Breathe

By Alessandra G.L. Gonzales

"The trick is to keep breathing." He looked at me and smiled with his blue eyes and crooked
teeth. I would see his face and sing his favorite Garbage song in my head long after he
disappeared into the gale of people catching flights to who-knows-where.
He would call as soon as he arrived home in Austria to tell me the flight was too long and he
wished I had suffered with him. It's not fair that I am the only one with a backache and sore
ass, jamdida! He was laughing but his voice sounded sad. I could not speak without hearing
my voice crack. Froggy, he whispered, I am paying a lot of money just to listen to you snivel,
you know what that means?
I knew, yet, I would not follow him.
He would write again, snail mail several times, e-mail often. He would tell me about his
mother and send me her regards. He would talk to me as if we were two old people sitting
together in a park bench remembering old times and sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. But
the handwritten letters would eventually stop arriving in my mailbox in the office. The e-mail
would trickle to once a month or two. His work at the university was taking up all his time
now, his last e-mail said.
Dearest Katherine, I have booked my flight. You will fetch me from the airport, yes? Only
this, no other favors. We shall leave all else to fate. Wish me gluckliche Reise! Flight details
later. Kisses and stuff, Isaak.
Isaak. Cancel trip. I cannot take a leave from work. I will be on line again later. Let's chat? K.
P.S. Please tell your Mama that I mailed the literature on acupuncture this morning.
K. Re: Acupuncture booklet; Mama says Danke! Re: Your suggestion about my trip; I say,
Shut up! Re: Your leave; I think this is just an excuse and you are growing feathers. Re: Chat;
I will contact you through your handy instead. 9 p.m. your time. Ok? Auf wiedersehen, Isaak.
Dear I., I'm glad you called. This chicken suit is suffocating me! Thanks for helping me peel
it off. You are right. We cannot stay in the ether forever. To fate. Much affection, K.
As I sit in the test kitchen waiting for my supervisor to arrive with the dressed chicken we are
going to cook this morning, I stare at the sparkling tiles of the kitchen counter I have just
scrubbed clean. The smell of scouring powder and ammonia assaults my senses. My hands
hurt. These days, I try to concentrate on these raw hands and nothing else.
Mrs. Vera Perez must have bumped into Mrs. Silva in the hallway again. Small talk always
keeps her from arriving on time to work in the test kitchen. Today, we are going to cook
Oregano Chicken in Lemon Butter Sauce. I have already cooked this dish at home once. This
is my own recipe.
On the day he arrived, I cooked dinner and introduced him to my family. He was nervous.
Sweat maps crept up and around the armpits and back of his black shirt.
My mother said two sentences to him in halting English, unsmiling. You do not look like
your picture. Too tall in person. You have good, safe trip back to Europe.
My younger sister was excited to meet him finally after talking to him online thrice and
reading some of his funny e-mails to me. She asked him about his work, his family and his
shitzu, Ingrid. My older sister nodded to him once at their introduction and spoke only to my
grandfather and mother at the end of dinner before taking her leave, ignoring him pointedly.
Qing si bo an le to tsia! my grandfather cursed, looking at him scornfully. He turned to me
and said the chicken tasted like old shoes even though he had merely jabbed a plump leg with
his fork and not taken a bite of it. He asked the maid to fry him two eggs instead. We ate in
silence.
He and I held hands under the table. My sisters and my mother chewed and swallowed
without pause. The gravelly sound of my grandfather's snorting and coughing punctuated the
air. Only the chicken's neck and one wing were left on the oval serving plate at the end of the
meal but no one verbally contradicted my grandfather's strong displeasure with my cooking.
On his bed in the hotel, we lay together like pretzels. I watched him sleep in the dark and
learned the rise and fall of his chest with my open palm spread like a fan across it. I knew
then that his eight days with me were all we would ever have. He spoke quietly in German
whenever I said something about what would happen to us at the end of his visit. I did not
understand his words, but I understood him. And I quickly moved on to more pleasant things.
We took snapshots of ourselves. Our hands. His navel. My cleavage. His eyes, mine. Our
feet. Him, stepping out of the shower. Me, shaving my legs with his mint shaving cream.
