#its objectively a horrid book but the characters are setting are interesting

[d1sheclectic]

Chapter 2 of hand in glove (i stake my claim), my post-The Outsiders, That Was Then This Is Now Purly fic is posted for any remaining Purly soldiers out there :-) love these characters sm guys like oh my god

[quirkwizard]

Class 1-A: Excommunication

A while back, I said Aoyama didn’t belong in Class 1-A. While I did want to make a post explaining my thoughts, I thought I would do something a little different. I will instead be talking about a kind of Class 1-A shuffling. Two characters that could be replaced, two who could replace them and one surprise.

-For characters to qualify for this discussion, we must know at least a few things about them. Characters like Koda or Sato will not be on this list as we don’t know much about them.

-I will not only be looking at their aspects as a potential hero, but also how they fit into the dynamics of Class 1-A (personality, design etc.)

-I will be mention the character’s statistics in this. While they aren’t the be all end of all a character, they do make for a good reference point.

Kaminari

Kaminari had an unnatural advantage in the entrance exam. Since the entrance exam was based solely around robots, he would likely have had no problem beating as many as he could due to his Quirk being based around electricity. Even if that wasn’t the case, I still feel that there are other things that would make him a candidate for excommunication. His biggest handicap is his intelligence. This goes outside of just being book dumb, he also pretty dumb on the battlefield. He picks the worst possible strategy when it comes to using his Quirk. He fires off one big, wild volt of electricity and if that doesn't work he’s pretty much down for the count. This method not only puts himself in jeopardy, but anyone else who happens to be caught in the blast radius. Kaminari also doesn't really have a role in the class. We already Mineta as the pervert and Sero as the goofball. At the very least, he has some potential with his power, and being highly cooperative does make at least some argument for him. His relationship with Jiro also makes for a good dynamic.

Aoyama

Aoyama’s Quirk, while some what powerful, not only hurts him, but is also very limited in application and potential. His strategy was so predictable, that even someone like Mina was able to figure it out a way around it. The worst thing about him though is his horrid abilities of cooperation. Being bad at cooperating is probably the worst possible thing for a hero, as they not only need to work well with others, but need to work the crowd in order work as a hero. His prideful nature just will end up alienating people. He’s also has a pretty boring personality: he’s flamboyant and French without much else to him. The only reason I think he’s in Class 1-A is either that Kohei Horikoshi is either setting him up for something or he just likes to drawing Aoyama. Which is actually true.

If you were to twist my arm and make me choose, I would say Aoyama. Kaminari may be an idiot, but at least he has some potential with his Quirk and he’s very cooperative. Aoyama, on the other hand, just seems to fall at every hurtle.

Monoma

For all his very punchable traits, Monoma has the making of a good hero. His Intelligence is superb, with Technique and Cooperativeness being nothing to scoff at. His Quirk, though I did rag on it in my “Top Five Overrated Quirks” post, I still think it is a solid Quirk. As well as being versatile enough to be put into the Generalist category of Heroes. It would also be interesting to see his possible confidence issues getting more focus, as I believe there would be a unique story with them. However, we already have loud mouth, unlikable blonde haired character in Class 1-A, so it’d be a little redundant to have Monomna in Class 1-A. That and he doesn't really have a stand out design.

Ibara 

While her exceptional stats and ironclad morals make her a good candidate on their own, the most stand out feature for me is her power. Her Vines are strong enough to break through concrete, but precise enough to grab small objects. For further information, just good look at my “Top Five Underrated Quirks”. I would also think it would be it could lead to some humorous moments with how altruistic she is, aseptically with characters like Bakugou and Mineta. Even if she was delegated to background character, she’d still have a unique and interesting appearance to help her stick out. She was actually suppose to be in Class 1-A but Kohei Horikoshi decide against it, most likely because he finds it painful to draw her hair. Which, to be fair, is a pretty good reason not to have her in such a predominant role.

Again, if you were to make me choose, I’d say Ibara, as I feel she just has more going for her.

Now what most of you are probably asking is: “Where is Shinsou?” If I’m being entirely honest, I don’t think Shinsou belong to Class 1-A.

While people think Brainwashing is strong, it really isn’t, to the point I want to put it on my aforementioned overrated list but decided I wanted to talk about here instead. Its especially not good for a hero. Being a hero means that you would get some spotlight, something that would work against Shinsou as his Quirk is exclusively reliant on nobody knowing its power. And even if he did try to stay out of the spotlight, the villains of MHA aren’t stupid, they would figure out eventually what his power is and that would make him next to useless unless he has specific equipment. And even if he didn’t have a Quirk like that, his terrible stats would put him in the ground. While his Intelligence and Technique are above average, the rest are just terrible. I doubt he really have a role in the class either, as Shoto already fills the role of the emotionally aloof. 

[study-lit]

how to edexcel a level lit: prose comparative essay

wow, back with another semi useful post! :) I’ll use my mock essay as an example of what I mean -- warning: this will be really wordy.

question: compare the ways in which the authors of your two chosen texts criticise human behaviour. you must relate your discussion to relevant contextual factors. (40 marks)

INTRODUCTION: In my view, the introduction is difficult to get right, but it pays off when done well. This is the first bit of your paper that the examiner will read; setting out your thesis well in your introduction lets them know what you’re about.

Human nature, according to Richard Dawkins, is dictated by an ‘unrivaled selfishness’, the internalised want which focuses humanity on its goal of personal success seeps into the functions of us, as humans.

In my opening sentence, I focus on the topic of the question. In this mock, I misinterpreted ‘human behaviour’ and replaced it with ‘human nature’, but really this didn’t impact my mark too badly. It’s good to show some sense of critical theory, but in terms of the assessment objectives, this isn’t imperative like it is in the drama exam.

This ‘selfishness’ is utilised in both Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ and Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ to, perhaps, demonstrate the innate failure of human nature in that its natural state, individualism, even when well meant, creates a catastrophic outcome for both the protagonist, and wider society.

Then, I relate the critical theory to the texts. How do the authors present human behaviour? As the topic title is ‘Science and Society’, I make sure to get in ‘wider society’ in order to demonstrate I am aware of what I was taught.

For an A/low A*, that’s all you need to do. I am going on my teacher’s marking, but for this essay I got 36/40, a low A* if an A* is 90%.

