Midterm 1 Passage IDs

"Make it new and Black!"

-- might have been Langston Hughes' slogan

"Oh, blazes; it's har-r-d!" he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner. Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honour of claiming him as a fellow-countryman. "My sister ain't the best!" the child declared. "She's always blowing at me [....]My father ain't in Europe; my father's in a better place than Europe [....]My father's in Schenectady. He's got a big business. My father's rich, you bet."

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the way things sound (speech)

They were a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop girls,—careless, rather slouchy, and more or less pale from confinement. They were not timid however, were rich in curiosity and strong in daring and slang.

-Dreiser, Sister Carrie, III, p. 608 -social Realism: the way we live now

It is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works.

-Ezra Pound, 1913

Let Realism do the entertaining with its meticulous presentation of teacups, rag carpets, wall paper and haircloth sofas, stopping with these, going no deeper that it sees, choosing the ordinary, the untroubled, the commonplace. But to Romance belongs the wide world for range, and the unplumbed depths of the human heart, and the mystery of sex, and the problems of life, and the black, unsearched penetralia of the soul of man.

-Frank Norris, "A Plea for Romantic Fiction" (1901), Norton p. 589 -Naturalism

"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?" "No," I says, "I reckon not."

-Huck Finn, chap XX reck'n: the way things sounded (realism), ex of Eye-dialect

The Widow Douglas, she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me ....

-Huck Finn, pg. 110 -sivilize: the way things sounded (realism)

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

-The Waste Land, Sections I (835) and II (838) -TS Eliot -Allusion to Shakesphere's The Tempest, quote from Ariel's song

"What is that noise?" The wind under the door. "What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?" Nothing again nothing. "Do "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember "Nothing?" I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"

-The Waste Land: II. "A Game of Chess" (837-38) -TS Eliot

make it new!

-ezra pound

As a rule, I believe in universal, free suffrage, but I believe that in the South we are confronted with peculiar conditions that justify the protection of the ballot in many of the states, for a while at least, either by an education test, a property test, or by both combined; but whatever tests are required, they should be made to apply with equal and exact justice to both races.

Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery, p. 479

I, too, sing America. • I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. • Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed-- • I, too, am America.

I too -Langston Huges

... the problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem of the color line.

W.E.B. Dubois

Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: ... How does it feel to be a problem? • ... it dawned upon me with a certain suddenness that I was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. I had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt .... Alas, with the years all this fine contempt began to fade; for the worlds I longed for, and all their dazzling opportunities, were theirs, not mine.

W.E.B. Dubois, The Souls of Black Folk, pp. 562

On or about December 1910, human character changed.

- Virginia Woolf, 1924

Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress goods, shoes, stationery, jewelry. Each separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction. She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally and yet she did not stop. There was nothing there which she could not have used—nothing which she did not long to own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase.

-- Dreiser, Sister Carrie, III, p. 606 -Naturalism

"As regarding rhythm: to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome."

-- Ezra Pound, 1913

It is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works.

-- Ezra Pound, 1913 -Yes, but ... How do you build a long(er) poem that still adheres to Imagist principles? (collage and narrative methods)

It was eleven o'clock of a Spring night in Florida. It was Sunday. Any other night, Delia Jones would have been in bed for two hours by this time. But she was a wash-woman, and Monday morning meant a great deal to her. So she collected the soiled clothes on Saturday when she returned the clean things. Sunday night after church, she sorted them and put the white things to soak. It saved her almost a half day's start. A great hamper in the bedroom held the clothes that she brought home. It was so much neater than a number of bundles lying around.

-- Zora Neale Hurston, "Sweat," Norton p. 952.

"Whut's de mattah, ol' satan, you aint kickin' up yo' racket?" She addressed the snake's box. Complete silence. She went on into the house with a new hope in its birth struggles. Perhaps her threat to go to the white folks had frightened Sykes! Perhaps he was sorry! Fifteen years of misery and suppression had brought Delia to the place where she would hope anything that looked towards a way over or through her wall of inhibitions.

-- Zora Neale Hurston, "Sweat," Norton p. 952. -eye-dialect -"Perhaps her threat to go to the white folks had frightened Sykes! Perhaps he was sorry! "-similar double consciousness as WEB

He allus wuz uh ovahbearin' n[...], but since dat white 'oman from up north done teached 'im how to run a automobile, he done got too biggety to live-an' we oughter kill 'im ....

-- Zora Neale Hurston, "Sweat," Norton p. 953. -eye-dialect

But I tell you, fellah christuns, Things'll happen mighty strange; Now, de Lawd done dis fu' Isrul, An' his ways don't nevah change, An' de love he showed to Isrul Wasn't all on Isrul spent; Now don't run an' tell yo' mastahs Dat I's preachin' discontent. 'Cause I isn't; I'se a-judgin' Bible people by dier ac's; I'se a-givin' you de Scriptuah, I'se a-handin' you de fac's. Cose ole Pher'or b'lieved in slav'ry, But de Lawd he let him see, Dat de people he put bref in, Evah mothah's son was free.

--Paul Laurence Dunbar, pp. 634-5 -Compared to Chesnutt, The Wife of HIs Youth (492)

Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. "Stop!" cried the groaning old man at last, "Stop! I did not drag my father beyond this tree."