Him, sitting next to Ronald McDonald. Me, on Ronald's lap. Us and Taal Volcano's jagged
mouth gaping behind us. Him, waving in front of the caged tigers. Me, haggling with the
woman selling pineapples. Us, kissing and making faces in a Foto Me booth.
At the Chinese restaurant along Wilson Street, above the din of voices shouting orders,
spoons and forks clanging against thick plates, he asked me to fly home with him and I
pretended not to hear him. I waved to a waitress to refill the squat teapot although it was still
half full. You like the steamed dumpling? I asked, popping one into my mouth with two
wooden chopsticks. He pushed away my hair from my face and said, Yes, it is delicious. But
I fear it has something in it that makes people deaf? He poked my ear with the fat end of his
chopsticks and grinned. Or did you forget to clean your ears, jamdida?
Every night at seven-thirty, I would leave him at 7-11 convenience store down the block from
the apartment compound where my family lives, and go home to light joss sticks and pray at
my grandmother and father's alter. I would ask both of them for guidance, but each night, the
dead would keep their silence, I would leave again at eight to pick him up and we would take
a cab back to his hotel.
You have defied your grandfather now. Why would coming with me be different, he asked. I
held him in my arms as we sat on the bed facing each other. I could not tell him that I loved
my family more than I loved him.
We packed his things together. Dirty socks, boxers, shirts and pants, and a few books.
He bought a Lonely Planet travel guide to the Philippines. Learn to swim next time we can go
to Boracay, he said. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself for half an hour and wasted a
roll of toilet paper. He went down to the hotel lobby to smoke a pack of cigarettes he had kept
sealed since his arrival.
I had given him my Kafka because he only had the original and wanted to read the short
stories in English. I had also given him my Neruda because he had never heard of him until I
read him the love poems. How could he know how I feel for you?! he screamed and lifted me
from the frayed carpet and swung me around. He tripped, we fell to the floor and made love
for the last time.
On some nights, I see him online but he does not see me. I am on invisible mode because I do
not know what to say to him. I imagine him meeting someone new, someone with blue eyes
like him. Perhaps she lives in the same town and will take the bus to meet him a week after
they bump into each other on the Net. Perhaps she will sit in his room and her eyes will
search his shelf of books and find Neruda, and she will ask him to read out aloud a poem or
two in Spanish. He will take her hand and lead her to the window.
K., The weather is getting colder. Brrr! Even the ducks are wearing knits and fur-lined boots
(made in the Philippines, I am sure!) Myself, I wear two shirts and a jacket, and clench my
teeth when I go outside. I am trying to translate Neruda’s “Tonight I Can Write The Saddest
Lines” into German. I think I cannot do it. Arghh. A student has come for consultation. I shall
write again later. Bye, Isaak the Icicle.
I hope someday you will change your mind, he said. I did not answer as I pulled the knob of
the door leading to his hotel room. The door hinge was loose, the wooden frame warped, and
it was hard to close the door properly. Just leave it, he said. He enveloped my hand with his
and we walked down the dimly lit hallway.
At the airport amidst strangers who were sending off their own people with endless goodbyes
and take cares, my tears turned his light blue shirt dark and wet at the chest. I am not dead
yet, please hush, he said. But I would not and my nose clogged and I could not breathe
through it. His long fingers weaved through my short hair and ruffled it. Then he picked up
his luggage and left.
It is ten to eleven. Mrs. Vera Perez is very late, the morning almost gone. The hours tumble
into the next, the days dissolve into other days. I am not sure what day it is today. Only that
we have to cook my chicken and prepare for the next cooking demonstration at the mall in
North EDSA. Tomorrow, we test Lasagna Verde with Béchamel Sauce. The day after that,
Pork Barbecue in Hoisin Sauce.
I stick my finger into the bowl of melted butter and stir the liquid round and round. The
yellow liquid swirls and spills out of the glass bowl. I inhale and exhale heavily, stirring
faster and faster.
Ten months and so many days after, and still, I find it difficult.
I reach for the wet sponge to scrub the tiles once more.
Touchmove
By Peter Mayshle

I am playing chess with Roman when I tell him the story of the chick.

