Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Nonfiction Read #1: Good Readers and Good Writers b y Vladimir Nabokov Questions to consider while reading: The Nabokov piece is a seminal one i n our study of r eading and writing. You will come back to it again and again over the course of the year. Read it first to get an overall i mpression of its argument; then, r ead i t with the following questions in mind. Your extensive Journal notes should house the answers to these questions: 1. Where does the i ntroduction end? I dentify the method(s) of introduction. 2. What i s the thesis? Where is it? I s it explicit or i mplicit? 3. What i s the author’s tone? Where and how does it change? 4. What r hetorical devices does Nabokov use? 5. What passages capture your attention, arouse a r eaction? These can b e ideas or elements of language. 6. What, according to N abokov, i s a good reader. A good writer? 7. How does N abokov organize his piece? Connect the different parts? 8. What characterizes the conclusion? 9. Where does N abokov use humor? 10. What authority does Nabokov have as a writer? 11. What is your reaction to the essay? Is it an emotional one or a logical one? Good Readers and Good Writers My course, a mong other things, is a kind of detective investigation of the mystery of literary structures. "How to b e a Good Reader" or "Kindness to Authors"—something of that sort might serve to provide a subtitle for these various discussions of various authors, for my plan is to deal lovingly, in loving and lingering detail, with several European Masterpieces. A hundred years ago, Flaubert in a letter to his mistress made the following remark: Commel'on serait savant si l’on connaissait bien seulement cinq a six livres: "What a scholar one might b e if one k new well only some half a dozen books." In reading, one should notice and fondle details. There is nothing wrong about the moonshine of generalization when it comes after the sunny trifles of the book have been lovingly collected. If one b egins with a readymade generalization, one begins at the wrong Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
end and travels away from the book b efore one has started to understand it. Nothing i s more boring or more unfair to the author than starting to r ead, say, Madame Bovary, with the preconceived notion that i t is a denunciation of the bourgeoisie. We should always remember that the work of art is invariably the creation of a new world, so that the first thing we should do i s to study that new world as closely as possible, approaching it as something brand new, having no obvious connection with the worlds we already k now. When this new world has been closely studied, then and only then let us examine its links with other worlds, other branches of knowledge. Another question: Can we expect to glean information about places and times from a novel? Can anybody be so naive as to think he or she can learn anything about the past from those buxom b est-­‐sellers that are hawked around by book clubs under the heading of historical novels? But what about the masterpieces? Can we rely on Jane Austen’s picture of landowning England with baronets and landscaped grounds when all she knew was a clergyman’s parlor? And B leak House, that fantastic romance within a fantastic London, can we call i t a study of London a hundred years ago? Certainly not. And the same holds f or other such novels in this series. The truth i s that great novels are great fairy tales—and the novels in this series are supreme f airy tales. Time and space, the colors of the seasons, the movements of muscles and minds, all these are for writers of genius (as far as we can guess and I trust we guess right) not traditional notions which may be b orrowed from the circulating library of public truths but a series of unique surprises which master artists have learned to express in their own unique way. To minor authors i s left the ornamentation of the commonplace: these do not bother about any reinventing of the world; they merely try to squeeze the b est they can out of a given order of things, out of traditional patterns of fiction. The various combinations these minor authors are able to produce within these set limits may be q uite amusing in a mild ephemeral way because minor r eaders like to recognize their own i deas in a pleasing disguise. B ut the r eal writer, the fellow who sends planets spinning and models a man asleep and eagerly tampers with the sleeper’s rib, that kind of author has no given values at his disposal: he must create them himself. The art of writing i s a very futile business if it does not i mply first of all the art of seeing the world as the potentiality of fiction. The material of this world may be real enough (as far as reality goes) but does not exist at all as an accepted entirety: i t is chaos, and to this chaos the author says "go!" allowing the world to flicker and to fuse. I t is now recombined i n its very atoms, not merely in its visible and superficial parts. The writer is the first man to mop it and to form the natural objects i t contains. Those berries there are edible. That speckled creature that b olted across my path might b e tamed. That lake between those trees will b e called Lake Opal or, more artistically, Dishwater Lake. That mist is a mountain—and that mountain must be conquered. Up a trackless slope climbs the master artist, and at the top, on a windy ridge, whom do you think he meets? The panting and happy r eader, and there they spontaneously embrace and are linked forever if the book lasts forever. One evening at a remote provincial college through which I happened to b e jogging on a protracted lecture tour, I suggested a little q uiz—ten definitions of a reader, and from these ten the students had to choose four definitions that would combine to make a good reader. I have mislaid the list, but as far as I remember the definitions went something like this. Select four answers to the question what should a reader b e to be a good r eader: 1. The reader should belong to a book club. Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
