Modern gedicht:
Chamber Music - James Joyce
Dear heart, why will you use me so?
Dear eyes that gently me upbraid,
Still are you beautiful --
- but O,How is your beauty remained!
Through the clear mirror of your eyes,
Through the soft sigh of kiss to kiss,
Desolate winds assail with cries
The shadowy garden where love is.
And soon shall love dissolved be
When over us the wild winds blow --
-But you, dear love, too dear to me,
Alas! why will you use me so?
Mijn Mening
Dit gedicht is geschreven door James Joyce, een dichter uit de Moderne Engelse Periode. Het is dan ook een Modern Engels gedicht, wat je onder andere kunt zien aan het taalgebruik. Er worden geen ouderwetse woorden gebruikt en het rijmschema is heel regelmatig. (Er is hier sprake van een gekruist rijmschema.)
Ik vind het een mooi gedicht, mede door het regelmatige rijmschema en het ritme. Dat leest een stuk makkelijker dan een gedicht waarbij dat niet het geval is. Het heeft een vast ritme en hierdoor dringen de woorden en hun betekenis beter tot de lezer door. Zo wordt de tegenstrijdigheid waarmee de dichter kampt duidelijk naar voren gebracht.
Ik vind ook dat de dichter een mooie vergelijking maakt in de eerste en de laatste regel van het gedicht. In de eerste regel staat:
“Dear heart, why will you use me so?”
en in de laatste regel staat:
“Alas! why will you use me so?”
Hij vergelijkt zijn liefde met zijn hart en geeft daarmee aan dat zijn liefde zijn hart gestolen heeft en ze dus allebei hetzelfde doen: hem gebruiken.
Zo loopt het gedicht eigenlijk ook in een cirkel en heeft het een cyclische opbouw. Het begint met het hart/de liefde van de dichter en eindigt daar ook weer mee..
vrijdag 12 oktober 2007
Gedicht 3: An ode to the rain
Romantisch gedicht:
An ode to the rain
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Composed before daylight, on the morning appointed forthe departure of a very worthy, but not very pleasantvisitor, whom it was feared the rain might detain.
I
I know it is dark; and though I have lain,Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes,But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.O Rain! that I lie listening to,You're but a doleful sound at best:I owe you little thanks,'tis true,For breaking thus my needful rest!Yet if, as soon as it is light,O Rain! you will but take your flight,I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,Though sick and sore for want of sleep.But only now, for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
II
O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!You know, if you know aught, that we,Both night and day, but ill agree:For days and months, and almost years,Have limp'd on through this vale of tears,Since body of mine, and rainy weather,Have lived on easy terms together.Yet if, as soon as it is light,O Rain! you will but take your flight,Though you should come again to-morrow,And bring with you both pain and sorrow;Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell--I'll nothing speak of you but well.But only now for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
III
Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say
You're a good creature in your way;Nay, I could write a book myself,Would fit a parson's lower shelf,Showing how very good you are. --What then? sometimes it must be fair!And if sometimes, why not to-day?Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
IV
Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,Take no offence! I'll tell you why.A dear old Friend e'en now is here,And with him came my sister dear;After long absence now first met,Long months by pain and grief beset--We three dear friends! in truth, we groanImpatiently to be alone.We three, you mark! and not one more!The strong wish makes my spirit sore.We have so much to talk about,So many sad things to let out;So many tears in our eye-corners,Sitting like little Jacky Homers--In short, as soon as it is day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
V
And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!Whenever you shall come again,Be you as dull as e'er you could(And by the bye 'tis understood,You're not so pleasant as you're good),Yet, knowing well your worth and place,I'll welcome you with cheerful face;And though you stay'd a week or more,Were ten times duller than before;Yet with kind heart, and right good will,I'll sit and listen to you still;Nor should you go away, dear Rain!Uninvited to remain.But only now, for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
1802.
Eigen mening
Dit is een romantisch gedicht en het bevat een aantal kenmerken daarvan. Ten eerste is het onderwerp al romantisch. Het gaat over de regen en dus over de natuur.
Er worden ook veel emoties getoond: de schrijver geeft aan dat hij van de regen houdt omdat regen goed is voor de aarde, maar ook dat hij er soms gek van wordt. Zo heeft hij veel slaap nodig en doordat het zo hard regent krijgt hij die niet.
Er zitten ook veel tegenstellingen in het gedicht. Zo zegt de schrijver in de tweede strofe dat hij ziek wordt van de regen, maar dat hij toch alleen maar positief over de regen spreekt. Daarom vindt hij het gerechtvaart dat hij aan de regen vraagt of hij voor één dag weg wil gaan. Als er bekenden op bezoek zijn, zijn zus en een vriend, zegt de schrijver dat hij veel bij te praten heeft met ze, maar dat ze in feite alledrie graag alleen willen zijn.
De schrijver zegt dus steeds het tegenovergestelde van wat hij bedoelt.De schrijver vraagt zich af hoe de regen eigenlijk toch zo waardevol kan zijn voor de aarde, terwijl hij er eigenlijk alleen maar last van ondervindt.
An ode to the rain
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Composed before daylight, on the morning appointed forthe departure of a very worthy, but not very pleasantvisitor, whom it was feared the rain might detain.
I
I know it is dark; and though I have lain,Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes,But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.O Rain! that I lie listening to,You're but a doleful sound at best:I owe you little thanks,'tis true,For breaking thus my needful rest!Yet if, as soon as it is light,O Rain! you will but take your flight,I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,Though sick and sore for want of sleep.But only now, for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
II
O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!You know, if you know aught, that we,Both night and day, but ill agree:For days and months, and almost years,Have limp'd on through this vale of tears,Since body of mine, and rainy weather,Have lived on easy terms together.Yet if, as soon as it is light,O Rain! you will but take your flight,Though you should come again to-morrow,And bring with you both pain and sorrow;Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell--I'll nothing speak of you but well.But only now for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
III
Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say
You're a good creature in your way;Nay, I could write a book myself,Would fit a parson's lower shelf,Showing how very good you are. --What then? sometimes it must be fair!And if sometimes, why not to-day?Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
IV
Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,Take no offence! I'll tell you why.A dear old Friend e'en now is here,And with him came my sister dear;After long absence now first met,Long months by pain and grief beset--We three dear friends! in truth, we groanImpatiently to be alone.We three, you mark! and not one more!The strong wish makes my spirit sore.We have so much to talk about,So many sad things to let out;So many tears in our eye-corners,Sitting like little Jacky Homers--In short, as soon as it is day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
V
And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!Whenever you shall come again,Be you as dull as e'er you could(And by the bye 'tis understood,You're not so pleasant as you're good),Yet, knowing well your worth and place,I'll welcome you with cheerful face;And though you stay'd a week or more,Were ten times duller than before;Yet with kind heart, and right good will,I'll sit and listen to you still;Nor should you go away, dear Rain!Uninvited to remain.But only now, for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
1802.