He looks up from the board. The real thing? he asks. He thinks his kuya is teasing him again.
The real thing, yes.

Go on, Roman says, breathing over my queen.

This is what I tell him.

One night in August, when typhoon What’s-Her-Name was beating down all over the city,
when no customer had come knocking yet and we were all just sitting around with our balls
hanging out, she came. She arrived quietly; no rumble of thunder, no flash of lightning
marked her entrance. None of us guys would’ve realized she was there if not for the gasp that
came from the old f*g**t Ruby. We all turned to the doorway and there she was, wet and
shining from the rain. She was wearing a red blouse and skirt and clutching her shoes to her
chest. She murmured something to Ruby and then turned to us. We never get any woman
customers in the place, you know, so we straightened ourselves up as we had been taught and
puffed our chests out and smiled broadly than necessary. Though she was soaked and maybe
even freezing from the cold, only her eyes seemed to quiver as she stared at each one of us.
Eventually her gaze rested on me. Her eyes traveled down and settled for a moment below
my waist. I felt myself twitch. Then she raised her arm and pointed at me. I felt as if I had
won in the races, leaving all the other stallions behind.

I quickly made my way up the stairs at the back. When I reached the top, I turned around to
wait for her. She was still holding her shoes close to her chest when she appeared at the
landing.

“Can you lend me a towel?” she said. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and she had this habit of
flicking her tongue out to wet her lips before she spoke. I got her a fresh, warm towel from
one of the rooms and led her to the bathroom. When I heard water running, I dashed off to
my room to prepare.

In the small room where I usually work – a cubicle, you know – I patted the white sheet of
the single bed and turned over the pillow. On the short side table, below the red bulb sticking
out of the wall, I arranged the tiny bottles of oil, lotion and powder neatly in a line. I rubbed
my hands together and put the air conditioner on low cool.

When I went back to fetch her, she was leaning against the bathroom door. She was tall –
taller than me, Roman – and maybe even older. She had straight black hair that rested on her
bony shoulders. Her nose was small and upturned so there was a small wrinkle just below
where her eyebrows met. Her eyes were round and bright and glassy, like the opening of a
gin bottle. The way her face was put together you’d think she was on the verge of singing or
spitting. She had covered her breasts and her stomach with the towel but her bush, moist and
glistening, was showing.
“Your towel is too small,” she said when she saw staring.

I stammered, “I could get you another one.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, walking past me. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your other clients.”

“There are no other clients.”

“Oh?” she said. “Slow night.”

She was suddenly so confident, so sure of herself. Minutes ago, she moved like a shy,
unwelcome guest; now she walked as if she owned the place. She went to the room I had set
up and waited for me to enter before she locked the door. For a moment I felt I was the
customer.

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked back.

“For one thousand pesos, everything.” And she dropped her towel, just like that. She
hurriedly stretched herself out face down on the low bed. In the glow of the red bulb, she
looked like she was brushed with honey. I picked up her towel from the floor and spread it on
her back. Then I got another towel and spread it across her ass.

How did her ass look? Roman says.

I don’t know, I say, irritated. Like huge balls of sago, I guess.

Hmmm, Roman says, wetting his lips.

So I spread the towel across her ass made of sago.

“Undress,” she said.

I thought I heard her wrong.

“What?”

She turned on her elbow to face me.

“Take your clothes off.”

With everything that had happened so far, I had forgotten to remove my clothes. If she had
been one of those faggots that often visited the place, I would’ve entered the room wearing
only my briefs, you know. I realized that she was, after all, a customer, and should be given
the same treatment, too. Hurriedly I stripped off my shirt and maong.

“Don’t forget to remove your underwear.”

I blinked at her. “Why?”

“So I wouldn’t feel so naked.”

After a thought, I pulled my briefs down. When she saw my cock erect, I couldn’t hide an
embarrassed smile.

Roman giggles. Horny prick, he says.

“That’s okay,” she said. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Pointing at my cock, I asked, “Is this what made you pick me over the others?”