2. The reader should identify himself or herself with the hero or heroine. 3. The reader should concentrate on the social-­‐economic angle. 4. The reader should prefer a story with action and dialogue to one with none. 5. The reader should have seen the b ook in a movie. 6. The reader should be a budding author. 7. The reader should have i magination. 8. The reader should have memory. 9. The reader should have a dictionary. 10. The reader should have some artistic sense. The students leaned heavily on emotional identification, action, and the social-­‐economic or historical angle. Of course, as you have guessed, the good reader i s one who has imagination, memory, a dictionary, and some artistic sense-­‐-­‐which sense I propose to develop in myself and in others whenever I have the chance. Incidentally, I use the word reader very loosely. Curiously enough, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major r eader, an active and creative reader i s a rereader. And I shall tell you why. When we read a b ook for the first time the very process of laboriously moving our eyes from left to right, line after line, page after page, this complicated physical work upon the book, the very process of learning in terms of space and time what the b ook i s about, this stands b etween us and artistic appreciation. When we look at a painting we do not have to move our eyes i n a special way even if, as i n a b ook, the picture contains elements of depth and development. The element of time does not really enter in a first contact with a painting. In reading a b ook, we must have time to acquaint ourselves with i t. We have no physical organ (as we have the eye i n regard to a painting) that takes in the whole picture and then can enjoy its details. But at a second, or third, or fourth r eading we do, in a sense, behave towards a b ook as we do towards a painting. However, let us not confuse the physical eye, that monstrous masterpiece of evolution, with the mind, an even more monstrous achievement. A book, no matter what it i s—a work of fiction or a work of science (the boundary line b etween the two is not as clear as is generally b elieved)—a book of fiction appeals first of all to the mind. The mind, the brain, the top of the tingling spine, i s, or should b e, the only instrument used upon a book. Now, this being so, we should ponder the question how does the mind work when the sullen reader i s confronted by the sunny book. First, the sullen mood melts away, and for better or worse the reader enters into the spirit of the game. The effort to begin a book, especially if it is praised by people whom the young reader secretly deems to b e too old-­‐fashioned or too serious, this effort is often difficult to make; b ut once it is made, rewards are various and abundant. Since the master artist used his i magination in creating his book, it i s natural and fair that the consumer of a b ook should use his i magination too. There are, however, at least two varieties of i magination i n the reader’s case. So let us see which one of the two i s the right one to use in r eading a book. First, there is the comparatively lowly kind which turns for support to the simple emotions and i s of a definitely personal nature. (There are various subvarieties here, in this first section of emotional reading.) A situation i n a b ook i s intensely felt because it r eminds us of something that happened to us or to someone we know or k new. Or, again, a r eader treasures a book mainly because i t evokes a country, a landscape, a mode of living which he nostalgically recalls as part of his own past. Or, and this is the worst thing a reader can do, he identifies himself with a character i n the book. This lowly variety is not the kind of Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
imagination I would like r eaders to use. So what is the authentic instrument to be used by the reader? I t is i mpersonal i magination and artistic delight. What should b e established, I think, is an artistic harmonious balance between the reader’s mind and the author’s mind. We ought to remain a little aloof and take pleasure in this aloofness while at the same time we keenly enjoy—passionately enjoy, enjoy with tears and shivers—the inner weave of a given masterpiece. To be q uite objective in these matters i s of course i mpossible. Everything that is worthwhile i s to some extent subjective. For instance, you sitting there may be merely my dream, and I may b e your nightmare. But what I mean i s that the reader must know when and where to curb his imagination and this he does by trying to get clear the specific world the author places at his disposal. We must see things and hear things, we m ust visualize the r ooms, the clothes, the manners of an author’s people. The color of Fanny P rice’s eyes in Mansfield Park and the furnishing of her cold little room are important. We all have different temperaments, and I can tell you right now that the b est temperament for a reader to have, or to develop, is a combination of the artistic and the scientific one. The enthusiastic artist alone is apt to be too subjective i n his attitude towards a book, and so a scientific coolness of judgment will temper the i ntuitive heat. If, however, a would-­‐be reader is utterly devoid of passion and patience—of an artist’s passion and a scientist’s patience—