Eigen mening
Dit is een romantisch gedicht en het bevat een aantal kenmerken daarvan. Ten eerste is het onderwerp al romantisch. Het gaat over de regen en dus over de natuur.
Er worden ook veel emoties getoond: de schrijver geeft aan dat hij van de regen houdt omdat regen goed is voor de aarde, maar ook dat hij er soms gek van wordt. Zo heeft hij veel slaap nodig en doordat het zo hard regent krijgt hij die niet.
Er zitten ook veel tegenstellingen in het gedicht. Zo zegt de schrijver in de tweede strofe dat hij ziek wordt van de regen, maar dat hij toch alleen maar positief over de regen spreekt. Daarom vindt hij het gerechtvaart dat hij aan de regen vraagt of hij voor één dag weg wil gaan. Als er bekenden op bezoek zijn, zijn zus en een vriend, zegt de schrijver dat hij veel bij te praten heeft met ze, maar dat ze in feite alledrie graag alleen willen zijn.
De schrijver zegt dus steeds het tegenovergestelde van wat hij bedoelt.De schrijver vraagt zich af hoe de regen eigenlijk toch zo waardevol kan zijn voor de aarde, terwijl hij er eigenlijk alleen maar last van ondervindt.
Short story 4:Fishing for Jasmine
Fishing For Jasmine - John Ravenscrof
The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats bobbing on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. Which is why she fascinates me - why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her. Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again. "Hello, Jasmine," I say, as if greeting myself. She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep. Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be. "I have little time today," I tell her, touching her hair. With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination. Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it. "Your father may be here soon," I say. "Last week he said he would come." Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps. It is two months since the incident on her father's fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter's body. "Jasmine," I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it. Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.
< 2 >
Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said. When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man. Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one. I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished. I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls. "Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can't you hear it calling?" Nothing. The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine's father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me. Even in death, my own child had my father's smile, and Jasmine's will have this man's. I know it. He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine's eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, thema etc.
Ik vond het een mooi verhaal om te lezen omdat ik zowel het taalgebruik als de characters goed vond. Het taalgebruik past bij de achtergrond van de characters: de twee Jasmine’s zijn allebei dochters van vissers. De ene Jasmine ligt in coma in het ziekenhuis waar de andere Jasmine haar verzorgt. Er staat aan het begin van de tekst: “Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.” De laatste zin verwijst naar de zee. De zee is heel diep en ver weg, net als Jasmine op dat moment, aangezien ze in coma ligt. Het taalgebruik heeft zo een dubbele betekenis. Hij verwijst zowel naar de verhaallaag als naar de thematische laag.
Ik vond het ook een goede schrijfstijl omdat het verhaal maar één kantje lang is en je toch het idee krijgt dat je characters heel goed kent en ze begrijpt. Dat vind ik knap van de schrijver. Ik vind dan ook dat de schrijver de twee characters goed heeft neergezet. Jasmine die in het ziekenhuis werkt is eigenlijk gewoon een round character. Je komt veel te weten over haar gedachten en gevoelens. Hierdoor krijg je ook het idee dat je haar goed kent. Jasmine die in coma ligt is een flat character, hoewel ze een round character lijkt te zijn. Dat komt door de vergelijkingen die de ene Jasmine met de andere maakt. Doordat ze zoveel op elkaar lijken, lijkt het alsof je Jasmine die in coma ligt ook goed leert kennen. Dat is niet zo, aangezien je alles via de main character te weten komt. Daardoor blijft ze een typetje.
The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats bobbing on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. Which is why she fascinates me - why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her. Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again. "Hello, Jasmine," I say, as if greeting myself. She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep. Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be. "I have little time today," I tell her, touching her hair. With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination. Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it. "Your father may be here soon," I say. "Last week he said he would come." Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps. It is two months since the incident on her father's fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter's body. "Jasmine," I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it. Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.
< 2 >
Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said. When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man. Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one. I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished. I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls. "Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can't you hear it calling?" Nothing. The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine's father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me. Even in death, my own child had my father's smile, and Jasmine's will have this man's. I know it. He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine's eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, thema etc.
Ik vond het een mooi verhaal om te lezen omdat ik zowel het taalgebruik als de characters goed vond. Het taalgebruik past bij de achtergrond van de characters: de twee Jasmine’s zijn allebei dochters van vissers. De ene Jasmine ligt in coma in het ziekenhuis waar de andere Jasmine haar verzorgt. Er staat aan het begin van de tekst: “Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.” De laatste zin verwijst naar de zee. De zee is heel diep en ver weg, net als Jasmine op dat moment, aangezien ze in coma ligt. Het taalgebruik heeft zo een dubbele betekenis. Hij verwijst zowel naar de verhaallaag als naar de thematische laag.
Ik vond het ook een goede schrijfstijl omdat het verhaal maar één kantje lang is en je toch het idee krijgt dat je characters heel goed kent en ze begrijpt. Dat vind ik knap van de schrijver. Ik vind dan ook dat de schrijver de twee characters goed heeft neergezet. Jasmine die in het ziekenhuis werkt is eigenlijk gewoon een round character. Je komt veel te weten over haar gedachten en gevoelens. Hierdoor krijg je ook het idee dat je haar goed kent. Jasmine die in coma ligt is een flat character, hoewel ze een round character lijkt te zijn. Dat komt door de vergelijkingen die de ene Jasmine met de andere maakt. Doordat ze zoveel op elkaar lijken, lijkt het alsof je Jasmine die in coma ligt ook goed leert kennen. Dat is niet zo, aangezien je alles via de main character te weten komt. Daardoor blijft ze een typetje.
Short story 3: The sleeping Stones
The Sleeping Stones - Jack Trammell
"Spring is not meant to be cold." This is what Ella thought as she bent over and picked up the sleeping stones she had placed outside several days ago. The way the sun was shining made her feel as if the season was being cheated. She moved from stone to stone with a vague feeling of anger; some watery form of injustice.