--Stein, The Making of Americans (1925), Norton p. 731

Every one is one inside them, every one reminds some one of some other one who is or was or will be living. Every one has it to say of each one he is like such a one I see it in him, every one has it to say of each one she is like some one else I can tell by remembering. So it goes on always in living, every one is always remembering some one who is resembling to the one at whom they are then looking. So they go on repeating, every one is themselves inside them and every one is resembling to others, and that is always interesting. There are many ways of making kinds of men and women. In each way of making kinds of them there is a different system of finding them resembling. Sometime there will be here every way there can be of seeing kinds of men and women. Sometime there will be then a complete history of each one. Every one always is repeating the whole of them and so sometime some one who sees them will have a complete history of every one. Sometime some one will know all the ways there are for people to be resembling, some one sometime then will have a completed history of every one.

--Stein, The Making of Americans (1925), Norton p. 732-33

Always from the beginning there was to me all living as repeating. This is now a description of my feeling. As I was saying listening to repeating is often irritating, always repeating is all of living, everything in a being is always repeating, more and more listening to repeating gives to me completed understanding. Each one slowly comes to be a whole one to me. Each one slowly comes to be a whole one in me. Soon then it commences to sound through my ears and eyes and feelings the repeating that is always coming out from each one, that is them, that makes then slowly of each one of them a whole one. Repeating then comes slowly then to be to one who has it to have loving repeating as natural being comes to be a full sound telling all the being in each one such a one is ever knowing. Sometimes it takes many years of knowing some one before the repeating that is that one gets to be a steady sounding to the hearing of one who has it as a natural being to love repeating that slowly comes out from every one. Sometimes it takes many years of knowing some one before the repeating in that one comes to be a clear history of such a one. Natures sometimes are so mixed up in some one that steady repeating in them is mixed up with changing. Soon then there will be a completed history of each one. Sometimes it is difficult to know it in some, for what these are saying is repeating in them is not the real repeating of them, is not the complete repeating for them. Sometimes many years of knowing some one pass before repeating of all being in them comes out clearly from them. As I was saying it is often irritating to listen to the repeating they are doing, always then that one that has it as being to love repeating that is the whole history of each one, such a one has it then that this irritation passes over into patient completed understanding. Loving repeating is one way of being. This is now a description of such feeling.

--Stein, The Making of Americans (1925), Norton p. 733-4

At certain times I have no race, I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for instance .... The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race or time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

--Zora Neale Hurston, "How It Feels to be Colored Me" (1928)

we is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs, In di howlin' wildaness, Fu' to speak some words o comfo't to each othah in distress. An' we choose fu' ouah subjic' Dis—-we'll 'splain it by an' by; "An' de Lawd said, "Moses, Moses," An' de man said, Hyeah am I.'" Now ole Pher'oh, down in Egypt Was de wuss man evah bo'n, An' he had de Hebrew chillun Down dah wukin' in his co'n; 'Twell de Lawd got tiahed o' his foolin', An' sez he: "I'll let him know' Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher'oh Fu' to let dem chillun go."

-An Ante-Bellum Sermon (1897)

A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest −− a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body.

-An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (327) -Ambrose Bierce -Was in the Civil War -EX: of how writing realism involves being an expertise at something (ex. writing about the CW effectively bc he served in the CW)

Midway up the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators −− a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock

-An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (327) -Ambrose Bierce -Was in the Civil War -EX: of how writing realism involves being an expertise at something (ex. writing about the CW effectively bc he served in the CW)

Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by −− it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each new stroke with impatience and −− he knew not why −− apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. .... What he heard was the ticking of his watch. He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home."

-An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (328) -Ambrose Bierce -"what he heard was the ticking of his watch" -"If I could"

As Peyton Fahrquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened −− ages later, it seemed to him −− by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. [....] These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion .... Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. [....] He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. [....] He watched [his hands] with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck.

-An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (330) -Ambrose Bierce -EX: of perspectivism -->psychological realism

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf−− he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the water spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat −− all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.

-An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (331) -Ambrose Bierce -EX: of perspectivism -->psychological realism -Realism=estrangment

He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon −− then all is darkness and silence! Peyton Fahrquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

-An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (333) -Ambrose Bierce

In her girlhood and before her marriage with Tom Willard, Elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky reputation in Winesburg. For years she had been what is called "stage-struck" and had paraded through the streets with traveling men guests at her father's hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her of life in the cities out of which they had come. Once she startled the town by putting on men's clothes and riding a bicycle down Main Street. In her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those days much confused. A great restlessness was in her ....

-Anderson, "Mother," Norton p.771 -"shaky reputation"-ex of modernity (resistance to gender roles)

Closer yet I approach you; What thought you have of me, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance; I consider'd long and seriously of you before you were born. .... Who knows but I am enjoying this? Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me? .... What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face? Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

-Crossing Brooklyn Ferry -Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass -free verse

Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you ....

-Crossing Brooklyn Ferry -Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass -free verse

On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose; And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. .... I loved well those cities; I loved well the stately and rapid river; The men and women I saw were all near to me; Others the same—others who look back on me, because I look'd forward to them ....

-Crossing Brooklyn Ferry -Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass -free verse

I too many and many a time cross'd the river of old, Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow, Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south, Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water, Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward, Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving, Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor

-Crossing Brooklyn Ferry -Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass -free verse -Compared to Frost's language in the death of the hired man --EX: of how the form of his writing was an adaptation of the Hebrew poetic form to english

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence, Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd, Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd, Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried, Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem'd pipes of steamboats, I look'd.