he will hardly enjoy great literature. Literature was b orn not the day when a b oy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was b orn on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a r eal b east i s quite incidental. B ut here i s what is i mportant. B etween the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-­‐between. That go-­‐between, that prism, is the art of literature. Literature is i nvention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story i s an insult to b oth art and truth. Every great writer i s a great deceiver, b ut so i s that arch-­‐cheat N ature. Nature always deceives. From the simple deception of propagation to the prodigiously sophisticated i llusion of protective colors in butterflies or birds, there i s in N ature a marvelous system of spells and wiles. The writer of f iction only follows Nature’s lead. Going b ack for a moment to our wolf-­‐crying woodland little woolly f ellow, we may put it this way: the magic of art was in the shadow of the wolf that he deliberately invented, his dream of the wolf; then the story of his tricks made a good story. When he perished at last, the story told about him acquired a good lesson in the dark around the camp fire. But he was the little magician. He was the inventor. There are three points of view from which a writer can be considered: he may b e considered as a storyteller, as a teacher, and as an enchanter. A major writer combines these three—storyteller, teacher, enchanter—but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer. To the storyteller we turn for entertainment, for mental excitement of the simplest kind, for emotional participation, for the pleasure of traveling in some remote r egion in space or Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
time. A slightly different though not necessarily higher mind looks for the teacher in the writer. Propagandist, moralist, prophet—this i s the rising sequence. We may go to the teacher not only for moral education but also for direct k nowledge, for simple f acts. Alas, I have k nown people whose purpose in reading the French and Russian novelists was to learn something about life i n gay Paree or i n sad Russia. Finally, and above all, a great writer is always a great enchanter, and it is here that we come to the really exciting part when we try to grasp the individual magic of his genius and to study the style, the i magery, the pattern of his novels or poems. The three facets of the great writer—magic, story, lesson—are prone to blend in one impression of unified and unique radiance, since the magic of art may b e present in the very bones of the story, in the very marrow of thought. There are masterpieces of dry, limpid, organized thought which provoke in us an artistic q uiver quite as strongly as a novel like Mansfield Park does or as any rich f low of Dickensian sensual i magery. It seems to me that a good formula to test the quality of a novel is, in the long run, a merging of the precision of poetry and the intuition of science. I n order to bask i n that magic a wise r eader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. I t is there that occurs the telltale tingle even though we must k eep a little aloof, a little detached when reading. Then with a pleasure which is b oth sensual and i ntellectual we shall watch the artist build his castle of cards and watch the castle of cards become a castle of beautiful steel and glass. (@1948) Short Story #1: The Scarlet Ibis By James Hurst. It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree. The flower garden was stained with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank amid the purple phlox. The five o'clocks by the chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in the elm was untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. The last graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the cotton field and through every room of our house, speaking softly the names of our dead. It's strange hat all this is still so clear to me, now that that summer has since fled and time has had its way. A grindstone stands where the bleeding tree stood, just outside the kitchen door, and now if an oriole sings in the elm, its song seems to die up i n the leaves, a silvery dust. But sometimes (like right now), as I sit in the cool, green-­‐draped parlor, the grindstone begins to turn, and time with all its changes is ground away-­‐-­‐and I remember Doodle. Doodle was just about the craziest brother a boy ever had. Of course, he wasn't a crazy crazy like old Miss Leedie, who was in love with President Wilson and wrote him a letter every day, b ut was a nice crazy, like someone you meet in your dreams. He was born when I as six and was, from the outset, a disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny body which was red and shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought he was going to die. Daddy had Mr. Heath, the carpenter, build a little mahogany coffin for him. But he didn't die, and when he was three months old, Mama and Daddy decided they might as well name him. They named him William Armstrong, which was like tying a big tail on a small kite. Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone. I thought myself pretty smart at many things, like holding my breath, running, jumping, or climbing the vines in Old Woman Swamp, and I wanted more than anything else someone to Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