"Where is the spring?" she thought again, picking up another slab.
While she was thus engaged in this somewhat depressing activity, a black shadow slid near her, abruptly soaking up the brilliant sunshine. The shadow took on the oblong shape of a man; a somewhat overweight and short man, with hair that struck out wildly from one side of his head like a snake lashing out.
Ella noted the arrival but did not bend from the task of gathering the flat, slate-like pieces of rock into a large wicker basket, which increasingly bowed under the weight of each individual stone and creaked in protest. She was his opposite in physical appearance (and other ways, too), being tall and relatively frail, yet he offered no help.
Instead, he spoke in a gruff, almost animal voice. "I told you, Ellie, it was too early to turn the stones out. Didn't I tell 'e? I like to have froze last night..."
In this part of Kentucky, between the Cumberland River and the descent to bluegrass, turning the sleeping stones out was a symbolic concession to the coming of spring. Older women insisted that the stones would maintain their heat better if they basked in the blazing summer sunshine until the next fall.
Ella, for reasons even she didn't fully understand, was anxious for summer to arrive. Perhaps too anxious, as it turned out.
"You're right," she said quickly, although her voice most plainly bespoke of some other emotion than pleasant agreement, and her hands quickened their pace in sympathy to that feeling. "I'll get your breakfast so you can get to work on the corn beside the creek."
The man grunted in response, pushing a dirty hand through the recalcitrant black hair on his head, then disappeared inside the small frame farmhouse. Ella picked up the last sleeping stone and held it in her hand. Why was spring so reluctant this year? Surely enduring such a miserable, starving winter entitled them to decent planting weather. The stone in her hand was unreadable.
< 2 >
Ella was not strong person in the physical sense, coming from a family of small-boned, almost fragile country women that drew looks on Sunday then couldn't draw the plow on Monday, but she did have an iron will when she set herself to do something.
On the mental side of things, however, she inherited too much from her father's side, which tended toward charity, philosophy, and ultimately depression.
She stood for a long moment with the heavy basket pulling at her arm like ball and chain, staring with sad black eyes down the dusty road that crossed the Big Sandy River and eventually shook hands with the county courthouse. That was the direction Horey would come from when he returned from the army. She inadvertently blushed and immediately scurried back into the house to see to breakfast.
News traveled slower than normal that spring, owing in part to the cool weather, and also because change sometimes occurred in the outside world too quickly. President Lincoln had been dead a full two weeks when Ella found out that the war was over.
A thrill similar to when she had prematurely set the sleeping stones out passed through her in waves.
"You okay, Ms. Ellie?" Franklin, the seventy-year-old postmaster asked.
"I'm wonderful, Franklin! Wouldn't you think now that Morgan's men would be disbanding soon, now that it's all over?"
A shadow crossed Franklin's wrinkled face, and he slowly turned his eyes to the horizon where the gruff man was locked in combat with a mule and a plow.
"I reckon so," he said, still gazing off at the field, "but you'd best not to get your hopes up too high. They'll probably keep men like Horey longer than the rest." Franklin began chewing on his lip.
Ella nodded slowly. Horey was taken prisoner during General Morgan's great Ohio Raid. One letter had come from Elmira prison, well over a year ago. Since then, there had been no word at all.
She followed Franklin's eyes out to the field where the gruff man was working. He was a compromise, for lack of a better word, and he kept the food on the table. He was a mule for her family.
Several small children tumbled out of the house and joined their mother, tugging at her tapioca dress and dirt-stained apron. The eldest, a five-year-old boy named after and strongly resembling his father, looked at Franklin cautiously.
< 3 >
"Any news of Pa?" Franklin shook his head mutely, then tipped his ratty felt hat to Ella. "You will let me know, won't you?" she said, following him a little like a young bird fallen from the nest. "Won't you?" "Of course, Ellie, the moment news arrives."
News, however, was erratic at best. Some of Morgan's men returned, haggard, gaunt, silent with fatigue; some of them didn't return. There was no acquiescence to rhyme or reason in the matter. Some of those returning knew Horey; others didn't.
None knew of his present status.
"You knew he wasn't going to come back," the gruff one said (whose real name was Zebulon according to Ella's preacher). "Have any one of them from Ohio come back?"
"Morgan came back," she said, a little bit impetuously. "Morgan escaped from the penitentiary in Columbus." The other said nothing at first, just scowling. Then, "Yes, and Morgan is dead now, too, ain't he?" There was no point in arguing.
Too many compromises. Too many things that could not be reconciled. Ella's emotions were like spring, long delayed and buried in a layer of frost covering the earth.
Even the seasons, however, cannot be held back forever. Eventually even the latest flower must come into full bloom.
Ella blossomed on a day late in May, when there was no longer any doubt about the coming of the warm weather.
"I'd like for you to leave now, Zeb." The gruff one looked up from his hoe slowly, beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead. He looked her up and down like a piece of farm equipment that wasn't working quite right, then leaned on the hoe, bending it dangerously. "Am I hearing you co-rectly, Ellie?"
"I want you to go. I'm a married woman." The gruff one laughed - a single sneering, contemptuous note of surprise. The hoe wavered, then snapped. "Who is going to work this tobacco? Who is going to pick your corn? Who is going to mind the fences? Who is going--" "My husband will do it."
He sneered again, searched for words and came up with muscle flexes instead, then stomped toward the house. The children did not look or speak to him as he went inside and banged doors loudly.
Ella knew he would leave. He couldn't argue with the inevitable - he was not intellectually capable of it. Two hours later, the only evidence that he had been living on the farm was the broken hoe in the tobacco patch.
< 4 >
The sleeping stones went back out the same day. The rocks seemed clean and unstained in their perfect smoothness, caressing her hands as she placed them down on the ground in the very front of the yard. They warmed in the sun as she watched them, glowing with some kind of stability that was beyond human achievement.
Her children appeared behind her, startling her after a moment. The boy spoke for all of them. "Does this mean that Pa is going to be home?" Ella hugged him silently.
On the first of June, Franklin brought the mail and then lingered as he placed it in the box. After a moment or two of looking around and seeing no one, he furtively stuck his hand back into the shabby wooden box and withdrew a small letter, shoving it surreptitiously into his pocket. Then he jumped back on his horse and withdrew, glancing occasionally over his shoulder.