-Crossing Brooklyn Ferry -Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass -free verse -EX: of how the form of his writing was an adaptation of the Hebrew poetic form to english

Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming; but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State- were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemen's society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt - a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category.

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the sound of speech: thought -EX: of free indirect thought (stream of conciseness)

"Well, I guess you had better be quiet [.... ]I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too [....] "I guess my mother won't go, after all," she said. "She don't like to ride round in the afternoon."

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the way things sound (speech)

She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointed -- not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the way things sound (speech) -EX: of Free Indirect Speech

She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter - she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American"; she wouldn't have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German - this was said after a little hesitation, especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans; but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she would not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State - "if you know where that is."

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the way things sound (speech) -EX: of Indirect Speech

Example: She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. [She said that] she was not disappointed -- not a bit, and perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. [She said that] she had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times, and then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. [She said that] whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the way things sound (speech) -EX: of previous quote in indirect speech form

He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt - a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women - persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability's sake, with husbands - who were great coquettes - dangerous, terrible women, with whom one's relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one's intercourse with a pretty American flirt.

-Daisy Miller -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now EX: flirt, coquettes, unsophisticated

He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. "... I really think that you had better not meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the country. You will be sure to make some great mistake. You are too innocent." "My dear aunt, I am not so innocent," said Winterbourne, smiling and curling his moustache. "You are too guilty, then?" Winterbourne continued to curl his moustache, meditatively.

-Daisy Miller, Chapter 1 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of Estrangement

She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-coloured ribbon. She was bare-headed; but she balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably pretty.[....] Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman's various features- her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty: he was addicted to observing and analysing it; and as regards this young lady's face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it - very forgivingly - of a want of finish.

-Daisy Miller, Chapter 1 -Henry James

The shore of the lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category, from the "grand hotel" of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall, and an awkward summer-house in the angle of the garden.

-Daisy Miller, Chapter 1 -Henry James -EX of realism, the look of things (description)

[Winterbourne:] He had assented to the idea that she was "common"; but was she so, after all, or was he simply getting used to her commonness? [....]She seemed to him [...] an extraordinary mixture of innocence and crudity.

-Daisy Miller, Chapter 2 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: "common," innocence, crudity

[Mrs. Costello, Winterbourne's aunt:] "They are very common," Mrs Costello declared. 'They are the sort of Americans that one does one's duty by not - not accepting." "She is a young lady,' said Mrs Costello, 'who has an intimacy with her mamma's courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" [Winterbourne] demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend - like a gentleman. I shouldn't wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady's idea of a Count." "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice."

-Daisy Miller, Chapter 2 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: common, intimacy, gentleman, uncultivated, nice

[Daisy:] "I know just what your aunt would be; I know I should like her. She would be very exclusive. I like a lady to be exclusive; I'm dying to be exclusive myself. Well, we are exclusive, mother and I. We don't speak to everyone - or they don't speak to us. I suppose it's about the same thing." "If I didn't introduce my gentlemen friends to mother," [Daisy] added [...],"I shouldn't think I was natural." Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with her courier; but he said nothing. "I suppose you don't think it's proper!' Daisy exclaimed, "Eugenio doesn't think anything's proper."

-Daisy Miller, Chapter 2 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: exclusive, natural, familiar, proper

[Winterbourne] felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone.

-Daisy Miller, pg: 349 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of Estrangement

"They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant—very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough."

-Daisy Miller, pg: 361 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of Social reality (dreadful, ignorant, bad, vulgar, bad)

Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken [Giovanelli's] measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist." [....]Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman's not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one [....] It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. "Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably low-lived foreigner? [....]It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly well-conducted young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy.

-Daisy Miller, pg: 366-67 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of Social reality (gentleman, nice girl, a little American flirt, conducted, delicacy)

"I think it's a pity to make too much fuss about it." "It's a pity to let the girl ruin herself!" "She is very innocent," said Winterbourne. "She's very crazy!" cried Mrs. Walker.

-Daisy Miller, pg: 367 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of Social reality -(ruin herself, innocent, crazy)

[Winterbourne to Mrs. Costello, chapter IV] "You were right in that remark that you made last summer. I was booked to make a mistake. I have lived too long in foreign parts."

-Daisy Miller, pg: 381 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of Estrangement

Daisy's grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of the wall of imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring flowers. Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a number of other mourners [....] he stood staring at the raw protuberance among the April daisies.

-Daisy Miller, pg: 381 -Henry James -Realism, the way we live now -EX: of the really real (beyond social reality)

The city has its cunning wiles no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forces which allure, with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective, to all moral intents and purposes, as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman.

-Dreiser, Sister Carrie, I, p. 597 -Naturalism

.... she was a fair example of the middle American class—two generations removed from the emigrant. Here was a type of the traveling canvasser [salesman] for a manufacturing house—a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a still newer term which had sprung into general use among Americans in 1880, and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are such as to impress strongly the fancy, or elicit the admiration, of susceptible young women—a "masher."

-Dreiser, Sister Carrie, I, p. 598 -EX: of social reality

There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He recognized the indescribable thing that made for fascination and beauty in her. She realized that she was of interest to him from the one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears .... Here were these two, bandying little phrases ... both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how his luring succeeded. She could not realize that she was drifting, until he secured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded something—he, that he had gained a victory.