box with, and someone to perch with in the top fork of the great pine behind the barn, where across the fields and swamps you could see the sea. But Mama, crying, told me that even if William Armstrong lived, he would never do these things with me. He might not, she sobbed, even be "all there." It was bad enough having an invalid brother, but having one who possibly was not all there was unbearable, so began to make plans to kill him by smothering him with a pillow. However, one afternoon as I watched him, my head poked between the iron posts of the foot of the bed, he looked straight at me and grinned. I skipped through the rooms, down the echoing halls, shouting, "Mama, he smiled. he's all there! He's all there!" and he was. As long as he lay all the time in bed, we called him William Armstrong, even though it was formal and sounded as if we were referring to one of our ancestors, but with his creeping around on the deerskin r ug and beginning to talk, something had to be done about his name. It was I who r enamed him. When he crawled, he crawled backwards, as if he were in r everse and couldn't change gears. If you called him, he'd turn around as if he were going in the other direction, then he'd back right up to you to be picked up. Crawling backward made him look like a doodlebug, so I began to call him Doodle, and in time even Mama and Daddy thought it was a better name than William Armstrong. Yes. Renaming my brother was perhaps the kindest thing I ever did for him, because nobody expects much for someone called Doodle. Although Doodle learned to crawl, he showed no signs of walking, but he wasn't idle. He talked so much that we all q uit listening to what he said. It was about this time that Daddy built him a go-­‐cart and I had to pull him around. If I so much as picked up my cap, he's start crying to go with me and Mama would call from wherever she was, "Take Doodle with you." He was a burden in many ways. The doctor had said that he mustn't get too excited, too hot, too cold, or too tired and that he must always be treated gently. A long list of don'ts went with him, all of which I ignored once we got out of the house. His skin was very sensitive, and he had to wear a big straw hat whenever he went out. When the going got rough and he had to climb to the sides of the go-­‐cart, the hat slipped all the way down over his ears. He was a sight. Finally, I could see I was licked. Doodle was my brother and he was going to cling to me forever, no matter what I did, so I dragged him across the burning cotton field to share with him the only beauty I knew, Old Woman Swamp. His eyes were round with wonder as he gazed about him, and his little hands began to stroke the rubber grass. Then he began to cry. "For heaven's sake, what's the matter?" I asked, annoyed. "It's so pretty," he said. "So pretty, pretty, pretty." After that day Doodle and I often went down into Old Woman Swamp. There is within me (and with sadness I have watched i t in others) a knot of cruelty borne by the stream of love, much as our blood sometimes bears the seed of our destruction, and at times I was mean to Doodle. One day I took him up to the barn loft and showed him his casket, telling him now we all had believed he would die. It was covered with a film of Paris green sprinkled to kill the r ats, and screech owls had built a nest inside it. Doodle studied the mahogany box for a long time, then said, "It's not mine." Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
"It is," I said. "And before I'll help you down from the loft, you're going to have to touch it." "I won't touch it," he said sullenly. "Then I'll leave you here by yourself," I threatened, and made as if I were going down. Doodle was frightened of being left. "Don't go leave me, Brother," he cried, and he leaned toward the coffin. His hand, trembling, reached out, and when he touched the casket he screamed. A screech owl flapped out of the box into our faces, scaring us and covering us with Paris green. Doodle was paralyzed, so I put him on my shoulder and carried him down the ladder, and even when we were outside in the bright sunshine, he clung to me, crying. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me." When Doodle was five years old, I was embarrassed at having a brother of that age who couldn't walk, so I set out to teach him. We were down in Old Woman Swamp and it was spring and the sick-­‐sweet smell of bay f lowers hung everywhere like a mournful song. "I'm going to teach you to walk, Doodle," I said. "I can't walk, Brother," he said. "Who says so?" I demanded. "Mama, the doctor-­‐-­‐everybody." "Oh, you can walk," I said, and I took him by the arms and stood him up. He collapsed onto the grass like a half empty flour sack. It was as if he had no bones in his little legs. "I'm going to teach you to walk." It seemed so hopeless from the beginning that it's a miracle I didn't give up. But all of us must have something or someone to be proud of, and Doodle had become mine. I did not k now then that pride i s a wonderful, terrible thing, a seed that bears two vines, life and death. Every day that summer we went to the pine beside the stream of Old Woman Swamp, and I put him on his feet at least a hundred times each afternoon. Occasionally I too became discouraged because it didn't seem as if he was trying, and I would say, "Doodle, don't you want to earn to walk?" He'd nod his head, and I'd say, "Well, if you don't keep trying, you'll never learn." Then I'd paint for him a picture of us as old men, white-­‐haired, him with a long white beard and me still pulling him around in the go-­‐cart. This never f ailed to make him try again. Finally one day, after many weeks of practicing, he stood alone for a few seconds. When he fell, I grabbed him in my arms and hugged him, our laughter pealing through the swamp like a ringing bell. Now we know it could be done. Hope no longer hid in the dark palmetto thicket but perched like a cardinal in the lacy toothbrush tree, brilliantly visible. "Yes, yes," I cried, and he cried i t too, and the grass beneath us was soft and the smell of the swamp was sweet. At breakfast on our chosen day, when Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Nicey were in the dining Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