BODY:

I’m going to use one point from my essay, as I wrote two rather long points. I’d try for three or four points (a side and a half for each text per point), but three is probably the happy medium.

Thesis/Comparison:

I try to write a paragraph of direct comparison before I go into the individual texts and their relationship to my thesis. In this case, I break it into two parts:

Humanity’s selfishness directly contributes to the so-called ‘amity-enmity complex’, the social state which dictates individual societal positions.

My point is about the demonstration of the amity-enmity complex in both books, so I make this clear, and define what it means.

Both Shelley and Atwood commentate on the effect the utilisation of ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ has on the individual, perhaps products of their respective contexts: the Religious Right of 1980s America dictated collaboration of White Christians in order to rule over homosexuals or people of colour, whilst Victorian Britain’s main entertainment was the ever-popular ‘freak show’, where those predisposed were taunted for their bosses to make money quickly.

Here, I compare the texts and relate it to the books’ contexts in order to get those AO3 and AO4 marks. Plus, it shows the examiner that I’m clearly considering the methods used in both texts, not just one or the other.

Text One - Frankenstein:

This is long, so I’ll try and break it up...

In ‘Frankenstein’, Shelley utilises Victor’s monster in order to demonstrate the roots of the eventual downfall Victor’s family succumbs to, creating a societal outsider whom Victor shuns. “His hair was a lustrous black [...] teeth of a pearly white [...] these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes” -- Shelley juxtaposes the traits deemed attractive by society with the ‘watery eyes’, a trait common found when crying. The appearance of the Monster -- by which everyone treats him (’wretched daemon’) -- invokes Victor’s amity-enmity complex, which itself, in shunning his newly born Creature, begins the events -- as mirrored in The Handmaid’s Tale -- of the oppressed rising against the oppressor.

So, here, I make my main point: the amity-enmity complex pushes the Creature to revolt against his ruling class (Victor), and in turn sets in motion the events of the rest of the text. Pretty standard stuff (or at least I think so)!

For instance, later in Shelley’s work, the Monster laments that “even Satan has accomplices; fellow demons [...] I am abhorred by all,” a personal outlook imposed by Victor’s human nature to shun those who are different. In his own self interest -- hiding his ‘damned’ creation -- Victor contributes to the creation of the ‘beast’ who leaves Elizabeth, William and Clerval ‘lifeless’, just like the Creature began his lifetime.

Here, I’ve linked my main point to an example further on the text, and rounded it off. Shelley criticises Victor’s human behaviour of abandoning his ‘son’, and punishes him through the tragedy his family (and Clerval, who is totally his gay lover and you can’t tell me otherwise) succumb to.

Text Two - The Handmaid’s Tale:

This point is like 2 and 1/2 sides... your points don’t need to be this long, I just got a bit carried away.

As aforementioned, the amity-enmity complex makes an appearance in ‘The Handmaid’s Take’ where it, too, leads to an outsider rising against the ruling class. Whilst Offred is not an as explicitly an ‘outsider’ like the Creature, her use as a Handmaid creates the divide between those who rule and conform (the Commanders and their Wives) and those who serve (the Handmaids and Marthas). The room Offred resides in, and its contents, demonstrates a ‘return to traditonal (New Right Christian) values’: works of ‘folk art, archaic made by women’ out of things ‘that have no further use [...] waste not, want not.’ The proverb ‘waste not, want not’ and design of things from materials no longer used under the Gileadian regime reflects the commodity of the women used as Handmaids: they’re all ‘sisters dripped in blood’, pairs that ‘mirror’ one another, a group of people who are, by the amity-enmity complex, pulled from the fringes of society (Janine was raped, Offred married a divorcee) and forced into a collective for abuse by their superiors, who joined Gilead when it was little more than a segment of the Moral Majority of Reagan’s day.

If I’m honest, I still don’t quite understand why I got marks for this point, as my language analysis is not quite as developed as I feel it should be. In some ways, this could cover the ao1: I talk about my point - the amity enmity complex’s means of splitting society into groups, and back it up with some loosely relating quotes. I don’t get to the meat of my point until this bit:

Offred, by name, is a possession. Thus, the blatant societal divisions present in Atwood’s text helps assist in creating ‘Mayday’, a rebellion against Gilead’s bourgeoisie. It is Offred, like Shelley’s Creature, whose ostracisation is a catalyst for the events which culminate in the Historial Notes: ‘the past is a great darkness’ which no longer exists. As such, the means of reproduction, and creating a social hierarchy through the view that Handmaids are a commodity, due to human nature’s amity-emnity complex, leads to the felling of a successful society.

This makes more sense: jumping to conclusions and treating people as ‘lesser’ will result in a communist-esque revolution. In referencing the whole text, I can gain provide the examiner with proof that I’m considering all of the text.

Thus, both authors’ texts reflect on the existence of humanity’s prejudices as a direct cause of societal failure and familial tragedy, criticising the human nature of having powerful ‘insiders’, and ostracised ‘outsiders’.

I always culminate my points in explaining the explicit point I’m making.

CONCLUSION:

Here, you’re not just summing up your essay. If your teacher has told you that’s the case, then by all means listen to them, but maybe try this format once. My conclusions come as ‘why should you care, then?’

Human behaviour is, ultimately, criticised in both Shelley and Atwood’s texts as detrimental to the surivival of the individual, but also creates change in the world around them. Both Victor and Offred succumb to the demise often ascribed to Machiavellian villains who practise self-preservation at all costs. Their fates do, arguably, come as a direct result of the actions they take due to their human nature.

I don’t actually mention Machiavelli elsewhere in the essay; I saw this opportunity to leave the examiner (in this case my teacher) with a potential reading. Are Victor and Offred Machiavellian due to their determination to survive over everyone else? Possibly.

I like to make the fact that the authors are telling us, the reader, why we should/shouldn’t be like their characters the final sentence of my conclusion.

As such, through a demonstration of key human attributes such as desrire and the amity-enmity complex, Shelley and Atwood criticise the actions of their own creations whilst giving their readers their own warning: we, too, are prediposed with these traits, and thus have the ability to destroy as well as create.

well, there you go! a breakdown of my essay with “helpful” tips. I hope this assists you guys in your a level or even gives you some new ideas!