-Dreiser, Sister Carrie, I, pp. 600, 601 -EX: of realism, perspectivism

"Wear do you want to go?" he inquired. "I want to see the manager," she replied. "Wot manager?" he returned, surveying her caustically. "Is there more than one?" she asked. "I thought it was all one firm." "Naw," said the youth. "Der's six different people. Want to see Speigelheim?" "I don't know," answered Carrie. She colored a little as she began to feel the necessity of explaining. "I want to see whoever put up that sign." "Dot's Speigelheim," said the boy. "Fort floor."

-Dreiser, Sister Carrie, III, p. 608 -EX: of realism, the sound of speech

She could not begin to believe that she would take the [job], modest as her aspirations were. She had been used to better than that .... This place was grimy and low; the girls were careless and hardened. They must be bad-minded and -hearted, she imagined. Still a place had been offered her. Surely Chicago was not so bad if she could find one [job] in one day. She might find another and better later.

-Dreiser, Sister Carrie, III, p. 609 -Free indirect speech, realism

The young writer who attempts to report the phrase and carriage of every-day life, who tries to tell just how he has heard men talk and seen them look, is made to feel guilty of something low and unworthy by the stupid people who would like to have him show how Shakespeare's men talked and looked, or [Sir Walter] Scott's, or [William Makepeace] Thackeray's, or [Honore de] Balzac's, or [Charles] Dickens's; he is instructed to idealize his personages, that is, to take the life-likeness out of them, and put the literary-likeness into them.

-Editor's Study (582) -Howells

"I see that you are looking at a grasshopper there which you have found in the grass, and I suppose you intend describe it. Now don't waste your time and sin against culture in that way. I've got a grasshopper here, which has been evolved at considerable pains and expense out of the grasshopper in general; in fact, it's a type. It's made up of wire and cardboard, very prettily painted in a conventional tint, and it's perfectly indestructible. It isn't very much like a real grasshopper, but it's a great deal nicer, and it's served to represent the notion of a grasshopper ever since man emerged from barbarism. You may say that it's artificial. Well, it is artificial; but then it's ideal too; and what you want to do is to cultivate the ideal. You'll find the books full of my kind of grasshopper, and scarcely a trace of yours in any of them. The thing that you are proposing to do is commonplace; but if you say that it isn't commonplace, for the very reason that it hasn't been done before, you'll have to admit that it's photographic...[We] hope that the time is coming when not only the artist, but the common, average man [...] will reject the ideal grasshopper wherever he finds it, in science, in literature, in art, because it is not "simple, natural, and honest," because it is not like a real grasshopper [....] [T]he people who have been brought up on the ideal grasshopper, the heroic grasshopper, the impassioned grasshopper, the self-devoted, adventureful, good old romantic card-board grasshopper must die out before the simple, honest, and natural grasshopper can have a fair field.

-Editor's Study (582-83) -Howells

... the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts .... There was something in Mr. Ryder's voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. .... [Mrs. Dixon] had listened, with parted lips and streaming eyes.

-Ending of The Wife of His Youth (pg 496) -Chestnutt -EX: of the really real (like the ending of daisy miller)

Use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something .... Use either no ornament or good ornament.

-Ezra Pound, "A Retrospect" (1913), Norton p. 811 -a few don'ts

Many people today are composing mere sentimentalism, and calling it, and causing it to be called, Romance .... Romance has fallen into disrepute .... it is very easy to get the impression that Romance must be an affair of cloaks and daggers, or moonlight and golden hair .... It is not merely a conjurer's trick box, full of flimsy quackeries, tinsel and clap traps, meant only to amuse, and relying on deception to do even that .... Can we not see in it an instrument, keen, finely tempered, flawless - an instrument with which we may go straight through the clothes and tissues and wrapping of flesh down deep into the red, living heart of things?

-Frank Norris, "A Plea for Romantic Fiction" (1901), Norton p. 587 -Naturalism

Realism is very excellent so far as it goes, but it goes no further than the Realist himself can actually see, or actually hear. Realism is minute; it is the drama of a broken teacup, the tragedy of a walk down the block, the excitement of an afternoon call, the adventure of an invitation to dinner. It is the visit to my neighbor's house, a formal visit, from which I may draw no conclusion. I see my neighbor and his friends - very, oh such very! probable people - and that is all. Realism ... says to me ... "That is life." And I say it is not.

-Frank Norris, "A Plea for Romantic Fiction" (1901), Norton p. 588 -Naturalism

Romance does very well in the castles of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance chateaux .... That is all well and good. But let us protest against limiting her [i.e., Romance] to such places and such times. You will find her, I grant you , in the chatelaine's chamber and the dungeon of the man-at-arms; but, if you choose to look for her, you will find her equally at home in the brownstone house on the corner and in an office building downtown. And this very day, in this very hour, she is sitting among the rags and wretchedness, the dirt and despair of the tenements of the East Side of New York.

-Frank Norris, "A Plea for Romantic Fiction" (1901), Norton p. 588-9 -Naturalism

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work— I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

-Grass, Carl Sandburg

It was a monstrous big river down there -- sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up -- nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres -- perfectly still -- just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line -- that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away -- trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks -- rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!