She frowned, not understanding.

“I saw you staring at it downstairs.”

Her forehead relaxed. “I was looking at your hands. They seem – capable.” And with a quick
movement she was lying face down again.

Though it was cold in the room, the lotion felt very warm in my hands.

Burning, you know, I tell Roman.

Like putting them over hot coals, he says, eyes wide.

So I started working on her. The first woman customer to walk into our place and I was
working on her, Roman. I couldn’t stop shaking, you know – like I was born again, you
know. Her smooth, creamy flesh under my hands was the most welcome sensation. I reached
for her feet and held them to my chest. With my thumbs, I gently pressed the soft cartilage
behind her knee. Using the ball of my palm, I rubbed the length of her thighs. And her ass,
Roman – no, they were not made of sago; they were made of leche plan, the kind Lola used
to make for us. I squirted lotion onto her back, and using my forearm I spread the lotion like a
knife over soft bread. She was sighing and squirming with delight all the time, but there were
moments I couldn’t figure out, when I thought she was crying into the pillow.

After about an hour of working her backside, I said, “Turn over,” and I noticed she jerked her
head slightly, as if I had just woken her from sleep. She was hesitating, maybe thinking about
whether to obey me or not, and then finally she turned to lie on her back. What I saw made
me stop breathing.

You should have seen her, Roman. I didn’t see it before because she had been laying face
down all the time and before that – outside my room – she had her towel around her, you
know. Her stomach had cuts all over; some of them were fresh and clotting. The skin above
her bush was marked with what looked like a dozen cigarette burns. One of her breasts had a
dark bruise the color of purple. It was a terrible sight; I wanted to get out of there.
“Go on,” she said. “Please.”

What else could I have done, Roman? My feet were telling me to run away, but I was fixed to
that spot next to her. I did the only thing I could do; I used my hands. I massaged her thighs. I
kneaded her stomach. I pressed the areas around her breasts, careful not to hurt her, if that
was any more possible. When I finished, she held my hands and, gazing at them as if they
were made of precious stone, she said, “Your hands, they were beautiful.”

“I never thought of them that way,” I said. This was true; I thought my hands belonged to a
monster. My fingers are long and slender but they are attached to hands that have grown
coarse from only five months of massaging hard muscles. My palms are dark with deep lines.
The backs of my hands are darker with hair sprouting like caterpillar bristles. A woman’s
fingers welded to manly hands, they’re not beautiful at all.

And then she did something that, even now, I can’t really put out of my mind. She took my
ugly hands and placed one on her p*ssy and one on her breast with the purple bruise.

This is starting to get exciting, Roman says, leaning forward over the board. Then what
happened?

Nothing, I tell him. I held her like that for a few minutes and that was it. She put on my shirt
and maong, took her wet clothes from the bathroom and left the place. Disappeared in the
rain again, you know.

Roman frowns. He stares at me for a few seconds, wondering if I’m playing a joke on him
again. You’re an idiot; he says finally and turns his attention back to the chessboard. After a
moment he says, Check! – threatening my king, but clearly trying to capture my queen.

And I see that Roman doesn’t understand. As I rescue my queen from his dogged pursuit, I
see that he is just a kid, untaught in the ploys of the heart.
LITERARY DEVICES
 
Literary devices are any unvarying techniques utilized by the writer in a narrative to
convey his or her message to the audience and to develop the story in order to make it more
meaningful, complex, or interesting.
 
   Although there are hundreds of literary techniques have been created, some of the most
common ones are:
 

1. Allegory
A literary device in which abstract ideas and principles are described in terms of characters,
figures, and events. The objective of its use is to teach some kind of a moral lesson. (Allegory
– LiteraryDevice, 2013)

2. Allusion
A brief and indirect reference to a person, place, thing or idea of historical, cultural, literary
or political significance. (Allusion – LiteraryDevice, 2013)

3. Conflict
Any clash of wills or ideas between two opposing forces. Conflict provides interest, suspense,
and tension. At least one of the opposing forces is customarily a person. This person, usually
the protagonist, may be involved in conflicts of four different kinds:
1. A struggle against nature (man vs. nature)
2. A struggle against another person, usually the antagonist (man vs. man)
3. A struggle against society (man vs. society)
4. A struggle for mastery by two elements within the person (man vs. himself) (Harmon and
Holman, 2008)

4. Deus ex machina
Refers to the circumstance where an implausible concept or a divine character is introduced
into a storyline to resolve its conflict and procure an interesting outcome. (Deus ex machina –
LiteraryDevice, 2013)

5. Epiphany
That moment in the story where a character achieves realization, awareness, or a feeling of
knowledge, after which events are seen through the prism of this new light in the story.
(Epiphany – LiteraryDevice, 2013)

6. Flashback
Also called analepsis, it is an occurrence in which a character remembers an earlier event that
happened before the current point of the story. (Flashback – LiteraryDevice, 2013)

7. Flash forward
A literary device in which the plot goes ahead of time; meaning a scene that interrupts and
takes the narrative forward in time from the current time in the story. (Flash forward –
LiteraryDevice, 2013)
8. Foreshadowing
A literary device in which a writer gives an advance hint of what is to come later in the story.
It often appears at the beginning of a story, or a chapter, and helps the reader develop
expectations about the coming events in a story. (Foreshadowing – LiteraryDevice, 2013)

9. Frame story
A literary technique that sometimes serves as a companion piece to a story within a story,
whereby an introductory or main narrative is presented, at least in part, for the purpose of
setting the stage either for a more emphasized second narrative or for a set of shorter stories.
(Frame story – Wikipedia, 2020)

10. In medias res

A Latin phrase which means “in the middle of things”. It is a literary and artistic narrative
technique where the relating of a story begins at the midpoint, rather than at the beginning,
establishing setting, character, and conflict via flashback or expository conversations relating
the pertinent past. (In medias res – Definition.net, 2020)

12. Irony
As a literary device, irony is a contrast or incongruity between expectations for a situation
and what is reality. This can be a difference between the surface meaning of something that is
said and the underlying meaning. It can also be a difference between what might be expected
to happen and what actually occurs. The definition of irony can further be divided into three
main types: verbal, dramatic, and situational. Verbal irony takes place when the speaker says
something in sharp contrast to his or her actual meaning. The speaker often makes a
statement that seems very direct, yet indicates that the opposite is in fact true, or what the
speaker really means. Situational irony consists of a situation in which the outcome is very
different from what was expected. Dramatic irony occurs when the audience has more
information than one or more characters in a work of literature. (Irony – LiteraryDevice,
2020)

13. Juxtaposition
A literary device wherein the author places a person, concept, place, idea or theme parallel to
another. The purpose of juxtaposing two directly/indirectly related entities close together in
literature is to highlight the contrast between the two and compare them. This literary device
is usually used for etching out a character in detail, creating suspense or lending a rhetorical
effect. (Juxtaposition – LiteraryDevice, 2020)

14. Motif
An object or idea that repeats itself throughout a literary work. In a literary work, a motif can
be seen as an image, sound, action, or other figure that has a symbolic significance, and
contributes toward the development of a theme. (Motif – LiteraryDevice, 2020)

15. Parallelism
The use of components in a sentence that are grammatically the same; or similar in their
construction, sound, meaning, or meter. (Parallelism – LiteraryDevice, 2020)
16. Stream of consciousness
A technique where the author writes down their thoughts as fast as they come, typically to
create an interior monologue, characterized by leaps in syntax and punctuation that trace a
character’s fragmentary thoughts and sensory feelings. (Stream of consciousness –
Quizzister, 2020)

17. Symbolism
An object representing another, to give an entirely different meaning that is much deeper and
more significant. Sometimes, however, an action, an event or a word spoken by someone may
have a symbolic value. Symbols do shift their meanings depending on the context they are
used in. “A chain,” for example, may stand for “union” as well as “imprisonment”. Thus,
symbolic meaning of an object or an action is understood by when, where, and how it is used.
It also depends on who reads the work. (Symbolism – Literary Device, 2020).

The Basic Elements of Fiction

Analyzing the elements of fiction is just like asking the journalist five questions: what? who?
why? where? and how?
The plot is the what? element of a story. The structures of a plot are generally specified as (1)
exposition, (2) rising action, (3) climax, (4) falling action, and (5) denouement or conclusion
or resolution.
Of course, plots cannot happen in isolation from characters, the who? element of a story. Not
only are there major and minor characters to consider, we need to note whether the various
characters are a protagonist/antihero or an antagonist, static or dynamic, stock character or
round character, foil or archetype.
The interweaving of plot and character influences in large part the theme of a work, the why?
of the story. It is the generalized meaning or the central and unifying idea or concept of the
story.
A theme is NOT the subject or “moral” of the story.
The setting is the where? element of the story. It is the place where the story actually
happens. But the setting is also the when? element: time of day, time of year, time period or
year; Setting is also the atmosphere: which refers to the mood or feeling a writer conveys to a
reader through the description of a setting. Simply put, the setting is the time, place, and
atmosphere of the story.
The final question is, how? relates to an author’s style. Style refers to the particular or unique
ways in which an author manages and handles words. It includes diction (word choice),
syntax (word order, sentence type, and length), point of view (the narrator’s perspective of
the story), the use of vivid and descriptive passages (imagery), the balance between narration
and dialogue (the conversation between two or more characters) and other aspects of the
narrative (literary devices and techniques) employed by the author to create fictional worlds.
Hopefully, the reader will see that the five basic elements of fiction (plot, character, theme,
setting, and style) are interconnected and fundamentally interdependent. A literary work must
really be read as a whole, rather than analyzed in segments or parts.
The Use of Force
From Life Along the Passaic River (1938)
by William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams (September 17, 1883 – March 4, 1963) was an American poet,
author, and physician and a prominent figure in modernism and imagism. Williams had a
long career as a doctor, practicing both pediatrics and general medicine in addition to writing.
He was connected to Passaic General Hospital, where from 1924 until his passing he was in
charge of pediatrics. Williams was honored by the hospital, which is now called St. Mary's
General Hospital, with a memorial plaque that reads, "We walk the wards that Williams
walked".

They were new patients to me. All I had was the name, Olson. Please come down as soon as
you can, my daughter is very sick.
When I arrived, I was met by the mother, a big startled looking woman, very clean and
apologetic who merely said, Is this the doctor? and let me in. In the back, she added. You
must excuse us, doctor, we have her in the kitchen where it is warm. It is very damp here
sometimes.
The child was fully dressed and sitting on her father’s lap near the kitchen table. He tried to
get up, but I motioned for him not to bother, took off my overcoat and started to look things
over. I could see that they were all very nervous, eyeing me up and down distrustfully. As
often, in such cases, they weren’t telling me more than they had to, it was up to me to tell
them; that’s why they were spending three dollars on me.
The child was fairly eating me up with her cold, steady eyes, and no expression to her face
whatever. She did not move and seemed, inwardly, quiet; an unusually attractive little thing,
and as strong as a heifer in appearance. But her face was flushed, she was breathing rapidly,
and I realized that she had a high fever. She had magnificent blonde hair, in profusion. One of
those picture children often reproduced in advertising leaflets and the photogravure sections
of the Sunday papers.
She’s had a fever for three days, began the father and we don’t know what it comes from. My
wife has given her things, you know, like people do, but it don’t do no good. And there’s
been a lot of sickness around. So, we tho’t you’d better look her over and tell us what is the
matter.
As doctors often do, I took a trial shot at it as a point of departure. Has she had a sore throat?
Both parents answered me together, No . . . No, she says her throat don’t hurt her.
Does your throat hurt you? added the mother to the child. But the little girl’s expression
didn’t change nor did she move her eyes from my face.
Have you looked?
I tried to, said the mother, but I couldn’t see.
As it happens, we had been having a number of cases of diphtheria in the school to which this
child went during that month and we were all, quite apparently, thinking of that, though no
one had as yet spoken of the thing.
Well, I said, suppose we take a look at the throat first. I smiled in my best professional
manner and asking for the child’s first name I said, come on, Mathilda, open your mouth and
let’s take a look at your throat.
Nothing doing.
Aw, come on, I coaxed, just open your mouth wide and let me take a look. Look, I said
opening both hands wide, I haven’t anything in my hands. Just open up and let me see.
Such a nice man, put in the mother. Look how kind he is to you. Come on, do what he tells
you to. He won’t hurt you.
At that I ground my teeth in disgust. If only they wouldn’t use the word “hurt” I might be
able to get somewhere. But I did not allow myself to be hurried or disturbed but speaking
quietly and slowly I approached the child again.
As I moved my chair a little nearer suddenly with one catlike movement both her hands
clawed instinctively for my eyes and she almost reached them too. In fact, she knocked my
glasses flying and they fell, though unbroken, several feet away from me on the kitchen floor.
Both the mother and father almost turned themselves inside out in embarrassment and
apology. You bad girl, said the mother, taking her and shaking her by one arm. Look what
you’ve done. The nice man . . .
For heaven’s sake, I broke in. Don’t call me a nice man to her. I’m here to look at her throat
on the chance that she might have diphtheria and possibly die of it. But that’s nothing to her.
Look here, I said to the child, we’re going to look at your throat. You’re old enough to
understand what I’m saying. Will you open it now by yourself or shall we have to open it for
you?
Not a move. Even her expression hadn’t changed. Her breaths however were coming faster
and faster. Then the battle began. I had to do it. I had to have a throat culture for her own
protection. But first I told the parents that it was entirely up to them. I explained the danger
but said that I would not insist on a throat examination so long as they would take the
responsibility.
If you don’t do what the doctor says you’ll have to go to the hospital, the mother admonished
her severely.
Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself. After all, I had already fallen in love with the savage brat,
the parents were contemptible to me. In the ensuing struggle they grew more and more abject,
crushed, exhausted while she surely rose to magnificent heights of insane fury of effort bred
of her terror of me.
The father tried his best, and he was a big man but the fact that she was his daughter, his
shame at her behavior and his dread of hurting her made him release her just at the critical
times when I had almost achieved success, till I wanted to kill him. But his dread also that she
might have diphtheria made him tell me to go on, go on though he himself was almost
fainting, while the mother moved back and forth behind us raising and lowering her hands in
an agony of apprehension.
Put her in front of you on your lap, I ordered, and hold both her wrists.
But as soon as he did the child let out a scream. Don’t, you’re hurting me. Let go of my
hands. Let them go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop it! Stop it!
You’re killing me!
Do you think she can stand it, doctor! said the mother.
You get out, said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to die of diphtheria?
Come on now, hold her, I said.
Then I grasped the child’s head with my left hand and tried to get the wooden tongue
depressor between her teeth. She fought, with clenched teeth, desperately! But now I also had
grown furious—at a child. I tried to hold myself down but I couldn’t. I know how to expose a
throat for inspection. And I did my best. When finally, I got the wooden spatula behind the
last teeth and just the point of it into the mouth cavity, she opened up for an instant but before
I could see anything she came down again and gripping the wooden blade between her
molars she reduced it to splinters before I could get it out again.
Aren’t you ashamed, the mother yelled at her. Aren’t you ashamed to act like that in front of
the doctor?
Get me a smooth-handled spoon of some sort, I told the mother. We’re going through with
this. The child’s mouth was already bleeding. Her tongue was cut and she was screaming in
wild hysterical shrieks. Perhaps I should have desisted and come back in an hour or more. No
doubt it would have been better. But I have seen at least two children lying dead in bed of
neglect in such cases, and feeling that I must get a diagnosis now or never. I went at it again.
But the worst of it was that I too had got beyond reason. I could have torn the child apart in
my own fury and enjoyed it. It was a pleasure to attack her. My face was burning with it.
The damned little brat must be protected against her own idiocy, one says to one’s self at
such times. Others must be protected against her. It is a social necessity. And all these things
are true. But a blind fury, a feeling of adult shame, bred of a longing for muscular release are
the operatives. One goes on to the end.
In a final unreasoning assault, I overpowered the child’s neck and jaws. I forced the heavy
silver spoon back of her teeth and down her throat till she gagged. And there it was—both
tonsils covered with membrane. She had fought valiantly to keep me from knowing her
secret. She had been hiding that sore throat for three days at least and lying to her parents in
order to escape just such an outcome as this.
Now truly she was furious. She had been on the defensive before but now she attacked. Tried
to get off her father’s lap and fly at me while tears of defeat blinded her eyes.
Literary Criticism