[for-peace-war]

[Mordalia] - “Legacies”

[ I decided to write a little introductory piece for my high elf mage in @mcsars Warcraft/Pathfinder game.  It’s been so long since I seriously wrote something but it felt great to try it out again!  Falendra Silvervale belongs to @diermina, Nathaniel Grimm is @lordcaliginous, and Rosalie Carling [the witch] is @perfectperfidy.  Also, a very small mention of @jessiphile and her character, Renalus Duskhallow.

Thanks for reading, if you do! ]

FALENDRA SILVERVALE WAS TOO CLEVER FOR HER OWN GOOD.  It had been well on past five decades since Magistrix Mordalia Bala’thustraes had set foot in her native Quel’thalas, but the fleeting memories of a girl had never imagined a farstrider half as impudent nor vaguely as difficult.  It had been nearly a month since they had departed from Dalaran (or more accurately, 3 weeks, 5 days, and four hours to that moment – a figure Mordalia relied upon to remain sane at times) and in truth, she had her fill of the woman’s mannerisms by the time they had made little more than the first day and a half.  In contentious silence did they travel often, though even that was something that she found vexing and swift to set her mood from mildly perturbed to outright distraught.  Who did she think she was?  What gave her the right to behave in so baseless a manner?

The problem was, Mordalia had come to recognize, that Falendra was more often than not silent.  It was not the pensive silence of a scholar studying a strange object to that point unseen, for she would have readily accepted and understood that without complaint.  After all, she was the very same Mordalia Bala’thustraes that had achieved success during the Ballad of the Stars when she was just on fifteen years of age – that had been able to manipulate hearts and minds with a voice she so loathed to share that since then she had not lifted it to a note above the mundane.  No, she did not like to sing: she found it a vestige of a legacy she wished to leave far behind her, yet all the same the woman might well have done her to courtesy of allowing her to deny her the request to hear her.  Yet there was more to her misgiving than that – more to it than the absence of verbal comment.  Falendra seemed neither admiring nor interested in her unique ability.  She cared little, it seemed, for the fact that but a girl had used her voice to challenge the state of things: that a child had forced her way into a prestigious household with a begrudgingly gifted voice.

If truth be told, it seemed as though she cared little for anything. And that was what vexed her most of all.

In passing, and if only for a moment, perhaps she had allowed a musical sigh to leave her when they were forced into closer quarters.  It was nothing too extravagant of course, for whyever would that horrid woman deserve to hear the luster that was her unchecked and undesired prowess in vocal and aural sensation?  The cabins were not at all cramped, yet the silence that existed between them was enough to fill every cubic inch of space between them with a sort of tension that proved viscous as fog and heavy as the water that thudded against the ship’s sides.  That note, but a whisper of the majesty that her voice might have commanded, should have recalled her to the woman’s mind immediately.  Perhaps she was shy or did not know how to approach the topic, for those of Dalaran were certainly mysterious and a woman accustomed to but leaves and acorns and the sound of lynxes rutting in wooded enclosures could have known little of civility and class, yet even for that Falendra did not appear too terribly concerned.  Her eyes, more green than blue, had been fixated upon the wall across from her at most times if not hidden behind her heavy lids.  Her ears rarely twitched without purpose, and Mordalia’s subtle (though quite becoming) affectations did not in the slightest rouse that from her.  She was irksome.  Loathsome.   But most of all she was silent – so damnably silent

Was it something that she had learned while stalking her prey?  Was it the legacy of belonging to the Silvervale family, whatever level of backwater pirate and lowly merchant that may have been?  Mordalia had never spoken to a Silvervale of any note, she was certain, and she had spoken to a great many elves of good importance and high society (in hindsight, she had determined it would be best to investigate her more thoroughly when time permitted).  More likely than not hers was a story dependent on the charity of some amorous sort or a sod that had fallen in love with her handsome features and been left wanting for the cruelty in her black heart.  Was that why she was so quiet? Was it shame?

Mordalia was close to being certain of that fact. Well, close enough but not quite certain.  There were other reasons for reticence after all.

Students could be quiet as well, she knew.  As an instructor and adjunct professor in spellweaving and crafting, she had worked alongside some of the most prestigious of arcane disciplinarians.  From the unconventional plotting (and some might say, madness) of Alonysus Dawnveil to the theoretical masterpieces of Renalus Duskhallow, she had experienced the somewhat baffling force the presence of one’s wit and intellect might have had upon their inferiors. Through force of personality had she managed to shed those feelings when discourse was required with her own professors, and she knew well in time that neonates and young practitioners spoke more easily to her than those of senior position in the magocracy, so perhaps – just perhaps – Falendra’s silence was something less scholarly and more studently in nature.  After all, apprehension was a natural thing to experience if forced away from the squalor of troll huts and dragonhawk rookeries.  For some she was approachable and easily spoken to, but they had come to understand and appreciate the extensive knowledge that their kind loved to share.  Had she a question to ask her, then Mordalia would have readily and rapidly enlightened her companion’s state.

But she had asked her nothing. She had not so much as looked at her once they were settled. That left her cross.  That left her irritated. This was no student at all.  She was but an imbecile.

“It is a wonder Quel’thalas saw fit to assign one of its farstriders to a wayward child such as I,” Mordalia had once commented with little effort to mask how important the distinction was for Falendra.  Mayhap if they could move swiftly beyond the tedium of formality then she would allow herself to be more easily spoken to as was appropriate.

But Falendra had remained silent, so silent in fact, that Mordalia was nearly motivated to repeat herself (for fear the woman was as slow as she was mute), when she answered her sharply. “Is it.”  There was no interrogative – no inquisitiveness.  Falendra’s words were as carefully chosen and effortlessly shared with her as had been her silence to that point.  Perhaps it is a mystery to you, she was surely saying, but however could it be one to me?

That level of arrogance was all too much for her! Mordalia went silent.  Mordalia turned to her books. Mordalia fumed with words that would never be spoken.