-Huck Finn pg 182 -Mark Twain -Realism: the look of things: description

"How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de n[...]s foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich agin."

-Huck Finn, chap XVIII reck'n: the way things sounded (wuz, uv), ex of Eye-dialect -Compared to the eye-dialect in The Wife of His Youth (pg. 492)

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a n[...]; but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't done that one if I'd a knowed it would make him feel that way.

-Huck Finn, pg 162 -Ex of Irony: Disparity between Huck's (and Buck's) judgment and Mark Twain's (and our) judgment.

"What's a feud?" "Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?" "Never heard of it before—tell me about it." "Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the cousins chip in—and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time." "Has this one been going on long, Buck?" "Well, I should reckon! It started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit—which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would." "What was the trouble about, Buck?—land?" "I reckon maybe—I don't know." "Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson?" "Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago." "Don't anybody know?" "Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place."

-Huckleberry Finn (176-77) -Mark Twain

... the man dropped into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no signs of a fire to be made, and besides, never in the dog's experience had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager longing for the fire mastered it, and with a great lifting and shifting forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where there were the other food-providers and fire-providers.

-Jack London, "To Build a Fire" (Norton, pp. 652)

Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts, Bootleggers in silken shirts, Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs, Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks. • Seventh Street is a bastard of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, soft-skinned wedge of n[...] life breathing its loafer air, jazz songs and love, thrusting unconscious rhythms, black reddish blood into the white and whitewashed wood of Washington. Stale soggy wood of Washington. Wedges rust in soggy wood. . . Split it! In two! Again! Shred it! . . the sun. Wedges are brilliant in the sun; ribbons of wet wood dry and blow away. Black reddish blood. Pouring for crude-boned soft-skinned life, who set you flowing? Blood suckers of the War would spin in a frenzy of dizziness if they drank your blood. Prohibition would put a stop to it. Who set you flowing? White and whitewash disappear in blood. Who set you flowing? Flowing down the smooth asphalt of Seventh Street, in shanties, brick office buildings, theaters, drug stores, restaurants, and cabarets? Eddying on the corners? Swirling like a blood-red smoke up where the buzzards fly in heaven? God would not dare to suck black red blood [...] He would duck his head in shame and call for the Judgement Day. Who set you flowing?

-Jean Toomer, "Seventh Street" from Cane (1923)

He remembered the advice of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek, and he smiled. The old-timer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, he thought. All a man had to do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time.

-London, "To Build a Fire" (Norton, pp. 646)

This man did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing-point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold.

-London, "To Build a Fire," p. 645 -Naturalism

... the sun was too far south on its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek ... ... he soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. .... The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow.

-London, "To Build a Fire," pp. -Naturalism

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us, cover us with your pools of fir.

-Oread -H.D. [Hilda Doolittle], 1914 -EP's lover and network -like a Haiku: 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables.

Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.

-Richard Cory (RObinson)

[Mrs. Ansley:] "I think those young Italian aviators we met at the Embassy invited them to fly to Tarquinia for tea."

-Roman Fever (pg. 541) -Wharton -EX: of Estrangement

[Mrs. Slade:] "I was just thinking ... what different things Rome stands for to each generation of travelers. To our grandmothers, Roman fever; to our mothers, sentimental dangers - how we used to be guarded! - to our daughters, no more dangers than the middle of Main Street."

-Roman Fever (pg. 543) -Wharton -EX: of Estrangement

So these two ladies visualized each other, each through the wrong end of her little telescope.

-Roman Fever (pg. 543) -Wharton -EX: of Perspective

Mrs. Slade: "I know what was in that letter because I wrote it!"

-Roman Fever (pg. 546) -Wharton -EX: of witholding info (secrets)

Mrs. Ansley: "He was there .... I answered the letter. I told him I'd be there. So he came."

-Roman Fever (pg. 548) -Wharton -EX: of witholding info (secrets)

Mrs. Slade: "After all, I had everything; I had him for twenty-five years. And you had nothing but that one letter that he didn't write." (

-Roman Fever (pg. 548?) -Wharton -EX: of witholding info (secrets)

Mrs. Ansley: "I had Barbara."

-Roman Fever (pg. 549) -EX: of witholding info (secrets)

Poets, in our civilization as it exists at present, must be difficult.

-TS Eliot (1921)

It goes without saying that you will not write a good novel unless you possess the sense of reality; but it will be difficult to give you a recipe for calling that sense into being. Humanity is immense and reality has a myriad forms [...] It is equally excellent and inconclusive to say that one must write from experience [...]What kind of experience is intended, and where does it begin and end? Experience is never limited and it is never complete; it is an immense sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web, of the finest silken threads, suspended in the chamber of consciousness and catching every air-borne particle in its tissue. It is the very atmosphere of the mind; and when the mind is imaginative [...] it takes to itself the faintest hints of life ....

-The Art of Fiction (584) -Henry James

It is an incident for a woman to stand up with her hand resting on a table and look out at you in a certain way; or if it be not an incident, I think it will be hard to say what it is [...] When a young man makes up his mind that he has not faith enough after all to enter the church as he intended, that is an incident, though you may not hurry to the end of the chapter to see whether perhaps he doesn't change once more. I do not say that these are extraordinary or startling incidents. I do not pretend to estimate the degree of interest proceeding from them, for this will depend upon the skill of the [writer] [...] the only classification of the novel that I can understand is into that which has life and that which has not.