room, I brought Doodle to the door in the go-­‐cart just as usual and head them turn their backs, making them cross their hearts and hope to die if they peeked. I helped Doodle up, and when he was standing alone I let them look. There wasn't a sound as Doodle walked slowly across the room and sat down at his place at the table. Then Mama began to cry and ran over to him, hugging him and kissing him. Daddy hugged him too, so I went to Aunt Nicey, who was thanks praying in the doorway, and began to waltz her around. We danced together quite well until she came down on my big toe with her brogans, hurting me so badly I thought I was crippled f or life. Doodle told them it was I who had taught him to walk, so everyone wanted to hug me, and I began to cry. They did not k now that I did it for myself; that pride, whose slave I was, spoke to me louder than all their voices, and that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of having a crippled brother. Within a few months, Doodle had learned to walk well and his go-­‐cart was put up i n the barn loft (it is still there) beside his little mahogany coffin. Once I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in my own infallibility, and I prepared a terrific development program for him, unknown to Mama and Daddy, of course. I would teach him to run, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. He, too, now believed in my infallibility, so we set the deadline for these accomplishments less than a year away, when, it had been decided, Doodle could start school. On hot days, Doodle and I went down to Horsehead Landing, and I gave him swimming lessons or showed him how to row a boat. Sometimes we descended into the cool greenness of Old Woman Swamp and climbed the rope vines or boxed scientifically beneath the pine where he had learned to walk. Promise hung about us like the leaves, and wherever we looked, ferns unfurled and birds broke into song. So we came to that clove of seasons. School was only a few weeks away, and Doodle was far behind schedule. He could barely clear the ground when climbing up the r ope vines, and his swimming was certainly not passable. We decided to double our efforts, to make that last drive and reach our pot of gold. I made him swim until he turned red and his eyes became glazed. Once, he could go no further, so he collapsed on the ground and began to cry. "Aw, come on, Doodle," I urged. "You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody else when you start school?" "Does it make any difference?" "It certainly does," I said. "Now, come on," and I helped him up. As we slipped through dog days, Doodle began to look feverish, and Mama felt his forehead, asking him if he felt ill. At night he didn't sleep well, and sometimes he had nightmares, crying out until I touched him and said, "Wake up, Doodle. Wake up." It was Saturday noon, just a few days before school was to start. I should have already admitted defeat, but my pride wouldn't let me. The excitement of our program had now been gone for weeks, but still we kept on with a tired doggedness. It was too late to turn back, for we had both wandered too far into a net of expectations and had left no crumbs b ehind. Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining-­‐room table having lunch. It was a hot day, with all the windows and doors open in case a breeze should come. In the kitchen Aunt Nicey was humming softly. Suddenly, from out i n the yard, came a strange croaking noise. Doodle stopped eating, with a piece of bread Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
poised ready f or his mouth, his eyes popped r ound like two blue buttons. "What's that?" he whispered. I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and had reached the door when Mama called, "Pick up the chair, sit down again, and say excuse me." By the time I had done this, Doodle had excused himself and had slipped out into the yard. He was looking up into the bleeding tree. "It's a great big red bird!" he called. The bird croaked loudly again, and Mama and Daddy came out into the yard. We shaded our eyes with our hands against the hazy glare of the sun and peered up through the still leaves. On the topmost branch a bird the size of a chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs, was precariously. Its wings hung down loosely, and as we watched, a feather dropped away and floated slowly down through the green leaves. Doodle's hands were clasped at his throat, and I had never seen him stand still so long. "What is it?" he asked. At that moment the bird began to flutter, but the wings were uncoordinated, and amid much flapping and a spray of flying feathers, it tumbled down, bumping through the limbs of the bleeding tree and landing at our feet with a thud. Its long, graceful neck jerked twice into an S, then straightened out, and the bird was still. A white veil came over the eyes and the long white beak unhinged. Its legs were crossed and its clawlike feet were delicately curved at rest. Even death did not mar its grace, for it lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and we stood around it, awed by its exotic beauty. "Go bring me the bird book," said Daddy. I ran into the house and brought back the bird book. As we watched, Daddy thumbed through its pages. "It's a scarlet ibis," he said, pointing to a picture. "It lives in the tropics-­‐-­‐South America to Florida. A storm must have brought it here." Sadly, we all looked back at the bird. A scarlet ibis! How many miles it had traveled to die like this, i n our yard, beneath the bleeding tree. "Dead birds is bad luck," said Aunt Nicey, poking her head from the kitchen door. "Specially red dead birds!" As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. Time was short, and Doodle still had a long way to go if he was going to keep up with the other boys when he started school. The sun, gilded with the yellow cast of autumn, still burned fiercely, but the dark green woods through which we passed were shady and cool. When we reached the landing, Doodle said he was too tired to swim, so we got into a skiff and floated down the creek with the tide. Doodle did not speak and kept his head turned away, letting one hand trail limply i n the water. After we had drifted a long way, I put the oars in place and made Doodle row back against the tide. Black clouds began to gather in the southwest, and he kept watching them, trying to pull the oars a little faster. When we reached Horsehead Landing, lightning was playing across half the sky and thunder roared out, hiding even the sound of the sea. The sun disappeared and darkness descended. Doodle was both tired and frightened, and when he stepped from the skiff he collapsed onto the mud, sending an armada of fiddler crabs rustling off into the marsh grass. I helped him up, and as he wiped the mud off his trousers, he smiled at me ashamedly. He had failed and we both knew it, so we started back home, Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