It bothered her, more than anything else, that the silence between them was not her property.  Falendra decided its presence and as time went on, Falendra would determine when it ended – or so she believed.  Without word had she erected barriers and left barricades between them. The ground was staked out and the lanes between them lain with witticisms and quips.  Should ever that foul woman think to share word with her again then it would be in a conflagration of pure intellect and biting sarcasm that she was answere, for Mordalia knew well her worth and the genius that belonged to her.  Perhaps she would never be able to track a murloc through the marsh at night, but then she would never need to do such a thing. She won her battles before they had begun.   She was a wit – an academic.

As the cold war of attritive quietude expanded, Mordalia turned her attention toward her books and more importantly what might be considered prudent within them.   It had been three years since the Dark Portal was closed and the Alliance knew victory over the Orcish Horde.  Three years in which great reforms and changes had occurred, though none quite enough to sate the anger of those afflicted by the brutes.  Quel’thalas was yet scarred and the northern kingdoms had committed life and land to see what eventually became a holding pen for their defilers.  In Dalaran the debates had turned hot and vicious, with many feeling that the fundamental nature of the problem before them was a philosophical one: if members of Race M were incapable of knowing redemption and retribution was considered cruel, then how might Races A and C properly maintain their own inner good while at the same time protecting that of others?

Some did not care. Some ventured Race M should be eradicated.  More specifically, that black blood should spill.  While that seemed an empty suggestions to Mordalia, it was less troubling than rumors of what might have been happening within those internment camps.  As an academic though, she did not think to question mere speculation and rumor – and certainly, she did not allow her views to be altered by either.

But there were more concrete things than that to think of.  In her possessions there remained a letter from a young mage named Morgan, whose insistence that she be serious in her investigation into the disappearance of Kel’Thuzad and his party on their examination of the archmage Medivh’s domain in Karazhan had irritated her.   The letter had been as unnecessary as it was confusing and more importantly, horribly offensive.  That she had been handed the assignment of such paramount importance had been a sign of trust from the Council of Six, what did some cloying lackwit whose interests could be summed as infatuation have to say that she could not have determined on her own?  It was a puzzling sentiment and more importantly, an exasperating one.  For she knew where it had come from – she knew why her mission was so very important and why more than half of Dalaran wished to see her fail.

It had been a young, impetuous student by the name of Millicent Manamaximus who stood no taller than her knee but had eyes larger than most people’s hands, that first brought the matter to light before her.  Millicent’s people were naturally inquisitive, she had come to recognize, and more importantly had little in the way of social grace or acumen. “With the rapidity of human procreation and aptitude with the arcane,” she puzzled aloud and in the small gathering they had formed, “how long do you suppose it is before elven magic becomes a legacy of academic interest and little else?”  The apprentice wished for some statistical affirmation, she was certain, and yet the question immediately had deprived the room of a great deal of its wind.  Could the nature of her people be so easily qualified?

In a world where Race E was progressing too slowly to outpace Race H, would Race E eventually become extinct or redundant?  It had been the elves that taught humans, barely capable of dressing themselves and speaking coherent sentences, of what it meant to channel the arcane.  A human asking the question would have been ridiculed, but the flesh-bound automaton that was a gnome could not help but posit a logical quandary as it appeared before her.

She had no answer for her then. She certainly had no answer for her now.

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, who served as a beacon of elven supremacy if ever there was one, had spoken briefly with her on the matter.  She recalled the day fondly (for she had an excellent memory and was predisposed to such feats of retentive veracity) and recorded it but with a few dozen pages in her personal writings and memoirs.  Naturally, all that came from Quel’thalas wished to speak with the prince – and many did, for he was a magnanimous and gregarious person. To exist within the same room as him was as though to be touched by Belore’s warmth, and though Mordalia had been certain not to appear too fawning she was quite certain she might well have indicated she found his personage impressive and quite grand.  How many, she wondered, could have said that they spoke to him, truly?  Most were caught in his radiance and merely filled with his triumphant allure.  But to talk to him: to engage him.  Oh, it was an opportunity so many failed to seize upon readily.

A woman of lesser intellect and propriety might have even become infatuated.  In the moment of recollection, Mordalia felt the heat of embarrassment for such women wash over her and could not help but fend off the nascence of a chuckle.  How foolish they were indeed.  How trivial!

But the golden prince, whose voice was as clear as it was mellifluous, spoke with frank distinction (and earnest candor) to her in those few minutes.  “We are a people rare gifted in this life,” had he remarked idly, “for our legacy is writ at a time when we might yet appreciate it.  Think of the father that witnesses his son’s triumphs.  Think of the farmer that discovers the bounty reaped was far greater than what had been sewn.”  No, there was no struggle for supremacy between elf and human.  Nor would there ever need to be.

“Young women such as yourself ensure that, magistrix,” he had added in Thalassian.  She knew that she said something in return – something that had earned a wry smile from him and left her quite certain that he respected her entirely for the exchange. Oh, indeed, how very foolish a woman would have been to fall in love with that royal scion.

“You are flushed,” Falendra said then and drew her mind away from her thoughts. Mordalia, with traps lain, did not think to spring them just then.  Instead, she muttered a cross “No,” and resumed her writing.  When next Falendra spoke to her, she would have her.

Just then, it was the matter of spellcasting that reigned within her mind.

It had been in writing on that matter that she committed herself to pass the time as Falendra did all manner of things that did not involve her.  Elven spellcasting was finesse and grace – it was attuned to a key that no human could possibly master.  Indeed, the human sphere of magic was one of raw power and aptitude, but a cannon could only be used in certain circumstances.  There was something to be appreciated, after all, for the finer quality of precision and accuracy.  In the hands of elves, magic was a fluid and entrancing song.  When manipulated by humans, it was a club.   How could one hope to light the path of discovery, after all, if they could not light a simple candle with their magic?  It had been that question that she ended her thoughts on as the boat arrived in Stormwind – that thought that accompanied her when Falendra finally spoke to her once more.

“Be careful when you depart.  Your equilibrium may have been shifted.”  It was neither callous nor chiding, and though Falendra did not act to aid her in anything she nevertheless did hold the door for her when they were to leave.  In an instant, the many clever comments and derisive quips she had prepared were lost in the sudden blink of her eyes.  Her very beautiful and violet and quite rare eyes, of course – not at all like that sordid green.  Yes, that was something she could have mentioned.  It was something she would have mentioned, but as she gathered her things there seemed no appropriate time for it and so she departed without more than a muted sentiment of gratitude.  