-The Art of Fiction (585-6) -Henry James

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse, You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokan: Two small people, without dislike or suspicion. At fourteen I married My Lord you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall. Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back. At fifteen I stopped scowling, I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever and forever. Why should I climb the look out?

-The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter -Ezra Pound, from Cathay (1915) -adaption of Rihaku (Pseudo-Translation) -free verse

I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order?

-The Waste Land V; "What the Thunder Said" (846) -TS Eliot -I sat upon the shore: Alludes to V. Weston's the Fisher King

A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse. -Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him.-

-The Waste Land, "The Fire Sermon" (839) -TS Eliot -"musing upon..."-Allusion to Shakesphere's The Tempest, Prince Ferdinand

-"This music crept by me upon the waters"- And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City City, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon ....

-The Waste Land, "The Fire Sermon" (841) -TS Eliot -"This music crept by me."-Allusion to Shakesphere's The Tempest and Ariel's song

-April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. -Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. -What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow.Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know onlyA heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. -Frisch weht der Wind  Der Heimat zu,  Mein Irisch Kind,  Wo weilest du?

-The Waste Land: I. The Burial of the Dead (834) -TS Eliot

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; "They called me the hyacinth girl."-Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed' und leer das Meer.

-The Waste Land: I. The Burial of the Dead (835) -TS Eliot

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.

-The Waste Land: I. The Burial of the Dead (835) -TS Eliot

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: "Stetson! "You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! "That corpse you planted last year in your garden, "Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? "Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? "Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, "Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!"You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable—mon frère!"

-The Waste Land: I. The Burial of the Dead (836) -TS Eliot

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

-The Waste Land: IV. "Death by Water" (843) -TS Eliot -Pound told Eliot to keep Phlebas in the poem

"I have no race prejudice," [Mr. Ryder] would say, "but we people of mixed blood are ground between the upper and the nether millstone. Our fate lies between absorption by the white race and extinction in the black. The one doesn't want us yet, but may take us in time. The other would welcome us, but it would be for us a backward step. 'With malice towards none, with charity for all,' we must do the best we can for ourselves and those who are to follow us. Self-preservation is the first law of nature."

-The Wife of His Youth (490) -Charles W. Chestnutt -EX of Realism, the we live now

.... around the edges of her bonnet could be seen protruding here and there a tuft of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened around her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely ornamented with faded red and yellow artificial flowers. And she was very black, so black that her toothless gums, revealed when she opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She looked like a bit of the old plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a magician's wand ...

-The Wife of His Youth (491) -Charles W. Chestnutt

.... her face was crossed and recrossed with a thousand wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet could be seen protruding here and there a tuft of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened around her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely ornamented with faded red and yellow artificial flowers. And she was very black, so black that her toothless gums, revealed when she opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue.

-The Wife of His Youth (491) -Charles W. Chestnutt -EX of Realism, the way things looked

"She seem'd a part of joyous Spring: A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. ...... "She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips."

-The Wife of His Youth (491) -Charles W. Chestnutt -EX of Sentimentalism

"My name's 'Liza," she began, "'Liza Jane. W'en I wuz young I us'ter b'long ter Marse Bob Smif, down in ole Missoura. I wuz bawn down dere. W'en I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man named Jim. But Jim died, an' after dat I married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor. Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy and daddy died, an' de w'ite folks 'prenticed him ter my marster fer ter work fer 'im 'tel he wuz growed up. Sam worked in de fiel', an' I wuz de cook. One day Ma'y Ann, ole miss's maid, came rushin' out ter de kitchen, an' says she, ''Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo' Sam down de ribber.' "'Go way f'm yere,' says I; 'my husban''s free!' "'Don' make no diff'ence. I heerd ole marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine take yo' Sam 'way wid 'im ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an' he knowed whar he could git a t'ousan' dollars fer Sam an' no questions axed.'"

-The Wife of His Youth (492) -Charles W. Chestnutt -EX of Realism, the way things sounded -w'en, wux, b'long =eye-dialect

... the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts .... There was something in Mr. Ryder's voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. .... [Mrs. Dixon] had listened, with parted lips and streaming eyes.

-The Wife of His Youth (496) -Charles W. Chestnutt -EX of Realism, the we live now

A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity.... There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years. That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care—there is something strange about the house—I can feel it.

-The Yellow Wallpaper (p. 511-12.) -Charlotte Gilman -Hypothesis 1: Supernatural horror

John is a physician, and perhaps—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see he does not believe I am sick! And what can one do? If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency— what is one to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again. Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good. But what is one to do?

-The Yellow Wallpaper (p. 511-12.) -Charlotte Gilman -Hypothesis 2: "Diary of a mad housewife"

At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies. He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on. "You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to renovate the house just for a three months' rental." "Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there." Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.

-The Yellow Wallpaper (p. 513.) -Charlotte Gilman -Hypothesis 3: Victim of patriarchy

There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try. [....] There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down .... I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in a toy-store.

-The Yellow Wallpaper (p. 514) -Charlotte Gilman -Hypothesis 2: "Diary of a mad housewife"

Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia. But he said I wasn't able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished . It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness I suppose. And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head. He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well.

-The Yellow Wallpaper (p. 516) -Charlotte Gilman -Hypothesis 3: Victim of patriarchy

But there is something else about that paper— the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. .... It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell.

-The Yellow Wallpaper (p. 519-20) -Charlotte Gilman -Hypothesis 2: "Diary of a mad housewife"

'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die: You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.' 'Home,' he mocked gently. • 'Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he's nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.' • 'Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.' • 'I should have called it Something you somehow haven't to deserve.'

-The death of the hired man (frost) -less superflicous words

... on the whole the distinct impression left by Mr. Washington's propaganda is, first, that the South is justified in its present attitude toward the Negro because of the Negro's degradation; secondly, that the prime cause of the Negro's failure to rise more quickly is his wrong education in the past; and, thirdly, that his future rise depends primarily on his own efforts. Each of these propositions is a dangerous half-truth.

-W.E.B. Dubois, The Souls of Black Folk, pp. 576

We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!

-We Wear the Mask (1897) --- Paul Laurence Dunbar, p. 636

When she was ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went in the evening to make her a visit. They sat by a window that looked over the roof of a small frame building into Main Street. By turning their heads they could see through another window, along an alleyway that ran behind the Main Street stores and into the back door of Abner Groff's bakery. Sometimes as they sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to them. At the back door of his shop appeared Abner Groff with a stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. For a long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey cat that belonged to Sylvester West, the druggist. The boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the door of the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker, who swore and waved his arms about. The baker's eyes were small and red and his black hair and beard were filled with flour dust. Sometimes he was so angry that, although the cat had disappeared, he hurled sticks, bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his trade about. Once he broke a window at the back of Sinning's Hardware Store. In the alley the grey cat crouched behind barrels filled with torn paper and broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies. Once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, Elizabeth Willard put her head down on her long white hands and wept. After that she did not look along the alleyway any more, but tried to forget the contest between the bearded man and the cat. It seemed like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness.

-mother, sheerwood anderson (768)

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman - I have detested you long enough. I come to you as a grown child Who has had a pig-headed father; I am old enough now to make friends. It was you that broke the new wood, Now is a time for carving. We have one sap and one root - Let there be commerce between us.

A Pact Ezra Pound

A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a signal, "Water, water; we die of thirst!" The answer from the friendly vessel at once came back, "Cast down your bucket where you are." A second time the signal, "Water, water; send us water!" ran up from the distressed vessel, and was answered, "Cast down your bucket where you are." And a third and fourth signal for water was answered, "Cast down your bucket where you are." The captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of fresh, sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River. To those of my race who depend on bettering their condition in a foreign land or who underestimate the importance of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern white man, who is their next-door neighbour, I would say: "Cast down your bucket where you are"—cast it down in making friends in every manly way of the people of all races by whom we are surrounded.

Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery, p. 472

To those of the white race who look to the incoming of those of foreign birth and strange tongue and habits for the prosperity of the South, were I permitted I would repeat what I say to my own race: "Cast down your bucket where you are." Cast it down among the eight millions of Negroes whose habits you know, whose fidelity and love you have tested in days when to have proved treacherous meant the ruin of your firesides. Cast down your bucket among these people who have, without strikes and labour wars, tilled your fields, cleared your forests, builded your railroads and cities, and brought forth treasures from the bowels of the earth, and helped make possible ... the progress of the South. .... As we have proved our loyalty to you in the past, nursing your children, watching by the sickbed of your mothers and fathers, and often following them with tear-dimmed eyes to their graves, so in the future, in our humble way, we shall stand by you with a devotion that no foreigner can approach, ready to lay down our lives, if need be, in defence of yours, interlacing our industrial, commercial, civil, and religious life with yours in a way that shall make the interests of both races one. In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress.

Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery, p. 472-3 -the incoming of those of foreign birth and strange tongue and habits -without strikes and labour wars -In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress.

The coloured people and the coloured newspapers at first seemed to be greatly pleased with the character of my Atlanta address, as well as with its reception. But after the first burst of enthusiasm began to die away, and the coloured people began reading the speech in cold type, some of them seemed to feel that they had been hypnotized. They seemed to feel that I had been too liberal in my remarks toward the Southern whites, and that I had not spoken out strongly enough for what they termed the "rights" of my race. For a while there was a reaction, so far as a certain element of my own race was concerned, but later these reactionary ones seemed to have been won over to my way of believing and acting.

Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery, p. 476

My own belief is ... that the time will come when the Negro in the South will be accorded all the political rights which his ability, character, and material possessions entitle him to. I think, though, that the opportunity to freely exercise such political rights will not come in any large degree through outside or artificial forcing, but will be accorded to the Negro by the Southern white people themselves, and that they will protect him in the exercise of those rights. Just as soon as the South gets over the old feeling that it is being forced by "foreigners," or "aliens," to do something which it does not want to do, I believe that the change in the direction that I have indicated is going to begin.

Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery, p. 478

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg -the fog -no superfluous words -presents object directly -EP network

In the spring or early summer of 1912, 'H.D.', Richard Aldington and myself decided that we were agreed upon the three principles following: 1. Direct treatment of the 'thing' whether subjective or objective. 2. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation. 3.As regarding rhythm: to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome. .... An 'Image' is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time .... It is the presentation of such a 'complex' instantaneously which gives that sense of sudden liberation; that sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art. It is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works.

Ezra Pound, "A Retrospect" (1913, 1918)

It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps—an eyesore among eyesores.