He did not know that Ella watched him the entire time. The letter was black-rimmed and could only mean one thing. Ella didn't have to read it to know that her husband was dead.
When Franklin returned the next day, he immediately noticed that Ella's sleeping stones were missing. As he called out a lukewarm greeting to her, he also noticed someone cutting suckers off the burley several hundred yards away.
Ella said nothing to him, offering only a very subdued lift of one narrow lip.
Franklin decided to say nothing as well, tipping his old hole-ridden hat and turning away.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, thema etc.
Ik raad deze short story aan, aangezien ik het best een mooi verhaal vond. Het gaat over een Amerikaanse vrouw met kinderen, waarvan de man meevecht in de oorlog. De vrouw, Ella, legt overal in de tuin “sleeping stones” neer. Deze stenen worden warm als het lente wordt: ze absorberen de warmte van de zon. Het wordt echter maar geen lente en het blijft lang koud. Ondertussen krijgt ze steeds maar geen nieuws van haar man. Het laatste bericht dat ze heeft gehad was dat hij gevangen was genomen. Franklin werkt op de boerderij bij Ella, zodat er inkomsten zijn. Hij brengt Ella al het nieuws dat er binnenkomt. Als op een dag veel soldaten terug naar huis komen, de oorlog is dan afgelopen, is de man van Ella er niet bij. Ze hoort van de mannen dat haar man gestorven is.
De dag daarna worden de sleeping stones wel warm. De zon schijnt waardoor ze zichzelf opwarmen. Diezelfde dag ontvangt Franklin via de post het nieuws dat de man van Ella dood is. Hij verbergt de brief voor Ella, omdat hij vindt dat ze het nog niet hoeft te weten. Ella ziet echter Franklin de brief verbergen. Ze weet het dus wel ondanks de goede bedoelingen van Franklin.
De sleeping stones staan in dit verhaal symbool voor de gevoelens van Ella. De sleeping stones blijven heel lang koud en doordat Ella steeds geen nieuws over haar man ontvangt, zit ze heel erg in onzekerheid. Dit deprimeert haar en ze wordt er ongerust en verdrietig van. Als ze uiteindelijk het nieuws krijgt dat haar man echt is overleden worden de sleeping stones warm. Ella krijgt uiteindelijk toch zekerheid over wat er met haar man is gebeurd en de sleeping stones symboliseren dit doordat ze warm zijn geworden.
Er zit ook een boodschap achter: je kunt het beste de harde werkelijkheid onder ogen zien. Ella doet dat niet, waardoor de klap dat haar man is overleden extra hard aankomt. Ze blijft hopen dat haar man terugkomt en dat haar oude leven weer door zal gaan. Ze ontslaat zelfs haar knecht ervoor. Als haar man overleden blijkt te zijn heeft ze zelfs niemand meer om haar boerderij gaande te houden. Ella onderdrukt ook te lang haar gevoelens van verdriet en blijft alles positief inzien, terwijl haar echte situatie dus niet zo in elkaar zit.
"Spring is not meant to be cold." This is what Ella thought as she bent over and picked up the sleeping stones she had placed outside several days ago. The way the sun was shining made her feel as if the season was being cheated. She moved from stone to stone with a vague feeling of anger; some watery form of injustice.
"Where is the spring?" she thought again, picking up another slab.
While she was thus engaged in this somewhat depressing activity, a black shadow slid near her, abruptly soaking up the brilliant sunshine. The shadow took on the oblong shape of a man; a somewhat overweight and short man, with hair that struck out wildly from one side of his head like a snake lashing out.
Ella noted the arrival but did not bend from the task of gathering the flat, slate-like pieces of rock into a large wicker basket, which increasingly bowed under the weight of each individual stone and creaked in protest. She was his opposite in physical appearance (and other ways, too), being tall and relatively frail, yet he offered no help.
Instead, he spoke in a gruff, almost animal voice. "I told you, Ellie, it was too early to turn the stones out. Didn't I tell 'e? I like to have froze last night..."
In this part of Kentucky, between the Cumberland River and the descent to bluegrass, turning the sleeping stones out was a symbolic concession to the coming of spring. Older women insisted that the stones would maintain their heat better if they basked in the blazing summer sunshine until the next fall.
Ella, for reasons even she didn't fully understand, was anxious for summer to arrive. Perhaps too anxious, as it turned out.
"You're right," she said quickly, although her voice most plainly bespoke of some other emotion than pleasant agreement, and her hands quickened their pace in sympathy to that feeling. "I'll get your breakfast so you can get to work on the corn beside the creek."
The man grunted in response, pushing a dirty hand through the recalcitrant black hair on his head, then disappeared inside the small frame farmhouse. Ella picked up the last sleeping stone and held it in her hand. Why was spring so reluctant this year? Surely enduring such a miserable, starving winter entitled them to decent planting weather. The stone in her hand was unreadable.
< 2 >
Ella was not strong person in the physical sense, coming from a family of small-boned, almost fragile country women that drew looks on Sunday then couldn't draw the plow on Monday, but she did have an iron will when she set herself to do something.
On the mental side of things, however, she inherited too much from her father's side, which tended toward charity, philosophy, and ultimately depression.
She stood for a long moment with the heavy basket pulling at her arm like ball and chain, staring with sad black eyes down the dusty road that crossed the Big Sandy River and eventually shook hands with the county courthouse. That was the direction Horey would come from when he returned from the army. She inadvertently blushed and immediately scurried back into the house to see to breakfast.
News traveled slower than normal that spring, owing in part to the cool weather, and also because change sometimes occurred in the outside world too quickly. President Lincoln had been dead a full two weeks when Ella found out that the war was over.
A thrill similar to when she had prematurely set the sleeping stones out passed through her in waves.
"You okay, Ms. Ellie?" Franklin, the seventy-year-old postmaster asked.
"I'm wonderful, Franklin! Wouldn't you think now that Morgan's men would be disbanding soon, now that it's all over?"
A shadow crossed Franklin's wrinkled face, and he slowly turned his eyes to the horizon where the gruff man was locked in combat with a mule and a plow.
"I reckon so," he said, still gazing off at the field, "but you'd best not to get your hopes up too high. They'll probably keep men like Horey longer than the rest." Franklin began chewing on his lip.