How impossibly contemptuous that farstrider was.

“Nathaniel Grimm is to be found in Grand Hamlet,” Mordalia said when they had finally risen free of their cabin and found shore once more.  Stormwind was a recovering city, still pained by the invasion of the orcs but with people that had not given up on their homes.  Humans, if nothing else, were resourceful.  Faintly, Mordalia wondered what it would mean if they had been given more freedom to manipulate the future.  Would the brilliance of elven architecture be lost to hovels composed of same-faced and like-sized buildings?  It lacked both the finality of dwarven craftsmanship and the artistry of elven masonry.  It was efficient.  How very crass.

Falendra spoke. “I know.” “You know?”  Mordalia’s thoughts departed from thoughts of human inferiority and she turned her attention to her traveling companion, who was already making graceful strides away from her with her absurdly long legs that forced her to hurry in her step only some.  It was unfair, of course: Falendra wore leathers that fit well to her athletic figure and left her unencumbered in rapid motion.  Mordalia had adopted a traveling robe all of her own, of light and exotic silks that certainly indicated hers was the more becoming figure – but it was a figure that trailed then, and one that did not express its every grace for that indignity.  “I find that difficult to believe.  I shared no such knowledge with you.”

“Not directly,” the farstrider returned. She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever does that mean?” “That I know where he is.  The witch as well.” Mordalia was silent.  She looked to her sack at her side and frowned. “If you thought to rummage through my belongings, Miss Silvervale, I will be most cross with you.” “I did not think to do so.”  When Falendra looked at her, she did not appear to be lying. But then, what in the name of Belore did she know about detecting lies?

She was suddenly at a disadvantage.  If she spoke any more, she risked revealing that Falendra had indeed befuddled her.  Perhaps that sort of confidence would make her do it again, and she could have well set a trap for her, but in doing so she was then exposing that she did not know how she had beguiled her to begin with.  

“Well, in the future, do not do so.” Falendra walked ahead of her without another word. Quietly, she followed after.

Grand Hamlet rested within a realm that had come to be known as Duskwood, for the sun never truly penetrated the penumbral gloom that lingered vast and impressive over its canopy.  Near Quel’thalas, where her second cousin so many times removed Alaryana had once lived in the middling and oft forgotten viscounty of Blackmarsh, similar effluence and anomalies had been associated with the veil between life and death proving thin and immaterial.  It was a stark contrast to Quel’thalas and Dalaran, both of which could moderate their climates and temperature with magical adjustments.  Could not the impressive mages of humanity do the same on whim?

Did Race H have a hard time fixing their problems without Race E doing it for them?  That had been the reason for the guardian after all – the reason why they had needed the Order of Tirisfal to guide them away from their destructive incompetence.   But the humans were their legacy, as the prince had said, and so Mordalia looked beyond their incompetence and focused upon the positive.  Soon, she surmised, they would be meeting with those that would need their guidance once more.

The path from Stormwind was not at all a remarkable one and there were few horses that wished to travel from Goldshire to Duskwood, proper.  Mordalia had thought to summon Immolatus, her glorious firehawk that she had divined from the elemental plane’s fire realm, yet just then Falendra cautioned it would be too conspicuous and in truth, it was exhausting all the same if she did not focus her mind accordingly.  “We can fly with him when we near the hamlet,” she finally stated.

The farstrider clearly favored stealth but saw no reason to argue against her wit. She silently acquiesced and they made their way to their destination.

The road was empty and the path long, winding and tedious.  They departed from the road, for Falendra was certain a shorter path could be cut through the southern parts of Elwynn if they crossed the river rather than venturing into Redridge (a decision Mordalia quietly resented) and eventually, the two of them were safely across the divide with Immolatus’ aid.  She had even speculated she saw some awe in the eye of her laconic companion, but did not pursue it for the woman was evasive and rude.

Their journey came to its end when after traveling for another day and a half after crossing the river, they finally found the hamlet.  Mordalia had utilized cantrips and lesser spells to remain hygienic and sanitary, while Falendra wore the wilds like some kind of glorious crown.  Sleeping in the open had never been for her – she was more civilized than that.

The town itself was impressive in a human sense, and more particularly, a dire one.  The lodgings had been rebuilt and the land was scarred yet fertile.  The name of the region had not been wrong – it was all dusk and darkness, but for all of that it was still functional.  People milled about, hapless and absent any purpose that would have commended them to the annals of history if the whole of their lives had been summed up.  Mordalia might well have taken the whole of their talent and condensed it into something small enough to be concealed by the traces of dark red hair that covered her left eye.   It was she brushed those filaments aside that she witnessed the approach of one man – armored, armed, and attempting to seem amiable.

“Good day and king’s honor,” said the guardsman as he eyed Immolatus warily.  “Is there something I might aid you with?”

Mordalia glanced but once to Falendra, saw that she had no intention of speaking, and with a step forward opened her mouth.  What followed was of greater importance than she could have anticipated.

What followed began her legacy.

[ebonystar]

I rant for a very long time about a story likely set as standard coursework by idiots in the Ministry of Education

http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/LadyTige.shtml

I'm sorry. My teacher is making me suffer through this story again. I leave you this, which I wrote in my fury.

It is with the deepest fury that the most gracious masterpieces are formed. Either whomever wrote 'The lady or the tiger' was feeling rather happy when he did write it, or he was just so miserably inept and uncaring that he allowed his work to stagnate like the piece of school-standard literature it is.

'The Lady or the Tiger' is a story which postulates on the result of a situation so amateurishly created that it becomes blatantly obvious within the first sentence that it is setting something up. What setup is required does not pay out, as the final sentence, which would suffice as sufficiently dramatic to mark itself among its innumerable peers with identical morals, is thus followed by paragraph upon paragraph of postulation. In case our dearest author did not attend public school (and indeed, did not pass his English class) and study the beautiful and artisan intricacies of the English language, postulation is supposed to be done by the reader, in their head, not on the page, for is it not true that the art of writing most successful when it makes you think?

