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Senior Portfolio

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sasha zakharka

on 13 July 2010

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Transcript of Senior Portfolio

Senior Portfolio Symbolism Novel
Pride and Prejudice The Stranger
Author Emily Dickinson Alexandre Dumas
Song/Lyrics The Battle Hymn of the Republic Setting
The Metamorphosis
Animal Farm Poetry To my Dear
and
Loving Husband Tonight i Can Write
the Saddest Lines

By Pablo Neruda
Allusion Theater Literary Movement
(Modernism) Patterns Between Walls


Short Stories Eleonora
By
Edgar Allen Poe Just stand up
The use of symbols is a very important and interesting aspect in literature. It implies one self to think deeper into the poem, short story or novel in order to solve for the meaning that every symbol carries along and fully comprehend the piece of literature read. Sometimes an image, object or even a color may be used to convey a specific meaning.
However, Symbols are not always easy to decipher as they often tend to be very abstract as in the novel Like Water for Chocolate food is used to symbolize love and the valley of ashes in The Great Gatsby is meant to denote the moral and social decay that results from the uninhibited pursuit of wealth.
The absence of symbols within any form of literature would be an incredible loss for the reader as symbols do not only give every reader the opportunity of picturing an own meaning each symbol but they also make the reading more challenging and interesting. There is something fascinating about the different settings a story can take place in. More details about the setting usually add more effect to the words someone says, the mood of a character and story and the possible change in time or environment.
The setting of all forms of literature is created by language and it allows an individual to expand his/her imagination and visualize the story when reading it.
Often the setting makes a story more appealing and the plot more interesting when it seems familiar to the reader as different realizations begin to wonder through ones mind. Sometimes the setting may not leave the house and be gloomy almost throughout the whole story and one day the death of someone may bring sunshine.
The setting is a fundamental component of literature as it can highly influence the characters in a story. Each character is meant to fit into a certain place and time and if that varies the plot becomes difficult to understand as no connections can be made. The back wings
of the
hospitalwhere
nothing
will grow lie
cinders
In which shine
the broken
pieces of a green
bottle If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever. An author is who gives existence to any sort of literary work, whether it is a novel, poem, short story, fable, or fairytale. The tone, writing style and vocabulary used in these different works tend to vary in respect to the author but sometimes many authors are inspired by others of the same era, resulting in a similar way of writing.
The writers voice often allows the reader to get to know how different events were like in the past and glance at a modern author’s perspective about the present.
Another perception of mine is that sometimes authors intend to convey an important message through their work such us not to judge others, women and men are equal and everyone is on their own.
When I read, I often perceive that authors write to work through personal tragedies or deal with cultural and political issues. All experiences, good or bad, literary movements, family and even nature may influence the topic or theme on which the author bases his writings on.
In theater it is the speech, gesture, music, dance, singing and performance that combines to tell the audience a story. A story that makes the audience feel every scene as it were a real life situation and think intrigued about what is coming next. Is he going to kiss her? Will they kill the giant? Why is she going outside in that weather? How will he manage her death?
Some common questions that can wonder one’s mind when watching different theater performances and what solutions are only found whit the help of the approaching scenes.
In drama performances costumes, objects, sound and setting add special effects to the show. Characteristics that facilitates the audience’s interpretation of the characters and make the story more visual and entertaining.
Theater is the form of literature that grabs my attention the most as it makes me feel with the characters, the tragedies, hindrances, solutions and love stories. Like Water
for
Chocolate
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His day is marching on.
About half way between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. The Great Gatsby
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me, The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me! This is my letter to the world Nowadays, music is one of popular form of entertainment. Songs have the ability to bring back memories, make one feel comfortable with the present and dream about the future. They can unify people, give hope in times of desperation and animate one to fight whether it is against cancer or slavery.
Different songs and their lyrics fascinate me because they have the power to awaken a variety of emotions in me. A song may make me cry or smile, if I feel identified by it, think and remember, if the lyrics coincide with the happenings in my life.
Songs are a great creation as sometimes they can help people express their feelings or pass on a specific message but they can also act like a ‘time machine’ and transfer you into a different place and time even if it is just for a few minutes. What is it about short stories that make reading so casual and ideal for our modern world?
Personally, I believe that it is the fact that they are written in prose and do not require deep thinking makes it easy to read. They do not drag one on for pages but instead are straight to the point, making it more compact and entertaining. Short stories a great option for those who enjoy reading but do not have as much time.
Short stories have a beginning, middle and end, which sometimes can be linked to the author’s feelings or beliefs such as in The Story of an Hour where the author, Kate Chopin exemplifies her own beliefs regarding the role of women in marriage.
Similar to other literary forms short stories can also make our heart race, our body tremble and our mind think. Only because they are short that does not mean that emotions cannot be involved. However, the difference here is that the intrigue does not last as long since everything is revealed relatively fast. Poetry is a form of literary art that is meant to be understood in different ways. It allows every individual to build his or her own meaning out of every line and stanza and create an imaginative experience through meaning.
Every time reading and interpreting a poem becomes a challenge for me since it is a task that requires one to ‘dig’ deeper than the usual as the meaning goes farther than what one can see on the surface.
Poems usually display certain factors such as love, sorrow, joy or anger, which tend to bring emotions to the audiences mind and make each individual feel every word as it were real. Poetry sets my imagination free and gives me the opportunity to form my own views and opinions. However, it is the difficulty in interpretation that holds me back from grabbing a poem once in a while.
Novels often reveal aspects about life and human nature that might have been inexistent to us and give us an understanding of the truths of life. After reading a novel one can take those thoughts, feelings and experiences and use it meaningfully in one’s life.
Many times we disbelieve that the context in novels can have an effect on us but the fact is that novels sometimes only portray what we have forgotten, like traditions and what we are too blind to see, like for example the existence of people different than oneself, strangers.
Novels bring us down to reality, when we see Meursault sitting for hours looking at the street lamps and the men and women flirting and giggling together we realize that the world is full of diversity where different people enjoy different activities. And that some can be more traditional than others, as in the novel Pride and Prejudice where Mrs. Bennett’s only job is to get his daughters married.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing.
In the distance.My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door.""Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Viva la vida I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing,
"Now the old king is dead, long live the king!"
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you know there was never,
never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world "You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."
"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving HER the preference."
"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."
"Mr. Bennet, how CAN you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."
"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least."
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. HER mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. I turned my chair around and set it down like the tobacconist’s because I found that it was more comfortable that way. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went inside to get a piece of chocolate, and went back to the window to eat it. Soon after that, the sky grew dark and I thought we were in for summer storm. Gradually, though, it cleared up again. But the passing clouds ha left a hint of rain hanging over the street, which made it look darker. I sat there fore a long time and watched the sky. At five o’clock some streetcars pulled up, clanging away. They were bringing back gangs of fans from the local soccer stadium. They were crowded onto the running boards and hanging from the handrails. The streetcars that followed brought back the players, whim I recognized by their little athletics bags. They were shouting and singing on the tops of their lungs that their team would never die. Several of them waved to me. One of them even yelled up to me, “We beat ‘em!” And I nodded, as if to say “Yes.” From then on there was a steady stream of cars. Hamlet
Come, come and sit down, you shall not budge.
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Queen
What wilt thou do? THou wilt not murder me?
Help, ho!
Polonius
[Behind the arras] What ho! Help!
Hamlet
How now? A rat! Dead for a ducat, dead.