Ella nodded slowly. Horey was taken prisoner during General Morgan's great Ohio Raid. One letter had come from Elmira prison, well over a year ago. Since then, there had been no word at all.
She followed Franklin's eyes out to the field where the gruff man was working. He was a compromise, for lack of a better word, and he kept the food on the table. He was a mule for her family.
Several small children tumbled out of the house and joined their mother, tugging at her tapioca dress and dirt-stained apron. The eldest, a five-year-old boy named after and strongly resembling his father, looked at Franklin cautiously.
< 3 >
"Any news of Pa?" Franklin shook his head mutely, then tipped his ratty felt hat to Ella. "You will let me know, won't you?" she said, following him a little like a young bird fallen from the nest. "Won't you?" "Of course, Ellie, the moment news arrives."
News, however, was erratic at best. Some of Morgan's men returned, haggard, gaunt, silent with fatigue; some of them didn't return. There was no acquiescence to rhyme or reason in the matter. Some of those returning knew Horey; others didn't.
None knew of his present status.
"You knew he wasn't going to come back," the gruff one said (whose real name was Zebulon according to Ella's preacher). "Have any one of them from Ohio come back?"
"Morgan came back," she said, a little bit impetuously. "Morgan escaped from the penitentiary in Columbus." The other said nothing at first, just scowling. Then, "Yes, and Morgan is dead now, too, ain't he?" There was no point in arguing.
Too many compromises. Too many things that could not be reconciled. Ella's emotions were like spring, long delayed and buried in a layer of frost covering the earth.
Even the seasons, however, cannot be held back forever. Eventually even the latest flower must come into full bloom.
Ella blossomed on a day late in May, when there was no longer any doubt about the coming of the warm weather.
"I'd like for you to leave now, Zeb." The gruff one looked up from his hoe slowly, beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead. He looked her up and down like a piece of farm equipment that wasn't working quite right, then leaned on the hoe, bending it dangerously. "Am I hearing you co-rectly, Ellie?"
"I want you to go. I'm a married woman." The gruff one laughed - a single sneering, contemptuous note of surprise. The hoe wavered, then snapped. "Who is going to work this tobacco? Who is going to pick your corn? Who is going to mind the fences? Who is going--" "My husband will do it."
He sneered again, searched for words and came up with muscle flexes instead, then stomped toward the house. The children did not look or speak to him as he went inside and banged doors loudly.
Ella knew he would leave. He couldn't argue with the inevitable - he was not intellectually capable of it. Two hours later, the only evidence that he had been living on the farm was the broken hoe in the tobacco patch.
< 4 >
The sleeping stones went back out the same day. The rocks seemed clean and unstained in their perfect smoothness, caressing her hands as she placed them down on the ground in the very front of the yard. They warmed in the sun as she watched them, glowing with some kind of stability that was beyond human achievement.
Her children appeared behind her, startling her after a moment. The boy spoke for all of them. "Does this mean that Pa is going to be home?" Ella hugged him silently.
On the first of June, Franklin brought the mail and then lingered as he placed it in the box. After a moment or two of looking around and seeing no one, he furtively stuck his hand back into the shabby wooden box and withdrew a small letter, shoving it surreptitiously into his pocket. Then he jumped back on his horse and withdrew, glancing occasionally over his shoulder.
He did not know that Ella watched him the entire time. The letter was black-rimmed and could only mean one thing. Ella didn't have to read it to know that her husband was dead.
When Franklin returned the next day, he immediately noticed that Ella's sleeping stones were missing. As he called out a lukewarm greeting to her, he also noticed someone cutting suckers off the burley several hundred yards away.
Ella said nothing to him, offering only a very subdued lift of one narrow lip.
Franklin decided to say nothing as well, tipping his old hole-ridden hat and turning away.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, thema etc.
Ik raad deze short story aan, aangezien ik het best een mooi verhaal vond. Het gaat over een Amerikaanse vrouw met kinderen, waarvan de man meevecht in de oorlog. De vrouw, Ella, legt overal in de tuin “sleeping stones” neer. Deze stenen worden warm als het lente wordt: ze absorberen de warmte van de zon. Het wordt echter maar geen lente en het blijft lang koud. Ondertussen krijgt ze steeds maar geen nieuws van haar man. Het laatste bericht dat ze heeft gehad was dat hij gevangen was genomen. Franklin werkt op de boerderij bij Ella, zodat er inkomsten zijn. Hij brengt Ella al het nieuws dat er binnenkomt. Als op een dag veel soldaten terug naar huis komen, de oorlog is dan afgelopen, is de man van Ella er niet bij. Ze hoort van de mannen dat haar man gestorven is.
De dag daarna worden de sleeping stones wel warm. De zon schijnt waardoor ze zichzelf opwarmen. Diezelfde dag ontvangt Franklin via de post het nieuws dat de man van Ella dood is. Hij verbergt de brief voor Ella, omdat hij vindt dat ze het nog niet hoeft te weten. Ella ziet echter Franklin de brief verbergen. Ze weet het dus wel ondanks de goede bedoelingen van Franklin.
De sleeping stones staan in dit verhaal symbool voor de gevoelens van Ella. De sleeping stones blijven heel lang koud en doordat Ella steeds geen nieuws over haar man ontvangt, zit ze heel erg in onzekerheid. Dit deprimeert haar en ze wordt er ongerust en verdrietig van. Als ze uiteindelijk het nieuws krijgt dat haar man echt is overleden worden de sleeping stones warm. Ella krijgt uiteindelijk toch zekerheid over wat er met haar man is gebeurd en de sleeping stones symboliseren dit doordat ze warm zijn geworden.
Er zit ook een boodschap achter: je kunt het beste de harde werkelijkheid onder ogen zien. Ella doet dat niet, waardoor de klap dat haar man is overleden extra hard aankomt. Ze blijft hopen dat haar man terugkomt en dat haar oude leven weer door zal gaan. Ze ontslaat zelfs haar knecht ervoor. Als haar man overleden blijkt te zijn heeft ze zelfs niemand meer om haar boerderij gaande te houden. Ella onderdrukt ook te lang haar gevoelens van verdriet en blijft alles positief inzien, terwijl haar echte situatie dus niet zo in elkaar zit.
donderdag 11 oktober 2007
Gedicht 2: After love
After Love - Sara Teasdale
There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.
But tho' the pool is safe from storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.