The most fiery pits of my soul could not describe how soulless and unerringly dull this story is. The author weaves long, tangled sentences which follow the upsettingly specific mind of a 'semi barbaric king', the likes of which has been seen in too many stories to count, teetering his way between moral and amoral like a drunken man meandering down a street at midnight. It is in stories like this, where a character is given absolute power over the rules and systems within whatever kingdom one chooses to name, that the most contrived statements of all come whispering out of the character's mouth, torn from the throat of the author. Truly, he is not a king at all, but a puppet for the author, the true king, who rules his kingdom with all the grace of a beached whale.

And so, the puppet of the king decides that he must have trials so very pettily contrived and so utterly pointless so as to let the king ask moral questions, the likes of which are the bane of philosophers all over, as it asks no question at all. Indeed, it is smartly enough that the reigns of fate are handed over clumsily to the reader, who, depending on their morality spectrum and indeed anything from their level of annoyance with this monstrosity to how easily they can imagine a handsome man being torn to bits by the mouth of a tiger or a woman, is offered the chance to decide how to judge a man's love. However, any reader who reads this story will inevitably come to the conclusion that this story offers no solution, and instead a series of choices with equally inadvisable results.

After all, life does not have two doors.

The story further complicates and elaborates and otherwise lengthens itself by musing over a criminal, the likes of which is either a new groom or a new grave depending on the location. In this story, it seems, the lad of esteemed appearance, kindness, and love, the likes of which would not be unwelcome to fill the role of an innumerable number of books dedicated only to the sexual and romantic satisfaction of misguided women or the general ego-boosting of teenaged boys, is given a choice between them, decided - whoop-dee-doo - by chance.

The author, in all his wisdom, decides to use chance as the ultimate judge - and indeed, done right, chance, luck, and justice can work well together. But here, used so unceremoniously to play the reader into deciding for them, the author fails to even express an inkling that the three queens of law - evidence, logic, and reasoning - exist in his fictional, philosophical world, in a setting so overused that it fails entirely to enthrall. Indeed, the setting could be no worse; space would prove more interesting, and space does not even fit in this story of primitive proportions.

This lad, inflated so by innocence, beauty, and his existence as a nameless Gary Sue, falls in love with the first woman most likely to get him in trouble, least likely to give him a stable, healthy relationship and astronomically likely to end up in his arms anyways. I am speaking, of course, of the Princess; a twat so important to herself and her kingdom of innumerable contrived coincidences that she must fall in love with the first lad to, in the authors' own words, be 'fine of blood and low of station, as common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens'.

I cannot express more disgust over the selection of these cut-out heroes, the likes of which you find in the back of fairy tale books in supermarkets and which children inevitably discard much faster than the author appears to have done.

Now, of course, the princess takes after her father in one of his highest sins; she becomes a mouthpiece of the author. Without hesitation, she decides his fate, and the author is sure to elaborate extensively on her petty worries and her entitled wailings over being unable to choose whether to kill her beau violently or have him married to a girl of esteemed beauty. Clearly, their love is not strong, as any who would love their significant other honestly would choose a path that they discuss at length and, lacking this, choose a path which puts live more firmly in the hands of their loved one. However, evidenced by the otherwise useless mutterings of a wordsmith who has never held a hammer, she cares very little for how it reflects on the life of her lover and rather more on how it reflects on her, her disgust always residing firmly with that which she cannot have or wishes not to see.

All I say to the ever growing Sue which is made of the boy at this point boils down to this; 'in his soul he knew' has no place in philosophy, and if it does, then I will end my sobriety in tears. No soul-bound love is strong enough to excuse the sheer selfishness of the princess, and thus it pains me to say that the attempt to further empower the man has failed spectacularly at the hands of a spoiled princess.

And finally, we find ourselves at a cliff, a most impossible cliff which further frustrates young minds all over my country. In every English class across the continent, it is the bane of young boys and girls to find what many a teacher have called "the moral of the story". Fortunately, our dearest author Frank has been kind enough to come right out and say, 'Now, the point of the story is this', were it not clear enough before. Unfortunately, he fails to see the moral of his own story, much like he fails to see the many shortcomings it possesses, and instead replies with a question which offers no answer at all. It is so plaintively disastrous that a setup of two and a half pages of writing in 12 point font must end so inexcusably and unsatisfactorily. After all that time spent reading, people are not looking for more questions, they are looking for answers which will change their world view instead of befuddle them in such a way as to sap as many brain cells as possible.

With such a terrible story, it is astounding that it brings up so many questions; and thus, I believe it is time I explore those many doors which the author seems so very fond of pretending are non-existent and break the little boxes into which he attempts valiantly to write himself.

Firstly, we must address this system as a whole, for the author, in his quite arguably entitled masculinity, has made an oversight or ten. What is to be done if there is a female criminal? Shall the wedding continue, regardless? Shall she be wed, and shall they prance along in ignorance of the attitudes of many a king in such settings? Or shall it be that a man is chosen instead, destined to be as ego-strokingly masculine as possible, and set upon the criminal as a husband who will inevitably fall into the practices of such times? I must insist that, without this vexing question answered, we cannot rule the situation we find ourselves in logical, and indeed, the system itself so fundamentally flawed that it does not function for a good half of the king's kingdom.

And, indeed, a lady is chosen as a flip side to the tiger, a beast described as a killing machine; a guillotine would have been more or less the same, such serves the tiger's role. Are women objects? Are women beasts? It is such things that the author is comparing a woman to, after all. And, despite being the assumed favourable fate, it cries foul at the slightest skew in a man's stereotypical base desires; namely, sex (or lovemaking, if you’re of a puritan mind).

Are both not equally horrible fates? To some, the only choice is between death and further suffering. In such case is it not wise to say that the best choice belongs only to they who choose it? And indeed, this story never hints to this question, instead firm in its belief that the tiger is a horrible fate and the woman only horrible to those present to be jealous of the ever-glorified man.  

While it is easy to formulate other postulate endings for this increasingly vexing short, no other postulates are offered. Indeed, the author makes no effort to present the story with an open ending, the likes of which could last for hours or days in the head of an impressionable consumer, but instead leaves only two, and offers readers only the choice of which fate is superior and to judge the morality of a princess with the nerve to think nothing of the man she is directing.

Indeed; would it not be right to judge the princess whence whatever is chosen rises? It would be fitting, I believe, for her to choose a fate for herself. It would certainly be just as horrid for her as it would be for Gary the Sue, who feels things in his soul only for women with enough status to make men roll over and pant like a dog.