Thrusts his rapier through the arras
Polonius
[Behind] O, I am slain.
Queen
O me, what hast thou done?
Hamlet
Nay, I know not.
Is it the king?

Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius, dead
Queen
O what a rash and bloody deed is this!
Hamlet
A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king and marry with his brother.

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom–that, like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth–that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring.
As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and a fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dream on the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals. It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones was safely out of the way. Old Major (so he was always called, though the name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty) was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour’s sleep in order to hear what he had to say. So Gregor did not go into the room, but leant against the inside of the other door, which was still held bolted in place. In this way only half of his body could be seen, along with his head above it, which he leant over to one side as he peered out at the others. Meanwhile the day had become much lighter; part of the endless, grey-black building on the other side of the street - which was a hospital - could be seen quite clearly with the austere and regular line of windows piercing its façade; the rain was still falling, now throwing down large, individual droplets which hit the ground one at a time.
On the wall exactly opposite there was photograph of Gregor when he was a lieutenant in the army, his sword in his hand and a carefree smile on his face as he called forth respect for his uniform and bearing. The door to the entrance hall was open and as the front door of the flat was also open he could see onto the landing and the stairs where they began their way down below. In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whimThat sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said.
"Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and downThe patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for? Modernism, "a belief among intellectuals and artists that the old way is fadding away and that something altogether new would take its place, is marked by a break with tradition.
In poetry, it seems to me that rhyme and the traditional from are often overthrown and instead free verse, fragmentation and juxtaposition are featured.
I believe that, modernism allows a poet or author to freely express his/her ideas without worrying about rhyming stanzas and punctuation since in modernism, an order is not always necessary as long as it ‘flows’ well.
When I read a modernist work I perceive that there is a kind of disorder, that religion is lacking, that there is no connection with history and that the emphasis is on the individual and inner being rather than the social being. Allusions are an important aspect in literature as there are used to link together concepts that the reader knows with concepts in the story. Different allusions have the ability to transfer one to the past, as it may allude to important historical events or most commonly to the bible.
I believe that allusions help the reader visualize the place, event, literary work, person or art work by bringing up a psychological picture. However, the reader must be aware of the allusion and must be familiar with what it alludes.
Allusions have the ‘power’ to increase the meaning of a sentence through the context of the alluded work. An ability that can only work if the reader realizes when ‘bumps’ into allusions. Okonkwo’s return to his native land was not as memorable as he had wished. It was true his two beautiful daughters aroused great interest among suitors and marriage negotiations were soon in progress, but beyond that, Umofia did not appear to have taken any special notice of the warrior’s return. The clan had undergone such profound change during his exile that it was barely recognizable. The new religion and government and the trading stores were very much in the people’s eyes and minds.There were still many who saw these new institutions as evil, but even they talked and thought about little else, and certainly not about Okonkwo’s return.
Okonkwo was deeply grieved. And it was not just a personal grief. He mourned for the clan, which he saw breaking up and falling apart, and he mourned for the warlike men of Umofia, who had so unaccountably become soft like women. "Look!" said Jacopo.The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by thesailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from theMediterranean Sea, they perceived a large white sail."Gone," said Morrel; "gone! -- adieu, my friend -- adieu, myfather!""Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my sweet Haidee --adieu, my sister!""Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" saidMorrel with tearful eyes."Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just toldus that all human wisdom is summed up in two words? -- `Waitand hope.'" The Count of Monte Cristo The End By F.Scott Fitzgerald By
Laura Esquivel By
William Carlos Williams By
Amy Lowell vhbdjcvndscjd
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