little landing, then went down three cement steps to a board floor. It was a miserable room without heat and with a metal roof, just like the one on the block to which it was an adjunct. It was cold enough in there to see your breath during the winter, and stifling in the summer. At the execution of Elmer Manfred -- in July or August of '30, that one was, I believe -- we had nine witnesses pass out.

On the left side of the storage shed -- again -- there was life. Tools (all locked down in frames crisscrossed with chains, as if they were carbine rifles instead of spades and pickaxes), dry goods, sacks of seeds for spring planting in the prison gardens, boxes of toilet paper, pallets cross-loaded with blanks for the prison plate-shop...even bags of lime for marking out the baseball diamond and the football gridiron -- the cons played in what was known as The Pasture, and fall afternoons were greatly looked forward to at Cold Mountain.

On the right -- once again -- death. Old Sparky his ownself, sitting up on a plank platform at the southeast comer of the storeroom, stout oak legs, broad oak arms that had absorbed the terrorized sweat of scores of men in the last few minutes of their lives, and the metal cap, usually hung jauntily on the back of the chair, like some robot kid's beanie in a Buck Rogers comic-strip. A cord ran from it and through a gasket-circled hole in the cinderblock wall behind the chair. Off to one side was a galvanized tin bucket. If you looked inside it, you would see a circle of sponge, cut just right to fit the metal cap. Before executions, it was soaked in brine to better conduct the charge of direct-current electricity that ran through the wire, through the sponge, and into the condemned man's brain.

Copyright © 1996 by Stephen King