Never did I think 'every barleycorn a king' would be the most interesting sentence of a story, but there it be, as clear as day. This story cares not how it flows or how it moves from one thought to another, but instead takes a hammer five times the size required and unceremoniously slams neurotypical and stereotypical as deep into the story as possible, so ingrained in the roots that it cannot be salvaged. This philosophical story can be aptly described with a blunt knife; it is used to cut the dinner of unrefined whelps while wise men stare disbelievingly at the texts which have, over time, come to be accepted; as useful in a child's education as a blunt knife is to a kitchen. They stare at their plates, at their sharp knifes which weave truth and fiction together irrevocably and at their tenderloin, and then to the others who are cutting with vigor into meat so tough and unappetizing that it fails even to spark hunger in a starving man.

Were it my choice, to end this story, I would have a meteor the size of god's hand fall upon the unsuspecting heads of those within the arena. Begone be the lady and the tiger, whose uses extend only to offer a meaningless choice; begone be the princess, who is an utter twat, and a selfish git to boot; begone be the king who speaks for the author, who makes decisions so tangled and unclear as to their origin that they tear understanding from the roots, and who seems to enjoy catfights, both literal and very literal. May they all perish at the hand of that which they tried use to make their decisions for them, in the place of true justice, who is probably quite pissed with the lot of them.

The author fails to see more than two doors. I see a third, where I walk away and close it behind me, never to see this blasted story ever again.

[artsmaus]

ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHIES

Berenbaum, M. (2017, April 3). Holocaust. Retrieved from Encyclopedia Britannica: https://www.britannica.com/event/Holocaust

This source provides background information on the Holocaust in order to strengthen and solidify the understanding of the historical events (timeline wise) and better understand the emotions experienced by the Jewish population and the psychological aftermath of the survivors (Auschwitz or Holocaust in total). Some important topics that were covered in this source are Nazi Anti-Semitism, the Origins of the Holocaust and The Extermination Camps. The hundreds and thousands of Jewish people killed were over something simple such as prejudice against race and cost so much trauma to any survivors as well as their families: as it is passed down from generation to generation. This article will assist in quoting or referencing any historical events that actually happened as well as any statistics needed to support any claims made in the blogs. The biggest weakness of this article is that it does not directly relate to Maus. The biggest strength is the background knowledge gained about the Holocaust and its historical link to Art Spiegelman’s graphic memoir, Maus. This source is relevant because it addresses the main themes of Power, Race, and Welfare.

Posted by ALDAIR

Budick, Emily Miller. "Forced confessions: the case of Art Spiegelman's Maus." Prooftexts: A Journal of Jewish Literary History, vol. 21, no. 3, 2001, p. 379+. Academic OneFile, go.galegroup.com.library.sheridanc.on.ca/ps/i.do?p=AONE&sw=w&u=ko_acd_shc&v=2.1&it=r&id=GALE%7CA86386340&sid=summon&asid=31dd8e9c5b1116b7d8138f28c0df9aa6. Accessed 28 July 2017.

This is another source of heavy criticism of Art Spiegelman’s Maus. However, the author Emily Budick is focusing on the ethical perspective of Spiegelman’s work. As she states in her thesis that the reader does not get past chapter one and Art Spiegelman already breaks his promise to his father a countless amount of times. The promise was not sharing any private parts of his father’s (Vladek) life in the book that Art writes about him. She also mentions how the transitional parts of the memoir are the true focus as opposed to telling his father’s story about the Holocaust. Emily considers this focus to be unconventional and not an effective method to tell a story. Throughout the source, Emily finds many “flaws” in the memoir that she points out, and claims them to be not historically accurate or have broken the promise that Art made to his father. The single and only strength of this source is to expose oneself to the negative or opposing view’s argument. This provides an opportunity to observe, analyze, and evaluate the arguments made against Spiegelman’s work. Although these are valid flaws, this might not have been the focus of Spiegelman when writing this story about his father Vladek. The significant weakness of this article would be the pure denial or ignorance of the positive aspects of Spiegelman’s work. This article is still relevant because it explores more of the criticisms that Spiegelman’s work has encountered after its success. This provides an opportunity to build a stronger, more developed post to demonstrate how Spiegelman actually wrote a great piece of work!

Posted by ALDAIR

Chute, H. (2006). "The Shadow of a past Time": History and Graphic Representation in "Maus". Twentieth Century Literature, 52(2), 199-230. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/20479765

This source extensively analyzes Maus as it describes how the theme of history or “Memory and the Past” is linked to the graphic representation. In Maus, graphic representation is demonstrated through the drawing as well as its style. There are excerpts of comic strips extracted from the book and inserted into this source as a method of providing evidence to support the claims made for the visual representation of the historic scenery that was used in Maus. Visuals such as old-fashioned houses, mass-produced furniture (basic looking), and the Lada like cars which immerse the reader into Vladek’s world of fear and financial struggles. This source also examines the close relationship that Art and his father Vladek share. The comic relief (funny) transitions with their family dynamic disputes demonstrate the theme of “Memory and the Past” as seen in the simple arguments that Art has with his father about hoarding garbage from the street or convincing Vladek to tell him the story about the struggles faced during World War II. The biggest strength that this article has is the narrow focus and in-depth analysis of small details where certain examples can be used when describing elements such as setting and plot.  One weakness would be the extensiveness of the source that only focuses on the theme of “Memory and the Past” and how it is portrayed through visual representation. This source is relevant as it is directly analyzing Maus and symbolic aspects of the memoir that are advantageous to understand when analyzing literary elements of the graphic memoir. It will allow one to analyze and then evaluate these elements as opposed to just applying what was learned in class (blooms taxonomy).

Posted by ALDAIR

Lawrence, J. (2014, Oct). Art spiegelman  Retrieved from http://www.julianlawrence.net/blog/art-spiegelman

This blog posting is of relevance to the assignment at hand because the writer had a deep understanding of Art’s use of a metaphor in MAUS. Being a highly educated person himself, Lawrence was able to dissect the true meaning of Spiegelman’s use of anthropomorphic mice and cat characters shedding light of how the combination of a comic style and writing can tell a story in a way that could never have been imagined. The point of Lawrence’s article was to help readers understand how Spiegelman was able to transform the world of comics giving us a background on classic comic book styles versus Spiegelman’s take. What I found the most interesting of Lawrence’s article was his ability to breakdown certain scenes of the book in a way that the average person would be able to. I would have liked to have more evidence in Lawrence’s piece, however as this is a subjective blog post, I expected more opinion than fact.  