racing the storm. The lightening was near now, and from fear he walked so close behind me he kept stepping on my heels. The faster I walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run. The rain was coming, roaring through the pines, and then, like a b ursting Roman candle, a gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightening. When the deafening peal of thunder had died, and in the moment before the rain arrived, I heard Doodle, who had fallen behind, cry out, "Brother, Brother, don't leave me! Don't leave me!" The knowledge that Doodle's and my plans had come to naught was bitter, and that streak of cruelty within me awakened. I r an as fast as I could, leaving him far b ehind with a wall of rain dividing us. The drops stung my face like nettles, and the wind f lared the wet glistening leaves of the b ordering trees. Soon I could hear his voice no more. I hadn't run too far before I became tired, and the flood of childish spite evanesced as well. I stopped and waited for Doodle. The sound of rain was everywhere, but the wind had died and it fell straight down in parallel paths like r opes hanging from the sky. As I waited, I peered through the downpour, but no one came. Finally I went back and found him huddled beneath a red nightshade bush beside the road. He was sitting on the ground, his face buried in his arms, which were resting on his drawn-­‐up knees. "Let's go, Doodle," I said. He didn't answer, so I placed my hand on his forehead and lifted his head. Limply, he fell backwards onto the earth. He had been bleeding from the mouth, and his neck and the front of his shirt were stained a brilliant red. Doodle! Doodle! I cried, shaking him, but there was no answer but the ropy rain. He say very awkwardly, with his head thrown far b ack, making his vermilion neck appear unusually long and slim. His little legs, bent sharply at the knees, had never before seemed so fragile, so thin. I began to weep, and the tear-­‐blurred vision in red before me looked very familiar. "Doodle!" I screamed above the pounding storm and threw my body to the earth above his. For a long time, it seemed f orever, I lay there crying, sheltering my fallen scarlet ibis from the heresy of r ain. Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Non-­Fiction Read #2: Reading Like a Writer by P rose Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Short Story #2: THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO by Edgar Allan Poe(1846) THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled -­‐-­‐but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point -­‐-­‐this Fortunato -­‐-­‐although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; -­‐-­‐I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-­‐fitting parti-­‐striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him -­‐-­‐"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-­‐day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts." "How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!" "I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
"Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me -­‐-­‐" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi-­‐-­‐" "I have no engagement; -­‐-­‐come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-­‐work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. "Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! -­‐-­‐ugh! ugh! ugh! -­‐-­‐ugh! ugh! ugh! -­‐-­‐ugh! ugh! ugh! -­‐-­‐ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi -­‐-­‐" "Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True -­‐-­‐true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -­‐-­‐but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. "Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
"And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough -­‐-­‐" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -­‐-­‐a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
"You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado." "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi -­‐-­‐" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado." As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-­‐work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-­‐echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said-­‐-­‐ Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
"Ha! ha! ha! -­‐-­‐he! he! he! -­‐-­‐a very good joke, indeed -­‐-­‐an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -­‐-­‐he! he! he! -­‐-­‐over our wine -­‐-­‐he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! -­‐-­‐he! he! he! -­‐-­‐yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -­‐-­‐ "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -­‐-­‐ "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-­‐erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat! Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Non-­Fiction Article #3: Writing Short Stories by Flannery O’Conner Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet
Advanced Freshman: Perfect Narrative and Short Story Reading Packet