Eigen mening
Ik vind dit een heel mooi en aangrijpend gedicht, omdat de schrijfster van dit gedicht heel goed duidelijk maakt hoe het voelt als de liefde tussen twee mensen over is. Ze schrijft dat alles zo gewoon is en dat ze geen speciale dingen meer voelt (there's no magic no more).
Er wordt heel duidelijk gemaakt dat er eerst wel sprake was van een speciale gevoelens eerst, maar dat die na enige tijd helemaal weg waren. Ze vergelijkt haar gevoel met voorbeelden uit de natuur en dat vind ik heel mooi gedaan.
Dit gedicht komt uit de Moderne Engelse Tijd. Dat kun je zien aan het taalgebruik: er zitten geen moeilijke verwijzingen en woorden in en alles is heel duidelijk opgeschreven. Iedereen begrijpt wat er met dit gedicht bedoeld word, maar toch heeft het door zijn helderheid een diepe indruk achtergelaten. Je kan door de helderheid heel goed snappen en meevoelen met wat de dichtster bedoelt.
There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.
But tho' the pool is safe from storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.
Eigen mening
Ik vind dit een heel mooi en aangrijpend gedicht, omdat de schrijfster van dit gedicht heel goed duidelijk maakt hoe het voelt als de liefde tussen twee mensen over is. Ze schrijft dat alles zo gewoon is en dat ze geen speciale dingen meer voelt (there's no magic no more).
Er wordt heel duidelijk gemaakt dat er eerst wel sprake was van een speciale gevoelens eerst, maar dat die na enige tijd helemaal weg waren. Ze vergelijkt haar gevoel met voorbeelden uit de natuur en dat vind ik heel mooi gedaan.
Dit gedicht komt uit de Moderne Engelse Tijd. Dat kun je zien aan het taalgebruik: er zitten geen moeilijke verwijzingen en woorden in en alles is heel duidelijk opgeschreven. Iedereen begrijpt wat er met dit gedicht bedoeld word, maar toch heeft het door zijn helderheid een diepe indruk achtergelaten. Je kan door de helderheid heel goed snappen en meevoelen met wat de dichtster bedoelt.
Gedicht 1: Night
Night – William Blake
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day."
And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."
Eigen mening
Dit is een gedicht uit de tijd van de Romantiek. Het gevoel en de natuur staan namelijk centraal in dit gedicht. Het gaat over hoe mooi de nacht lijkt en hoe stil het er is, maar dat er ondertussen in het 'donker' gevaar loert. Het gemene en het gevaarlijke (de leeuw, de wolf) staan op de loer om het onschuldig (de lam) te doden.
Een ander kenmerk van de Romantiek in dit gedicht is dat er verwezen wordt naar 'Hem', oftewel een soort van God.
De simpele dingen in het leven "zoals een lammetje en een vogeltje" worden gezien als het mooie en goede van het leven. Het lijkt bijna onwerkelijk dat zulke vredige wezens geschapen kunnen zijn door dezelfde schepper als die de 'monsters' (leeuwen, wolven) heeft geschapen.
Er wordt hier een sfeer gecreëerd door de erge gebeurtenissen (het doden van een lammetje) in het donker weer te geven. Dit geeft een gevoel dat het donker (de nacht) een onveilige en mysterieuze plek is en dat het licht (de dag) een veilige plek is waar alles vredig en mooi is.
Ik vind dit een heel goed gedicht, omdat de gevoelens heel goed worden weergegeven. Het gedicht laat je echt denken dat de nacht heel eng en gevaarlijk is en je voelt echt het gevaar en de sfeer die opgeroepen wordt.
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day."
And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."
Eigen mening
Dit is een gedicht uit de tijd van de Romantiek. Het gevoel en de natuur staan namelijk centraal in dit gedicht. Het gaat over hoe mooi de nacht lijkt en hoe stil het er is, maar dat er ondertussen in het 'donker' gevaar loert. Het gemene en het gevaarlijke (de leeuw, de wolf) staan op de loer om het onschuldig (de lam) te doden.
Een ander kenmerk van de Romantiek in dit gedicht is dat er verwezen wordt naar 'Hem', oftewel een soort van God.
De simpele dingen in het leven "zoals een lammetje en een vogeltje" worden gezien als het mooie en goede van het leven. Het lijkt bijna onwerkelijk dat zulke vredige wezens geschapen kunnen zijn door dezelfde schepper als die de 'monsters' (leeuwen, wolven) heeft geschapen.
Er wordt hier een sfeer gecreëerd door de erge gebeurtenissen (het doden van een lammetje) in het donker weer te geven. Dit geeft een gevoel dat het donker (de nacht) een onveilige en mysterieuze plek is en dat het licht (de dag) een veilige plek is waar alles vredig en mooi is.
Ik vind dit een heel goed gedicht, omdat de gevoelens heel goed worden weergegeven. Het gedicht laat je echt denken dat de nacht heel eng en gevaarlijk is en je voelt echt het gevaar en de sfeer die opgeroepen wordt.
Short Story 2: The boy and the robbers
The boy and the robbers - James Baldwin
In Persia, when Cyrus the Great was king, boys were taught to tell thetruth. This was one of their first lessons at home and at school.
"None but a coward will tell a falsehood," said the father of youngOtanes.
"Truth is beautiful. Always love it," said his mother.
When Otanes was twelve years old, his parents wished to send him toa distant city to study in a famous school that was there. It wouldbe a long journey and a dangerous one. So it was arranged that the boyshould travel with a small company of merchants who were goingto the same place. "Good-by, Otanes! Be always brave and truthful,"said his father. "Farewell, my child! Love that which is beautiful.Despise that which is base," said his mother.
The little company began its long journey. Some of the men rode oncamels, some on horses. They went but slowly, for the sun was hot andthe way was rough.
Suddenly, towards evening, a band of robbers swooped down upon them.The merchants were not fighting men. They could do nothing but giveup all their goods and money.
"Well, boy, what have you got?" asked one of the robbers, as he pulledOtanes from his horse.
"Forty pieces of gold" answered the lad.
The robber laughed. He had never heard of a boy with so much money asthat.
"That is a good story" he said. "Where do you carry your gold?"
"It is in my hat, underneath the lining," answered Otanes.
"Oh, well! You can't make me believe that," said the robber; and hehurried away to rob one of the rich merchants.