Posted by PAMELA

McCloud, S. (1993). Understanding comics. (). New York:

The online book made available to the class was very useful for its purpose in learning to understand the use of images in graphic novels. The book details the misunderstood practice of comic book writing and how it has evolved over the years. McCloud goes into detail how to maximize each panel in a comic that would evoke the most emotion of send the message to the reader clearly. With comics, aspects such as colour, time, use of lines and white space, wording and vocabulary have to be strategically used in order to reflect the message to the readers I the most effective way given the space constraints of a comic. McCloud used a lot of past experiences and knowledge to describe the important elements of comics but as graphic memoirs are a blend of art and writing, it can be left open to interpretation by the reader.

Posted by PAMELA

Samuels, D. (2013, November 13). Q&A with Art Spiegelman, Creator of 'Maus'. Retrieved from Tablet Mag: http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/152310/art-spiegelman-jewish-museum

This article covers an interview with Art Spiegelman and his take on his own book as well as some ‘behind the scenes’ like questions. Some question topics or themes covered in this discussion includes how Spiegelman’s opinion about the Holocaust as well as his political stance on Anti-Semitism during World War II. There was a lot of exchange of conversation about the main themes of the book including power, welfare, race, memory and the past, family, guilt and blame, as well as morality and ethics.  These themes are the focus of the conversation as the interviewer extracts these details with his thorough questions. One of the biggest weaknesses of this article is that the conversation was often sidetracked by personal questions, which sometimes strayed from the main objective of the interview: to talk about Maus the graphic memoir. However, the biggest strength of this article is that it covered many relevant themes, emotions, and really got Art Spiegelman to open up and share his views on a wide spectrum of topics. The article is still relevant because there is a lot of critical thinking (deeper knowledge/understanding) demonstrated throughout the conversation that would otherwise be difficult to acquire through secondary research.

Posted by ALDAIR

Smith, P. (2015) Spiegelman Studies Part 1 of 2: Maus. Literature Compass, 12: 499–508. doi: 10.1111/lic3.12262.

This article begins by recognizing Art Spiegelman’s success and popularity in the Comic Book industry. However, this success comes with the inevitable criticism. One of the biggest criticisms of Art’s work focuses around his style of drawing in his memoir Maus. Spiegelman portrays different races using an animal other than mice (as the Jewish people are the mice running away from their predators the cats, Nazis) and essentially divides the people into two racial groups Jewish and Non-Jewish. This devalues the other ethnic groups and is not fair in this situation because of not only the use of discrimination in visual form, but also the homogenization of Non-Jewish ethnic groups, as the Nazis victimized them during World War II as well. Although, the Non-Jewish ethnic groups were not the focus of the Holocaust, the fact still remains that the Jewish population was not the only one that was treated unfairly. The article then continues to explain how Holocaust survivors to this day experience a lot of trauma caused by these horrid events and how this trauma and pain is passed on to the younger generation (kids). The article then finishes off with an analysis of Anja and the significant symbolism associated with her death as she was the most realistic portrayal of the trauma caused by the Holocaust, and was made a martyr when she decided to take her own life. The biggest strength of this article is that it covers both the positive and the negative aspects of Art Spiegelman’s Maus and allows the reader to form an opinion based on the fair ‘weight’ to both sides. This article is relevant because it analyzes Maus from an objective point of view while addressing the abundance of the themes and symbolism found in this graphic memoir.

Posted by ALDAIR

United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. (2004). Life in shadows hidden children in the holocaust  Retrieved from https://www.ushmm.org/exhibition/hidden-children/insideX/

This source focuses mainly on the impact that the Holocaust had on Jewish children during and after the war citing that the mortality rate among children was especially high for the amount of murders that took place. The article also highlights the pain that families suffered from being separated from their children and the hardships that they would endure throughout the war if they were kept in hiding. As the war came to an end, many Jewish children were left abandoned by their protector’s and were forced to find a living of their own at a young age with no family. The evidence in the source come from thousands of documented testimonies, preserved diaries, and different pieces of art such as drawing and sketches of children’s living standards. This article demonstrates a strong factual evidence of the events that took place, however, I believe it needs more description in regards to where and how the evidence was collected. The source itself is useful for it’s purpose as it makes Art Spiegelman’s storyline more factual and realistic.

Posted by PAMELA

[readbookywooks]

"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire their virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind. "As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth and displayed. But in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month of August of the same year. "One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations. "I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter, besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded well with my experience among my protectors and with the wants which were forever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension, but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it. "As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none. "The path of my departure was free," and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them. "The volume of Plutarch's Lives which I possessed contained the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a far different effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom, but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which I had studied human nature, but this book developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations. "But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me. "Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them, but now that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are. Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. `Hateful day when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. `Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even YOU turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.' "These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues they would compassionate me and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every day's experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity. "Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants, and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade. "I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him. "Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved and sympathized with one another; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks directed towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it. "The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if in the absence of his children I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors. "One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. "My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage. "I knocked. `Who is there?' said the old man. `Come in.' "I entered. `Pardon this intrusion,' said I; `I am a traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.' "`Enter,' said De Lacey, `and I will try in what manner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.' "`Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.' "I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the interview, when the old man addressed me. `By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you French?' "`No; but I was educated by a French family and understand that language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.' "`Are they Germans?' "`No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never seen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world forever.' "`Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.' "`They are kind - they are the most excellent creatures in the world; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster.' "`That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot you undeceive them?' "`I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.' "`Where do these friends reside?' "`Near this spot.' "The old man paused and then continued, `If you will unreservedly confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance, but there is something in your words which persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.' "`Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow creatures.' "`Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal, for that can only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent; judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.' "`How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be forever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.' "`May I know the names and residence of those friends?' "I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of or bestow happiness on me forever. I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, `Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!' "`Great God!' exclaimed the old man. `Who are you?' "At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel."