Unit One Name…€¦ · Web viewUnit One Name: ... Avoid questions that will solicit one word responses and or short phrases; ... Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him

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Unit One Name:___________________________________

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Created especially for you by Mrs. Tobin-Careen

English 12Semester Two February 2014

Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

Biographical Writing

You are about to write a biography, aka a bio, of someone in this class. Once you have decided who you will interview, you will need to craft 10 interview questions. Avoid questions that will solicit one word responses and or short phrases; your goal is to garner enough information to write an interesting and engaging depiction of your subject!

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2 St. John Brebeuf Regional Secondary School English 12 Semester 2 2014 Mrs. Tobin Careen

Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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After penning your interview questions, spend some time with your person of choice from this class and interview them; gleaning as much information as possible. Record your responses below. You will use this information to write the biography.

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Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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Type your biography and submit it for grading. Questions and responses are worth 40 marks (keep them in this package). The final written biography will be marked out of 60. The bio should be engaging and informative; think magazine

Descriptive Writing

Read the following story.

Three Days to See - by Helen Keller

All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as short as twenty-four hours. But always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited.

Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations, should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the past, what regrets?

Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die to-morrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live each day with gentleness, vigor, and a keenness of appreciation, which is often, lost when time stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There are those, of course, who would adopt the epicurean motto of 'Eat, drink, and be merry,' but most people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.

In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.

Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our facilities and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health until we are ill.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound.

Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. 'Nothing in particular,' she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter's sleep. I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips.

At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.

If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in 'How to Use Your Eyes'. The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.

Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I was given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the problem of how to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three days to see. If with the oncoming darkness if the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three intervening days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before you.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness, I should divide the period into three parts.

On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Ann Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.

I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that 'window of the soul,' the eye. I can only 'see' through my finger tips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their personalities, of course, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching their reactions to various expressed and circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.

Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from handclasp, from spoken words which I take from their lips with my finger tips, or which they tap into the palm of my hand.

How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see the inner nature of a friend or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face and let it go at that?

For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of their wives' eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they so not know. And, incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses, new hats, and changes in household arrangements.

The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal every day how inaccurately 'eyewitnesses' see. A given event will be 'seen' in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.

Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidence of the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty which precedes the individuals consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.

And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs - the grave, canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding Great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful friendships are so comforting to me.

On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home. I want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house into a home. My eyes would rest respectfully on the books in raised type which I have read, but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing people can read, for during the long night of my life the books I have read and those which have been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse, revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.

In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature, trying desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor which is constantly unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses ploughing in the field (perhaps I should see only a tractor!) and the serene content of men living close to the soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.

When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double delight of being able to see by artificial light, which the genius of man has created to extend the power of his sight when Nature decrees darkness.

In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be able to sleep, so full would be my mind of the memories of the day.

The next day - the second day of sight - I should arise with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping earth.

This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man's progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much compressed into one day? Through the museums, of course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed there - animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of evolution in animals, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for himself a secure home on this planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural history.


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I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the face of living things as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course, have not had the opportunity, but, I am sure that many who have had the opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place to use your eyes. You who can see can spend many fruitful days there, but I, with my imaginary three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.

My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the Museum of Natural History reveals the material aspects of the world, so does the Metropolitan show the myriad facets of the human spirit. Throughout the history of humanity the urge to artistic expression has been almost as powerful as the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in the vast chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my hands the sculptured gods and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have a few copies of Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of charging Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the winged victory of Samothrace are friends of my finger tips. The gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to me, for he, too, knew blindness.

My hands have lingered upon the living marvel of Roman sculpture as well as that of later generations. I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of Michelangelo's inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carving. These arts which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were meant to be seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty which remains hidden from me. I can admire the simple lines of a Greek vase, but its figured decorations are lost to me.

So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to probe into the soul of man through his art. The things I knew through touch I should now see. More splendid still, the whole magnificent world of painting would be opened to me, from the Italian Primitives, with their serene religious devotion, to the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into the canvases of Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, Rembrandt. I should want to feast my eyes upon the warm colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of El Greco, catch a new vision of Nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much rich meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!

Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should not be able to review a fraction of that great world of art which is open to you. I should be able to get only a superficial impression. Artists tell me that for a deep and true appreciation of art one must educate the eye. One must learn from experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I had eyes, how happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to many of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night, unexplored and unilluminated.

It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the Metropolitan Museum, which contains the key to beauty - a beauty so neglected. Seeing persons, however, do not need a Metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the shelves of even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary sight, I should choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures in the shortest time.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a theatre or at the movies. Even now I often attend theatrical performances of all sorts, but the action of the play must be spelled into my hand by a companion. But how I should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure of Hamlet, or the gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I should like to follow each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And since I could see only one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned dilemma, for there are scores of plays I should want to see. You who have eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you gaze at a play, a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of sight which enables you to enjoy its color, grace, and movement?

I cannot enjoy the beauty rhythmic movement except in a sphere restricted to the touch of my hands. I can vision only dimly the grace of a Pavlowa, although I know something of the delight of rhythm, for often I can sense the beat of music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well imagine that cadenced motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the world. I have been able to gather something of this by tracing with my fingers the lines in sculptured marble; if this static grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the thrill of seeing grace in motion.

One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph Jefferson allowed me to touch his face and hands as he went through some of the gestures and speeches of his beloved Rip Van Winkle. I was able to catch thus a meager glimpse of the world of drama, and I shall never forget the delight of that moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure you seeing ones can derive from watching and hearing the interplay of speech and movement in the unfolding of a dramatic performance! If I could see only one play, I should know how to picture in my mind the action of a hundred plays which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium of manual alphabet. So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of sight, the great figures of dramatic literature would crowd sleep from my eyes.

The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover new delights, for I am sure that, for those who have eyes which really see, the dawn of each day must be a perpetually new revelation of beauty.

This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle, is to be my third and last day of sight. I shall have no time to waste in regrets or longings; there is too much to see. The first day I devoted to my friends, animate and inanimate. The second revealed to me the history of man and Nature. To-day I shall spend in the workday world of the present, amid the haunts of men going about the business of life. And where one can find so many activities and conditions of men as in New York? So the city becomes my destination.

I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest Hills, Long Island. Here, surrounded by green lawns, trees, and flowers, are neat little houses, happy with the voices and movements of wives and children, havens of peaceful rest for men who toil in the city. I drive across the lacy structure of steel which spans the East River, and I get a new and startling vision of the power and ingenuity of the mind of man. Busy boats chug and scurry about the river - racy speed, boats, and stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight ahead, I should spend many of them watching the delightful activity upon the river.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic towers of New York, a city that seems to have stepped from the pages of a fairy story. What an awe-inspiring sight, these glittering spires, these vast banks of stone and steel - sculptures such as the gods might build for themselves! This animated picture is a part of the lives of millions of people every day. How many, I wonder, give it so much as a second glance? Very few, I fear. Their eyes are blind to this magnificent sight because it is so familiar to them.

I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic structures, the Empire State Building, for there, a short time ago, I 'saw' the city below through the eyes of my secretary. I am anxious to compare my fancy with reality. I am sure I should not be disappointed in the panorama spread out before me, for to me it would be a vision of another world.

Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at a busy corner, merely looking at people, trying by sight of them to understand something of their lives. I see smiles, and I am happy. I see serious determination, and I am proud. I see suffering, and I am compassionate.

I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of focus, so that I see no particular object but a seething kaleidoscope of color. I am certain that the colors of women's dresses moving in a throng must be a gorgeous spectacle of which I should never tire. But perhaps if I had sight I should be like most other women - too interested in styles and the cut of individual dresses to give much attention to the splendor of color in the mass. And I am convinced, too, that I should become an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight to the eye to view the myriad articles of beauty on display.

From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city - to Park Avenue, to the slums, to factories, to parks where children play. I take a stay-at-home trip abroad by visiting the foreign quarters. Always my eyes are open wide to all the sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe deep and add to my understanding of how people work and live. My heart is full of the images of people and things. My eye passes lightly over no single trifle; it strives to touch and hold closely each thing its gaze rests upon. Some sights are pleasant, filling the heart with happiness; but some are miserably pathetic. To these latter I do not shut my eyes, for they, too are part of life. To close the eye on them is to close the heart and mind.

My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps there are many serious pursuits to which I should devote the few remaining hours, but I am afraid that on the evening of that last day I should run away to the theatre, to a hilariously funny play, so that I might appreciate the overtones of comedy in the human spirit.

At midnight my temporary respite from blindness would cease, and permanent night would close in on me again. Naturally in those three short days I should not have seen all I wanted to see. Only when darkness had again descended upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen. But my mind would be so overcrowded with glorious memories that I should have little time for regrets. Thereafter the touch of every object would bring a glowing memory of how that object looked.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days of sight does not agree with the programme you would set for yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind. I am, however, sure that if you actually faced that fate your eyes would open to things you had never seen before, storing up memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes as never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you. Your eyes would touch and embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then, at last, you would really see, and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.

I who am blind can give one hint to those who see - one admonition to those who would make full use of the gift of sight: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf to-morrow. Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you through the several means of contact which Nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.

Published in the Atlantic Monthly, January 1933.

Helen Adams Keller (June 27, 1880 – June 1, 1968) was an American author, political activist, and lecturer. She was the first deaf/blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. The story of how Keller's teacher, Anne Sullivan, broke through the isolation imposed by a near complete lack of language, allowing the girl to blossom as she learned to communicate, has become known worldwide through the dramatic depictions of the play and film The Miracle Worker. A prolific author, Keller was well traveled, and was outspoken in her opposition to war. She campaigned for women's suffrage, workers' rights, and socialism, as well as many other leftist causes.

Helen Keller leaves us with a lot to think about when it comes to the things that we take for granted. In the space provided, write a response to Keller’s essay, sharing what you would do if you were told that you only had three days to see. Do not concern yourself with format and or mechanics, just write your thoughts. Where would you go? What would you do? Who would you want to spend your time with? What would you want to see?

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Left-wing_politics

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socialism

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labor_rights

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women's_suffrage

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antiwar

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Miracle_Worker

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sullivan_Macy

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bachelor_of_Arts

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deafblindness

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lecturer

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_activist

Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

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Your completed Three Days To See Response is worth 50 marks. Be honest, creative, and engaging. Emulate Keller’s style; first person POV.

Persuasive Writing

In groups of four, take a blank piece of paper. Draw an X through the entire sheet from corner to corner and add a straight line across the top. On the line write the name of what you think is the greatest invention of all time. Circulate the papers in the group taking five minutes to write your opinion on each suggested topic. Repeat the same process on the backside of the paper using a more controversial topic.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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After you have penned your opinion, take some time to discuss the various viewpoints shared in your group. How would you persuade someone else of your opinion? Not argue, persuade.

Submit your completed group sheets. You will be marked on how you responded to each of the suggested topics. Make sure that your name is on your paper, and that all of the papers that you wrote on are stapled together for submission. In a group of four you should write a total of 6 opinions on other peoples’ papers, plus 2 of your own. Write your opinions of your own subjects last, after the others have written theirs. Worth a grand total of 80 marks!

Composition Fridays

What is a composition? Good question. A composition is a multi-paragraphed piece of writing that is often a combination of descriptive, persuasive, and narrative elements. The following characteristics make a very good composition; story-like, emotional, engaging, interesting, meaningful, creative, imaginative, complete with dialogue, and yes you can use I!!! ( 350-500 words) We will use the first few compositions to guide our writing development. Expect lots of descriptive feedback. Every Friday of the semester is designated for in class, dead silent, Composition Writing. Our goal is to improve our writing and our speed. The topics listed below have appeared on provincial exams over the years. Please select one topic per Friday. All compositions must be submitted at the end of class on Friday. Make sure that you put your name and your topic of choice on the top of your paper. 24 marks per composition. As the term progresses low marks will be dropped not averaged!!!

November 2004 Self-awareness leads to meaningful change. August 2004 Role models influence our lives.June 2004 Certain events change our impressions of lifeApril 2004

January 2002 People can create their own reality.November 2001 Taking advantage of opportunities can be beneficial.August 2001 Each stage of life brings new choices.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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Experiences shape relationshipsJan 2004 Our views of the past change as we mature.November 2003 The best gifts are the simplest ones.August 2003 Memories influence our lives.June 2003 We learn the most from people closest to us.April 2003 Our journey into the future begins in the past.January 2003 Certain experiences can mark the beginnings of maturity.November 2002 Challenging circumstances lead to positive actions.August 2002 Forming meaningful connections may enrich lives.June 2002 People can be influenced by their environment.April 2002 Sometimes people are unable to control the directions their lives take.

June 2001 A good life does not have to be complex.April 2001 It is important to have a realistic view of life.January 2001 Surprises can make life interesting.November 2000 Adapting to new situations in life is essential.June 2000 Being sincere is important.August 2000 Taking charge of your own life is worthwhile.April 2000 The pursuit of freedom involves change.January 2000 Keeping an open mind allows for growth.November 1999 The important things in life endure over time.August 1999 DeterminationJune 1999 Being UniqueJanuary 1999 Making commitments

This is a sample composition written in this classroom a few years back. Drifting was written in response to the prompt, We learn from our mistakes.

It was a rainy day in Langley, British Columbia. The new asphalt in front of Jeff’s house was as slick as an ice rink. Jeff was a street car racer and he loved cars, especially racing them. "Ahh" Jeff exclaimed, "Perfect weather for drifting".

At around noon Jeff was sitting in his gaming chair tactically outsmarting virtual gamers, when his mother walked into his room. She looked at the screen, then back at Jeff who hadn’t even glanced towards her. "I saw the new dent in your car Jeff. I’m not impressed".

Not taking his eyes off the screen Jeff smiled and retorted, "that dents been there for awhile mom I have no idea what you’re talking about".

Jeff’s moms face went stern and red. She snapped, "You know damn well what I’m talking about Jeffery Schneider! Why do you put yourself in so much danger! Think about your brother do you want to go to jail?”

Jeff’s temper was rising, so he threw the Xbox controller at the wall, walked past his mother and yelled, "I’m going for a drive" and he slammed the door as he left the house. Jeff knew his mother was right. He


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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shouldn’t race, but it was just so exhilarating. Jeff learnt drifting from his older brother who was his upmost idle. He loved his older brother but, his older brother was in prison for 15 counts of reckless driving and excessive speed.

Jeff hopped into his Skyline GTR. It was a bright yellow with black 17" low profile racing performance tires, a twin turbo v6 with a vtec engine, the capability to go from 0-100 in 4.2 seconds. As he turned the ignition, all his gauges lit up; resembling a spaceship on wheels. Turning his IPod full blast Jeff set off down 208th and the Langley Bypass. It was raining and the ground was slick.

Jeff approached a stop light at the corner of a 7 11 where a Supra pulled up beside him. In his peripheral, he noticed the driver rolling down his window. He then looked Jeff in the eyes and flashed him a wad of cash; his pink slip. Jeff’s eyes were focused, with an impressive stare, as his revving engine accepted the race.

Jeff turned the music louder and stared as the light on his left went from green, to yellow, to red. Facing forward Jeff pushed the gas to the floor gaining traction. The two cars were side by side. Jeff felt confidence; he would win. Hearing a voice in his head saying, “you shouldn’t race Jeff you’re going to end up like your brother". At that moment the Toyota lost control and slid sideways on the two lane road. Jeff reached for the E-brake and pulled with all his might. The car slid into oncoming traffic and hit a pole as the back end swung in a 180 degree narrowly missing the unsuspecting Ford Focus.

Later, Jeff emerged from a deep, dark sleep into a bright emergency room. Confused, he stared at the ceiling as he tuned in to the surrounding conversations. There was a woman, a man, and a younger stern sounding male.

The older male sounded relieved as he explained," we did all we could ... the kid’s lucky he’s still alive".

The woman then spoke in a familiar voice, " oh dear Lord, thank you so much doctor".

Then a warm hand touched his shoulder which was sore to move. He listened as a voice wept, "I should have never let him ride with me! It’s all my fault! My little brother was raised by an immature loser with a fast car!" Jeff’s eyes swelled up as a tear dropped from his cheek, it was his older brother.

Jeff vowed to never race again.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

This is the six point scale used to grade compositions. Please read it over and over and be familiar with the expectations at each level. Based on the description for each number what would you give the previous composition? And why?

6The six paper is superior and may draw upon any number of factors, such as maturity of style, depth of discussion, effectiveness of argument, use of literary and/or rhetorical devices, sophistication of wit, or quality of imagination. This composition exhibits an effective writing style and a sophisticated use of language. Despite its clarity and precision, this paper need not be error-free.

5The five paper is proficient. The composition displays some manipulation of language to achieve a desired effect and exhibits a clear sense of voice and of audience. Content is thoughtful and interesting. Vocabulary and sentence structure are varied and serve the writer’s purpose successfully. Errors may be present, but are not distracting.

4The four paper is competent. The composition conveys the writer’s ideas, but without flair or strong control. Diction and syntax are usually appropriate, but lack variety. Structure, regardless of type, is predictable and relatively mechanical. The paper shows a clear sense of the writer’s purpose, but is not engaging. Conventions of language are usually followed, but some errors are evident.

3The three paper is barely adequate. The paper may feature underdeveloped or simplistic ideas. Transition[s] may be weak or absent. Support is frequently in the form of listed details. Little variety in diction and sentence structure is discernible. The composition may reflect some sense of purpose, but errors may be distracting.

2The two paper is inadequate. The ideas are underdeveloped and simply or awkwardly expressed. The composition may be excessively colloquial or reflect inadequate knowledge of the conventions of language. While meaning is apparent, errors are frequent and rudimentary.

1The one paper is unacceptable and may be compromised by its deficiency of composition, content, diction, syntax, structure, voice, or conventions of language.

0The zero paper manifests an achievement less than outlined in a scale-point one, is written in verse, is off topic, or is a restatement of the topic.

*Any zero paper must be cleared by the section leader.

NRA blank paper with no response given.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

Personal Narrative

Personal narratives are often requested as school writing assignments, job applications, college and university entrance papers, scholarship and bursary requirements, and a variety of other written tasks. Because they are widely used, you should have an idea of how to write one and how this form differs from other writing modes. A personal narrative is a story told in the first person, often using pronouns like "I," "me," and "mine." The story is about real life, not creative fiction or literature. It may be about the writer, something the writer witnessed, or about someone the writer knows, having heard it second-hand. Truth and experience are the hallmarks of this style. The narrative emphasizes a clear focus. It recounts what is probably a short story in an informal as well as an informational way. Reading a narrative is like listening to someone tell a story, except that a narrative is based on real life. The focus should be clear to readers from the beginning; you do not want to use too much suspense in this type of writing. Rather, save drama for fiction and be frank with readers in telling them from the outset what to expect.

Your narrative can include autobiographical elements. You may choose to reveal details from your life or the life of someone you know or care about. If it is not autobiographical, the story should outline an event, or series of events, with which the writer is clearly familiar.

By the conclusion of the paper, a narrative will have made a main point. In other words, if the paper outlines the story of a young woman who survives a tornado's destruction of her home, readers may ask, "How does this impact me?' "What can I learn from her experience?" Be ready to offer a nugget of knowledge as an application for readers; this will become your main point.

A helpful outline for writing a personal narrative is as follows:

WHAT? Tell readers the basic story, as though responding to their collective unasked question, 'What happened?'

SO WHAT? Then revise your story to make readers care. Bad and good things happen to us all. Why should they care about the events in your paper? Make it exciting, meaningful, and purposeful.

NOW WHAT? At the end of the paper, give readers a principle that they can take with them. By applying what they learn from your narrative experience, they may view the world or themselves differently.

A typical personal narrative length is 500 to 1,000 words, so gauge your story accordingly. Write in a natural "tone" as you describe events, and readers will be


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encouraged to stay with it to the end. Plan your story ahead of time by writing an outline or making a list of points you want to

include. Then flesh out the details in your first draft, addressing grammar and punctuation

problems later. When it's finally ready, your personal narrative will tell a story based on real experience that will give your readers something to think about and perhaps even change their lives for the better.

Simply put, a personal narrative is a story in which the writer tells a story about a personal experience. It could be about an exciting, scary, or tragic time in your life, but a narrative will always have certain characteristics.

Facts and Emotions - Personal narratives have so much more depth than a research paper. They include the facts of what happened as well as the emotions that came about as a result of the events. Narratives are aimed at making the reader feel that they are there in the story, watching it unfold. Give it emotion and draw them in.

Tell It as It Happened - Most narratives also tell the story as it happened in time -- in chronological order. Sometimes a story will start at the ending and go back to the beginning to tell how the ending came about. However, only skilled narrators should attempt this, as the reader could become easily confused. Write your personal narrative in the order it unfolded to keep your story simple and poetically moving.

Write In the First Person - A personal narrative is just that -- personal. Therefore, it must be written in the first person. This means using words such as "I" and "me" and "myself." You want to tell the story as it happened to YOU, from your perspective, not from the perspective of someone looking in at the event happening to you.

Show, Don't Tell What Happened - One of the simplest ways to bring someone into the story is to use describing words that show what is occurring. This is easily accomplished by thinking about the five senses as you write. What were you smelling, touching, or hearing as this particular event unfolded? Describe these senses in your writing.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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CATEGORY 4 3 2 1

Introduction (Organization)

The introduction is inviting, states the main topic and previews the structure of the paper.

The introduction clearly states the main topic and previews the structure of the paper, but is not particularly inviting to the reader.

The introduction states the main topic, but does not adequately preview the structure of the paper nor is it particularly inviting to the reader.

There is no clear introduction of the main topic or structure of the paper.

Transitions (Organization) A variety of thoughtful transitions are used. They clearly show how ideas are connected.

Transitions clearly show how ideas are connected, but there is little variety.

Some transitions work well; but connections between other ideas are fuzzy.

The transitions between ideas are unclear or non-existent.

Adding Personality (Voice)

The writer seems to be writing from knowledge or experience. The author has taken the ideas and made them "his own."

The writer seems to be drawing on knowledge or experience, but there is some lack of ownership of the topic.

The writer relates some of his own knowledge or experience, but it adds nothing to the discussion of the topic.

The writer has not tried to transform the information in a personal way. The ideas and the way they are expressed seem to belong to someone else.

Recognition of Reader (Voice)

The reader's questions are anticipated and answered thoroughly and completely.

The reader's questions are anticipated and answered to some extent.

The reader is left with one or two questions. More information is needed to "fill in the blanks".

The reader is left with several questions.

Word Choice Writer uses vivid words and phrases that linger or draw pictures in the reader's mind, and the choice and placement of the words seems accurate, natural and not forced.

Writer uses vivid words and phrases that linger or draw pictures in the reader's mind, but occasionally the words are used inaccurately or seem overdone.

Writer uses words that communicate clearly, but the writing lacks variety, punch or flair.

Writer uses a limited vocabulary that does not communicate strongly or capture the reader's interest. Jargon or clichés may be present and detract from the meaning.

Support for Topic (Content)

Relevant, telling, quality details give the reader important information that goes beyond the obvious or predictable.

Supporting details and information are relevant, but one key issue or portion of the storyline is unsupported.

Supporting details and information are relevant, but several key issues or portions of the storyline are unsupported.

Supporting details and information are typically unclear or not related to the topic.

Focus on Topic (Content) There is one clear, well-focused topic. Main idea stands out and is supported by detailed information.

Main idea is clear but the supporting information is general.

Main idea is somewhat clear but there is a need for more supporting information.

The main idea is not clear. There is a seemingly random collection of information.

Sentence Structure (Sentence Fluency)

All sentences are well-constructed with varied structure.

Most sentences are well-constructed with varied structure.

Most sentences are well-constructed but have a similar structure.

Sentences lack structure and appear incomplete or rambling.

Conclusion (Organization) The conclusion is strong and leaves the reader with a feeling that they understand what the writer is "getting at."

The conclusion is recognizable and ties up almost all the loose ends.

The conclusion is recognizable, but does not tie up several loose ends.

There is no clear conclusion, the paper just ends.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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Grammar & Spelling (Conventions)

Writer makes no errors in grammar or spelling that distracts the reader from the content.

Writer makes 1-2 errors in grammar or spelling that distract the reader from the content.

Writer makes 3-4 errors in grammar or spelling that distract the reader from the content.

Writer makes more than 4 errors in grammar or spelling that distracts the reader from the content.

The Climb

I have this fear. It causes my legs to shake. I break out in a cold sweat. I start jabbering to anyone who is nearby. As thoughts of certain death run through my mind, the world appears a precious, treasured place. I imagine my own funeral, and then shrink back at the implications of where my thoughts are taking me. My stomach feels strange. My palms are clammy.

I am terrified of heights.

Of course, it’s not really a fear of being in a high place. Rather, it is the view of a long way to fall, of rocks far below me and no firm wall between me and the edge. My sense of security is screamingly absent. There are no guardrails, flimsy though I picture them, or other safety devices. I can rely only on my own surefootedness—or lack thereof.

Despite my fear, two summers ago I somehow found myself climbing to a high place, while quaking inside and out. Most of our high school had come along on a day trip to the Boquerón, a gorgeous, lush spot in the foothills of Peru. Its prime attraction is the main waterfall, about 100 feet high, that thunders into a crystal clear pool feeding the Aguaytia River. All around the pool and on down to the rushing river are boulders large and small. The beach is strewn with rocks. On both sides of the fall, the jungle stretches to meet it, rising parallel to it on a gentler slope.

After eating our sack lunches within sight and sound of the fall, many of us wanted to make the climb to an area above it. We knew others had done so on previous trips. A few guys went first to make sure they were on the right path. But after they left, my group of seven decided to go ahead without waiting for them to return. I suspected we were going the wrong way, but I kept silent, figuring that the others knew better. We went along the base of the hill until we reached the climb. It stopped me in my tracks.

The climb ascended steeply above us. Along the right edge the jungle hugged the rocks; passage through its trees did not look feasible. The majority of my view was filled with rocks. Looming high to the sky, the boulders rose in a tiered manner. Peering back down toward the river, I saw a steep slope of rocks all the way to the water. All I could think about was how far it would be to fall.

My tense thoughts were interrupted by the realization that my friends were already beginning to climb! My anxiety increased as I watched them.

Do I turn back? My whole being shouted, “Yes!” Will I regret it later? I really want to get to the top, but…


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I voiced my uncertainties to my friends. They dismissed my fears and encouraged me to stick it out. Questioning my own sanity, I decided at least to attempt the climb.

I chose a path that seemed easiest. My friend Tom was ahead of me. Then, suddenly, he slipped and slid backward about 10 feet! I watched, paralyzed, until he stopped himself and assured us he was all right. My heart was hammering.

Now those who had tried the other way came back; it had not worked. Consoling myself that my friend Seth would be right behind me, I shakily began the ascent. The “path” led up a narrow area between boulders. In it, we reached a place where there just were no good handholds. Seth braced my foot, and those above sent down words of encouragement. I was soon past the first challenge safely, but not feeling much better about the rest of the climb.

The difficulties only increased from that point on, with scary spot after scary spot. Though I knew I should not look down, I could not always ignore the long drop to the boulders below. My breathing sped up, but my heart pounded even faster, growing loud in my ears.

My friends kept right on climbing. But they did not forget me. Someone was always behind me to help hold my feet steady when necessary, and someone else was always ahead to offer a hand up. I trusted them more than myself; I knew my feet could easily slip. With friends supporting me by words and actions, I slowly gained ground.

Finally we came to the worst section yet. To me the slope looked very close to vertical. The slight handholds were few and far between. Being short, I knew the stretches would be difficult enough in normal conditions. In my current panic, it would be much worse. The alternative was to go back down. Which was more difficult? I didn't want to go either way, but obviously I had to go somewhere.

The trouble was, we were not getting any nearer to the falls. By now, we realized that this route was not the way most frequented! But knowing this did not get me any closer to safety.

Since getting up this next part was next to impossible, and waiting for a rescue helicopter was not an option, with fear and trembling I decided to go down, but not by myself. Melody agreed to go with me, earning my eternal gratitude. She paused to pray for safety; I did not trust my voice enough to pray aloud.

Now, with our backs to the rocks, the drop was continually in our line of vision. It seemed even steeper than before. The song “Angels Watching Over Me” ran through my head as we began, Melody going first. I kept up a steady stream of chatter, my trembling voice betraying my fear.

One of the first tough places we came to gave us trouble. Cautiously stretching one foot down, Melody could not reach the bottom of the boulder. A slip would mean an extremely long drop. So we tried a different route where a fall would be shorter. It was somewhat wet and would entail a short slide to reach the bottom.

Melody made it safely. I hesitated, unsure of my footing, and picturing myself at the bottom of the cliff, bones broken and pain wracking my body, if I still lived.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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“You can do it! I'm right here,” Melody called. She waited patiently, not pressuring me to hurry.

Inching carefully to the edge, I could see in the corner of my eye the boulders and river far below. As I started down the rock, my foot slipped! My heart jumped into my throat as the terror I had held just under the surface swept over me.

I’m gonna fall! I inwardly shrieked.

It had been only a small slip, however; I was not in midair! I took a few calming breaths, and my heart repositioned itself where it belonged.

With no further mishaps, we came eventually to the last troublesome spot, the stretch between two boulders that had given me problems on the way up. Thankfully, the rest of our friends had given up climbing to the top and had now caught up to us. There were two possible descents from here. One way included a short jump down. I decided to check out the other way. Seth was working his way down this second route when he fell a few feet and bruised himself! I again looked over the first option.

Do I want to jump? There’s a big drop if I jump wrong or don’t stop on the ledge! But the other way…!

I knew if I was to get down, it would have to be Seth’s way. He was willing to help me however he could. I inspected the “path” he had taken. There was some low vegetation, matted down and sloping slightly toward the edge. Then came a drop down to a narrow inlet between rocks. That was not so bad. The hitch lay in the fact that there was no handholds or footholds, and my short legs would not reach to the rocks.

“Uh, I don’t know about this. I don’t like the looks of it!” I said, my voice quavering.

“You can make it, Amy! I'm right here. I won’t let you fall,” Seth promised.

Slowly, painstakingly, I backed over the vegetation.

“I’m coming down,” I warned, my voice unsteady.

“I’m ready,” answered Seth. “I got you.”

His assurances gave me the strength to go on. I trusted him implicitly. Flattening myself onto my belly, I edged my feet into midair. Seth held them tightly and slowly lowered me, guiding my feel to a firm place as I let my body slide over the leaves, twigs, and rock. When my feet made contact with the solid rock, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I could feel the fear draining out of me.

My arms and legs were scratched up; I was dirty and sweaty. But none of it mattered. I was at the bottom!

“Yaaaaaaahhhh!” I yelled. I never felt so alive, and so thankful for that life.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

After reading The Climb, a sample personal narrative written by a grade 12, use the rubric provided to give your feedback.

At your table discuss the story and what changes you think should be made to this narrative to make it a better paper.

Planning space for your Personal Narrative:

What happened?______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

So what? How did the event impact you?

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Now what? How have you changed? What have you learned?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Facts and Emotion

Tell it as it happened

show, don’t tell

First Person POV

Unit One Name:___________________________________________

2014

Write your personal narrative. It should be true, chronological, engaging, and show how one significant event impacted your life. Sample topics: riding a bike, getting a new sibling, finding a pet, getting lost, having a broken heart, moving, winning, ...basically anything that personally happened to you. You can use fictitious names to protect identity! Your completed personal narrative will be graded using the rubric that you reviewed with The Climb. Let’s put 100 marks on this piece.

Wordle ResponseBased on the Wordle Image, created for James Joyce A Little Cloud what are your predictions about the story you are going to read? What do you think this story is about? What assumptions or preconceived notions do you have about A Little Cloud?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Character Analysis

Title: A Little Cloud Author: James Joyce

EIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him Godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.


Unit One Name:___________________________________________

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As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures-- on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.

When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.

He had never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.

He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time. drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some


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money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner:

"Half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly. "Where's my considering cap?"

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old--thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried weighing his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. "Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse." ... "wistful sadness pervades these poems." ... "The Celtic note." It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses The bar


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seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.

"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same Spoils the flavour.... Here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me--eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top-- what?"

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again.

"It pulls you down," be said, "Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when."

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.

"You don't know what's good for you, my boy," said Ignatius Gallaher. "I drink mine neat."

"I drink very little as a rule," said Little Chandler modestly. "An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all."

"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance."

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

"I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Hara seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?"

"Nothing, said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs."

"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?"

"Yes; he's in the Land Commission."


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"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor O'Hara! Boose, I suppose?"

"Other things, too," said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

"Tommy," he said, "I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?"

"I've been to the Isle of Man," said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That'd do you good."

"Have you seen Paris?"

"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little."

"And is it really so beautiful as they say?" asked Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.

"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is beautiful.... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...."

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again.

"I've been to the Moulin Rouge," Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, "and I've been to all the Bohemian cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy."

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.


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"Everything in Paris is gay," said Ignatius Gallaher. "They believe in enjoying life--and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man."

Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.

"Tell me," he said, "is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they say?"

Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.

"Every place is immoral," he said. "Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?"

"I've heard of them," said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his had.

"Ah," he said, "you may say what you like. There's no woman like the Parisienne--for style, for go."

"Then it is an immoral city," said Little Chandler, with timid insistence--"I mean, compared with London or Dublin?"

"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He'd open your eye.... I say, Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up."

"No, really...."

"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?"

"Well... all right."

"Francois, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?"

Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.

"I'll tell you my opinion," said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, "it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases--what am I saying?--I've known them: cases of... immorality...."


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Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess--a story which he knew to be true. Little Chandler as astonished.

"Ah, well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "here we are in old jog- along Dublin where nothing is known of such things."

"How dull you must find it," said Little Chandler, "after all the other places you've seen!"

Well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature.... But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?"

Little Chandler blushed and smiled.

"Yes," he said. "I was married last May twelve months."

"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes," said Ignatius Gallaher. "I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at the time."

He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.

"Well, Tommy," he said, "I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?"

"I know that," said Little Chandler.

"Any youngsters?" said Ignatius Gallaher.

Little Chandler blushed again.

"We have one child," he said.

"Son or daughter?"

"A little boy."


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Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.

"Bravo," he said, "I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy."

Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.

"I hope you'll spend an evening with us," he said, "before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and----"

"Thanks awfully, old chap," said Ignatius Gallaher, "I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night."

"Tonight, perhaps...?"

"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that..."

"O, in that case..."

"But who knows?" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. "Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a pleasure deferred."

"Very well," said Little Chandler, "the next time you come we must have an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's agreed," said Ignatius Gallaher. "Next year if I come, parole d'honneur."

"And to clinch the bargain," said Little Chandler, "we'll just have one more now."

Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked a it.

"Is it to be the last?" he said. "Because you know, I have an a.p."

"O, yes, positively," said Little Chandler.

"Very well, then," said Ignatius Gallaher, "let us have another one as a deoc an doruis--that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe."

Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to


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Gallaher's stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising Ireland by his visit.

The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.

"Who knows?" he said, as they lifted their glasses. "When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher."

Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:

"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack --if I ever do."

"Some day you will," said Little Chandler calmly.

Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.

"You think so?" he said.

"You'll put your head in the sack," repeated Little Chandler stoutly, "like everyone else if you can find the girl."

He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:

"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do for me."

Little Chandler shook his head.

"Why, man alive," said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, "do you know what it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds--what am I saying?--thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that'd only be too glad.... You wait a while my boy. See if I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait."


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He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:

"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know."

He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.

"Must get a bit stale, I should think," he said.

Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said:

"Here. Don't waken him."

A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.

Hm!...

He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?


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He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded hi of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.

A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book:

Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,

Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,

Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb

And scatter flowers on tbe dust I love.

He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood....

The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza:

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once...

It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted:

"Stop!"

The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died!...


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The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.

"What is it? What is it?" she cried.

The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing.

"It's nothing, Annie ... it's nothing.... He began to cry..."

She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.

"What have you done to him?" she cried, glaring into his face.

Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:

"It's nothing.... He ... he began to cry.... I couldn't ... I didn't do anything.... What?"

Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:

"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?... There now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!... There now!"

Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.

[The end]

Complete a Descriptor Chart for each of the main characters.

Descriptor/Word Quote (s) from the story used to justify my word choice


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Descriptor/Word Quote (s) from the story used to justify my word choice


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Decide which character you want to analyze; Little Chandler or Ignatius Gallaher. Using the descriptors listed on the previous page, complete the graphic organizer below. Use a thesaurus to add synonyms for each character trait. You will use these words in your character paper to avoid repetition.


Character’s name:

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Sample Character Analysis Introductory Paragraphs

Sample One

In the invigorating short story ‘A little cloud’ James Joyce tells the story of two old friends who, after many years apart, finally meet to trade stories. One of the


Character Trait________________________

Synonyms

Character Trait:____________________

Synonyms

Character Trait:_______________

Synonyms

Introductory Paragraph complete with a Thesis Statement draft...

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characters, Chandler, expresses himself as a melancholy man of routine, contrasted by his friend Gallaher’s rowdy, thrill seeking life in the press. Chandler’s introverted composition and methodical execution of everyday life reveals his inner self-suppressing pessimism.

Sample Two

In James Joyce’s evocative yet peculiar short story, “ A Little Cloud”, one of the main characters is named Chandler. He decides to meet up with an old friend for drinks. They began to discuss their achievements and dreams, slowly discovering how much they have grown apart. While they talk about life, it becomes quite obvious that Chandler’s meticulous appearance is undermined by his insecure thoughts and obsession with regret.

Your introductory paragraph must include:

The title

The author

An adjective for the short story

A general description of the plot

Three character traits that you will present in detail in the three body paragraphs

Look at the two samples above and label each of the requirements. Use the essay planner to do just that; plan.

Your final draft should be typed. If should include an introductory paragraph, three body paragraphs and a conclusion. Each of the three body paragraphs must include two short quotations that justify your traits. Any paper with a score less than 75% will be returned with suggestions for improvement. This is a teaching assignments and I will use it to show you how to write a character analysis.

Character Analysis Planner


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___________________________________________________

(title)

Introduction (author, title, adjective, general impression, thesis statement, three areas to be explored …)

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Paragraph One (topic sentence, supporting details, two integrated quotations, ________________________________________________ …remember transition)

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Paragraph Two (topic sentence, supporting details, two integrated quotations, _________________________________________________ …remember transition)

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Paragraph Three (topic sentence, supporting details, two integrated quotations, ____________________________________…remember transition)

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Conclusion (summary of what you have written, including a re-statement of your thesis)

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Sample evaluation card for the character analysis

Character Analysis by Descriptive FeedbackDescriptor Words and Justification /varies

Graphic Organizer/ Synonyms /45

Use of essay planner /25

Introduction complete with thesis /20

Paragraph One T/S Integrated Quotes Transition /20

Paragraph Two T/S Integrated Quotes Transition /20

Paragraph Three T/S Integrated Quotes Transition /20


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Conclusion /20

Grand Total /170 plus

Assessment Grid

Biographical Writing

QuestionsresponsesFinalized Biography

202060

Descriptive Writing

Three Days to See Response 50

Persuasive Writing Greatest InventionControversial Issue

4040

Composition Friday

To be completed every Friday; 24 marks for each entry. Lower marks will be replaced, not averaged.

Personal Narrative The Climb; Table DiscussionPersonal Narrative

15100

Character Analysis Wordle responseCharacter Charts 5 marks per entry up to a completed pageGraphic OrganizerUse of essay plannerFinal Character Analysis

20_______

4525

100

Grand Total /505 plus compositions


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and chart entries


Documents

Unit One Name…€¦ · Web viewUnit One Name: ... Avoid questions that will solicit one word responses and or short phrases; ... Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him