Soon another came up and said, "My boy, do you happen to have any goldabout you?"
"Yes! Forty pieces, in my hat, said Otanes.
"You are a brave lad to be joking with robbers" said the man; and healso hurried on to a more promising field.
At length the chief of the band called to Otanes and said, "Youngfellow, have you anything worth taking?"
Otanes answered, "I have already told two of your men that I have fortypieces of gold in my hat. But they wouldn't believe me."
"Take off your hat," said the chief.
The boy obeyed. The chief tore out the lining and found the gold hiddenbeneath it.
"Why did you tell us where to find it?" he asked. "No one would havethought that a child like you had gold about him."
"If I had answered your questions differently, I should have told alie," said Otanes; "and none but cowards tell lies"
The robber chief was struck by this answer. He thought of the numberof times that he himself had been a coward. Then he said, "You are abrave boy, and you may keep your gold. Here it is. Mount your horse,and my own men will ride with you and see that you reach the end ofyour journey in safety."Otanes, in time, became one of the famous men of his country. He wasthe advisor and friend of two of the kings who succeeded Cyrus.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, theme etc.
Dit is een heel erg leuk verhaal en ik raad iedereen dan ook aan om dit verhaal te lezen. Het verhaal is op een hele grappige en op een sprookjesachtige wijze verteld. Deze short story deed me een beetje denken aan het sprookje van Aladin, want daar had je ook allemaal rovers en mensen die goud zochten.
Het thema (de boodschap) in dit verhaal bevat een oud gezegde: eerlijkheid duurt het langst. De jongen in dit verhaal vertelt de hele tijd eerlijk dat hij 40 goude muntstukken in zijn hoed heeft, maar hij wordt door de rovers niet gelooft. De jongen blijft volhouden dat hij echt 40 muntstukken in zijn hoed heeft en hij laat dit uiteindelijk ook zien. De rovers vragen waarom hij de waarheid heeft verteld en dan antwoord de jongen dat mensen die liegen lafaards zijn. De rovers denken na over hoe vaak zij hebben gelogen en besluiten de jongen te laten gaan, omdat hij geen lafaard is.
Als de jongen ouder is wordt hij beloond (goede baan, bekendheid), omdat hij altijd zo eerlijk is geweest.
Het verhaal speelt zich af in Persië en dat vind ik ook wel een goede achtergrond voor het verhaal. Persië heeft namelijk een woestijnachtig gebied en er komen ook paarden in het verhaal voor. Dit geeft het zo'n arabische sfeer (net als bij Aladin) en daarom vind ik de setting zo goed bij het verhaal passen.
In Persia, when Cyrus the Great was king, boys were taught to tell thetruth. This was one of their first lessons at home and at school.
"None but a coward will tell a falsehood," said the father of youngOtanes.
"Truth is beautiful. Always love it," said his mother.
When Otanes was twelve years old, his parents wished to send him toa distant city to study in a famous school that was there. It wouldbe a long journey and a dangerous one. So it was arranged that the boyshould travel with a small company of merchants who were goingto the same place. "Good-by, Otanes! Be always brave and truthful,"said his father. "Farewell, my child! Love that which is beautiful.Despise that which is base," said his mother.
The little company began its long journey. Some of the men rode oncamels, some on horses. They went but slowly, for the sun was hot andthe way was rough.
Suddenly, towards evening, a band of robbers swooped down upon them.The merchants were not fighting men. They could do nothing but giveup all their goods and money.
"Well, boy, what have you got?" asked one of the robbers, as he pulledOtanes from his horse.
"Forty pieces of gold" answered the lad.
The robber laughed. He had never heard of a boy with so much money asthat.
"That is a good story" he said. "Where do you carry your gold?"
"It is in my hat, underneath the lining," answered Otanes.
"Oh, well! You can't make me believe that," said the robber; and hehurried away to rob one of the rich merchants.
Soon another came up and said, "My boy, do you happen to have any goldabout you?"
"Yes! Forty pieces, in my hat, said Otanes.
"You are a brave lad to be joking with robbers" said the man; and healso hurried on to a more promising field.
At length the chief of the band called to Otanes and said, "Youngfellow, have you anything worth taking?"
Otanes answered, "I have already told two of your men that I have fortypieces of gold in my hat. But they wouldn't believe me."
"Take off your hat," said the chief.
The boy obeyed. The chief tore out the lining and found the gold hiddenbeneath it.
"Why did you tell us where to find it?" he asked. "No one would havethought that a child like you had gold about him."
"If I had answered your questions differently, I should have told alie," said Otanes; "and none but cowards tell lies"
The robber chief was struck by this answer. He thought of the numberof times that he himself had been a coward. Then he said, "You are abrave boy, and you may keep your gold. Here it is. Mount your horse,and my own men will ride with you and see that you reach the end ofyour journey in safety."Otanes, in time, became one of the famous men of his country. He wasthe advisor and friend of two of the kings who succeeded Cyrus.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, theme etc.
Dit is een heel erg leuk verhaal en ik raad iedereen dan ook aan om dit verhaal te lezen. Het verhaal is op een hele grappige en op een sprookjesachtige wijze verteld. Deze short story deed me een beetje denken aan het sprookje van Aladin, want daar had je ook allemaal rovers en mensen die goud zochten.
Het thema (de boodschap) in dit verhaal bevat een oud gezegde: eerlijkheid duurt het langst. De jongen in dit verhaal vertelt de hele tijd eerlijk dat hij 40 goude muntstukken in zijn hoed heeft, maar hij wordt door de rovers niet gelooft. De jongen blijft volhouden dat hij echt 40 muntstukken in zijn hoed heeft en hij laat dit uiteindelijk ook zien. De rovers vragen waarom hij de waarheid heeft verteld en dan antwoord de jongen dat mensen die liegen lafaards zijn. De rovers denken na over hoe vaak zij hebben gelogen en besluiten de jongen te laten gaan, omdat hij geen lafaard is.
Als de jongen ouder is wordt hij beloond (goede baan, bekendheid), omdat hij altijd zo eerlijk is geweest.
Het verhaal speelt zich af in Persië en dat vind ik ook wel een goede achtergrond voor het verhaal. Persië heeft namelijk een woestijnachtig gebied en er komen ook paarden in het verhaal voor. Dit geeft het zo'n arabische sfeer (net als bij Aladin) en daarom vind ik de setting zo goed bij het verhaal passen.