Faulkner, "A Rose for Emily," p. 1009

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, of his bones New England pews are made, those are altar lights that were his eyes.

Hayden, "Middle Passage," II, ll. 17-199 -Allusion to The Tempest

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, the corpse of mercy rots with him, rats eat love's rotten gelid eyes.

Hayden, "Middle Passage," III, ll. 108-110 -Allusion to The Tempest

The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.

Hemingway, "Hills Like White Elephants" (Norton, p. 1032)

If we must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursèd lot. If we must die, O let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe! Though far outnumbered let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

If We Must Die Claude McKay

• The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.

In a Station of the Metro -E Pound -"black bough"=estrangement

.... picture if you can, this cream-colored solitary girl sitting at a tenement window looking down on the indifferent throngs of Harlem. Better that she listen to folk-songs by dusk in Georgia, you would say, and so would I. Or, suppose she came up North and married. Even a doctor or lawyer, say, one who would be sure to get along—that is make money .... See her out and out a prostitute along State Street in Chicago.

Jean Toomer, "Fern," from Cane (1923)

One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, "I want to be a poet--not a Negro poet," meaning, I believe, "I want to write like a white poet"; meaning subconsciously, "I would like to be a white poet"; meaning behind that, "I would like to be white." And I was sorry the young man said that, for no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. And I doubted then that, with his desire to run away spiritually from his race, this boy would ever be a great poet. But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America--this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible. .... ... I am ashamed for the black poet who says, "I want to be a poet, not a Negro poet," as though his own racial world were not as interesting as any other world. I am ashamed, too, for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets after the manner of the academicians because he fears the strange unwhiteness of his own features. An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he must choose.

Langston Hughes, "The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain" (1926)

We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. [....] If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn't matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.

Langston Hughes, "The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain" (1926)

Hair - braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher's rope, Eyes - fagots, Lips - old scars, or the first red blisters, Breath - the last sweet scent of cane, And her slim body, white as the ash of black flesh after flame.

Portrait in Georgia Jean Toomer

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight; The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves; The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves, And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows. Under a tree in the park, Two little boys, lying flat on their faces, Were carefully gathering red berries To put in a pasteboard box. Some day there will be no war, Then I shall take out this afternoon And turn it in my fingers, And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate, And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves. To-day I can only gather it And put it into my lunch-box, For I have time for nothing But the endeavour to balance myself Upon a broken world.

Semptember, 1918 -Amy Lowell

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes Blown by black players upon a picnic day. She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, The light gauze hanging loose about her form; To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; But, looking at her falsely-smiling face I knew her self was not in that strange place.

The Harlem Dancer Claude McKay

His spirit is smoke ascended to high heaven. His father, by the cruelest way of pain, Had bidden him to his bosom once again; The awful sin remained still unforgiven. All night a bright and solitary star (Perchance the one that ever guided him, Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view The ghastly body swaying in the sun: The women thronged to look, but never a one Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; And little lads, lynchers that were to be, Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.

The Lynching Claude McKay -similar to Jean Toomer's Portrait in Georgia

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway . . . He did a lazy sway . . . To the tune o' those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming from a black man's soul. O Blues!

The Weary Blues Langston Hughes -free verse

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan— "Ain't got nobody in all this world, Ain't got nobody but ma self. I's gwine to quit ma frownin' And put ma troubles on the shelf." Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more— "I got the Weary Blues And I can't be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can't be satisfied— I ain't happy no mo' And I wish that I had died." And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

The Weary Blues Langston Hughes -free verse

I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I've known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

The negro speaks of rivers -Langston huges -free verse

After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world, —a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.

W.E.B. Dubois, The Souls of Black Folk, pp. 563 -double-consciousness, two-ness

Mr. Washington distinctly asks that black people give up, at least for the present, three things,— First, political power, Second, insistence on civil rights, Third, higher education of Negro youth,— and concentrate all their energies on industrial education, and accumulation of wealth, and the conciliation of the South. This policy has been courageously and insistently advocated for over fifteen years, and has been triumphant for perhaps ten years. As a result of this tender of the palm-branch, what has been the return? In these years there have occurred: 1. The disfranchisement of the Negro. 2. The legal creation of a distinct status of civil inferiority for the Negro. 3. The steady withdrawal of aid from institutions for the higher training of the Negro.

W.E.B. Dubois, The Souls of Black Folk, pp. 573

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Yet Do I Marvel Countee Cullen

I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored.

Zora Neale Hurston, "How It Feels to be Colored Me" (1928) -double conciousness

... when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen--follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop [....] I want to slaughter something--give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly. "Good music they have here," he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips. Music! The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored.

Zora Neale Hurston, "How It Feels to be Colored Me" (1928) -similar to Claude McKay's The Harlem Dancer

"next to of course god america i love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh say can you see by the dawn's early my country 'tis of centuries come and go and are no more what of it we should worry in every language even deafanddumb thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry by jingo by gee by gosh by gum why talk of beauty what could be more beaut- iful than these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter they did not stop to think they died instead then shall the voice of liberty be mute?" He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

e.e. cummings, 1926

in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful

ee. cummings

the queer old balloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing from hop-scotch and jump-rope and it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee

ee. cummings

so much depends upon • a red wheel barrow • glazed with rain water • beside the white chickens.

the red wheelbarrow -William carlos Williams --no superfluous words -presents object directly -EP network