Short story 1: The child's story
The Child's Story – Charles Dickens
Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, "What do you do here?" And the child said, "I am always at play. Come and play with me!"
So, he played with that child, the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds and saw so many butteries, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home-- where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But, when it snowed, that was best of all; for, they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue- beards and bean-stalks and riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.
But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, "What do you do here?" And the boy said, "I am always learning. Come and learn with me."
So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don't know what, and learned more than I could tell--or he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoner's base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young man, "What do you do here?" And the young man said, "I am always in love. Come and love with me."
So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen--just like Fanny in the corner there--and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny's, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly--just as Somebody I won't mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! he was teased sometimes--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they quarrelled sometimes--just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas-time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon--all exactly like Somebody I won't mention, and Fanny!
But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, "What are you doing here?" And his answer was, "I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!"
So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his Wife; and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.
Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little, distant voice crying, "Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!" And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.
Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, "Father, I am going to sea," and another said, "Father, I am going to India," and another, "Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can," and another, "Father, I am going to Heaven!" So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.
So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady stopped.
"My husband," said the lady. "I am called."
They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue, say, "Mother, mother!"
It was the voice of the first child who had said, "I am going to Heaven!" and the father said, "I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet!"
But, the voice cried, "Mother, mother!" without minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.
Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said, "My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!" And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, "What do you do here?" And the old man said with a calm smile, "I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!"
So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honoured and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear Grandfather, because this what you do to us, and what we do to you.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, thema ect.
Ik raad iedereen aan om deze short story te lezen! Het verhaal gaat over een reiziger die steeds iemand ontmoet. Eerst ontmoet de reiziger een kind die met hem wil spelen. Hij speelt met het kind mee en dan is het kind ineens weg. De reiziger trekt verder en hij ontmoet weer een kind, maar dit kind wil dat de man met hem gaat leren. De reiziger leert met het kind en na een tijdje is het kind weg. Zo gaat dit steeds maar door totdat de reiziger een oude man (grootvader) ontmoet. De oude man is aan het bedenken hoe alles in zijn leven is verlopen en hij denkt aan alle mensen van wie hij houdt. De reiziger denkt met hem mee.
Ik denk dat de reis die de reiziger maakt symbool staat voor het opgroeien en voor de groei die je in het leven meemaakt. Je begint als een klein kind en langzaamaan wordt je ouder en maak je meer dingen mee. Je krijgt kinderen en uiteindelijk klein kinderen en als je dan aan het einde van je leven staat (oude man) denk je terug aan die tijd en aan hoe snel alles voorbij is gegaan zonder dat je het zelf in de gaten hebt. Dit is dan ook het thema van dit verhaal.
Je ziet de reis dus eigenlijk door de ogen van die oude man: hij gaat zijn hele leven in gedachten nog eens na. De reiziger staat dus symbool voor de oude man die door zijn gedachten reist.
Met de titel “the child’s story” wordt volgens mij bedoeld dat het verhaal van kinds af aan wordt verteld en dat je altijd het kind in jezelf blijft houden. Als je kind bent, gaat de tijd heel snel en heb je dat niet in de gaten. Als je dan oud bent, besef je dat er heel veel tijd aan je voorbij is gegaan.
Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, "What do you do here?" And the child said, "I am always at play. Come and play with me!"
So, he played with that child, the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds and saw so many butteries, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home-- where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But, when it snowed, that was best of all; for, they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue- beards and bean-stalks and riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.
But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, "What do you do here?" And the boy said, "I am always learning. Come and learn with me."
So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don't know what, and learned more than I could tell--or he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoner's base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young man, "What do you do here?" And the young man said, "I am always in love. Come and love with me."
So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen--just like Fanny in the corner there--and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny's, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly--just as Somebody I won't mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! he was teased sometimes--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they quarrelled sometimes--just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas-time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon--all exactly like Somebody I won't mention, and Fanny!
But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, "What are you doing here?" And his answer was, "I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!"
So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his Wife; and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.
Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little, distant voice crying, "Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!" And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.
Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, "Father, I am going to sea," and another said, "Father, I am going to India," and another, "Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can," and another, "Father, I am going to Heaven!" So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.
So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady stopped.
"My husband," said the lady. "I am called."
They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue, say, "Mother, mother!"
It was the voice of the first child who had said, "I am going to Heaven!" and the father said, "I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet!"
But, the voice cried, "Mother, mother!" without minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.
Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said, "My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!" And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, "What do you do here?" And the old man said with a calm smile, "I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!"
So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honoured and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear Grandfather, because this what you do to us, and what we do to you.
Eigen mening
uitgewerkt in plot, character, thema ect.
Ik raad iedereen aan om deze short story te lezen! Het verhaal gaat over een reiziger die steeds iemand ontmoet. Eerst ontmoet de reiziger een kind die met hem wil spelen. Hij speelt met het kind mee en dan is het kind ineens weg. De reiziger trekt verder en hij ontmoet weer een kind, maar dit kind wil dat de man met hem gaat leren. De reiziger leert met het kind en na een tijdje is het kind weg. Zo gaat dit steeds maar door totdat de reiziger een oude man (grootvader) ontmoet. De oude man is aan het bedenken hoe alles in zijn leven is verlopen en hij denkt aan alle mensen van wie hij houdt. De reiziger denkt met hem mee.
Ik denk dat de reis die de reiziger maakt symbool staat voor het opgroeien en voor de groei die je in het leven meemaakt. Je begint als een klein kind en langzaamaan wordt je ouder en maak je meer dingen mee. Je krijgt kinderen en uiteindelijk klein kinderen en als je dan aan het einde van je leven staat (oude man) denk je terug aan die tijd en aan hoe snel alles voorbij is gegaan zonder dat je het zelf in de gaten hebt. Dit is dan ook het thema van dit verhaal.
Je ziet de reis dus eigenlijk door de ogen van die oude man: hij gaat zijn hele leven in gedachten nog eens na. De reiziger staat dus symbool voor de oude man die door zijn gedachten reist.
Met de titel “the child’s story” wordt volgens mij bedoeld dat het verhaal van kinds af aan wordt verteld en dat je altijd het kind in jezelf blijft houden. Als je kind bent, gaat de tijd heel snel en heb je dat niet in de gaten. Als je dan oud bent, besef je dat er heel veel tijd aan je voorbij is gegaan.
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