             Literary criticism is the term used to refer to the process which includes analysis
and interpretation of
literary texts. It is the work that is done not only by literary scholars and specialists but also
by ordinary/common readers with, of course, varying degrees of expertise and competence
when they read and analyze a text.

The Schools of Literary Criticism

      
Defined below are some of the common critical perspectives used in the interpretation of
literature. The definitions of the critical theories are taken from J.A. Cuddon’s A Dictionary
of Literary Terms and Literary Theory, Fifth
Edition, revised by M.A.R. Habib (Massachusetts: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), The Bedford
Introduction to Literature, Sixth Edition, by Michael Meyer (New York: Bedford/St.
Martin's, 2003) and X.J. Kennedy and Dana
Gioia’s Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and Drama, Sixth Edition (New York:
Harper Collins, 1995).

NEW CRITICISM

A term which refers to a kind of ‘movement’ in literary criticism which developed in the
1920s (for the most part among Americans). However, it was not until 1941 that John Crowe
Ransom published a book called The New Criticism. In it he criticized the critics I. A.
Richards, William Empson, T. S. Eliot and Yvor Winters, and made a plea for what he called
the ‘ontological critic’.  The New Critics advocated ‘close reading’ and detailed textual
analysis of poetry rather than an interest in the mind and personality of the poet, sources,
the history of ideas and political and social implications. The application of semantics to this
criticism was also important. (Cuddon, 2013)

READER-RESPONSE CRITICISM

Theory is concerned with the relationship between text and reader and reader and text, with
an emphasis on the different ways in which a reader participates in the course of reading a
text and the different perspectives
which arise in the relationship Thus, reader-response theory is concerned with the reader’s
contribution to a text, and it challenges, with varying degrees of plausibility and conviction,
the text-oriented theories of Formalism and the New Criticism, which have tended to ignore
or underestimate the reader’s role.
Fundamentally, a text, whatever it be (poem, short story, essay, scientific exposition), has no
real existence until it is read. Its meaning is in potentia, so to speak. A reader completes its
meaning by reading it. The reading is complementary; it actualizes potential meaning. Thus,
the reader does not have a passive role, as has been traditionally thought; on the contrary, she
is an active agent in the creation of meaning. By applying codes
and strategies the reader decodes the text. (Cuddon, 2013
DECONSTRUCTION

The term denotes a particular kind of practice in reading and, thereby, a method of criticism
and mode of analytical inquiry. In her book The Critical Difference (1981), Barbara Johnson
clarifies the meaning of deconstruction:

Deconstruction is not synonymous with ‘destruction’, however. It is in fact much closer to

the original meaning of the word ‘analysis’ itself, which etymologically means ‘to undo’ – a
virtual synonym for ‘to de-construct. The deconstruction of a text does not proceed by
random doubt or arbitrary subversion, but by the careful teasing out of warring forces
of signification within the text itself [emphasis added]. If anything is destroyed in a
deconstructive reading, it is not the text, but the claim to unequivocal domination of one
mode of signifying over another. A deconstructive reading is a reading which analyses the
specificity of a text’s critical
difference from itself.

 Deconstruction owes much to the theories of the French philosopher Jacques Derrida (1930–
2004)… Derrida shows that a text (any text – be it a polemic, a philosophical treatise, a
poem, or, for that matter, an exercise in deconstructive criticism) can be read as
saying something quite different from what it appears to be saying and that it may read as
carrying a plurality of significance or as saying many different things which are
fundamentally at variance with, contradictory to and subversive of what may be (or may have
been) seen by critics as a single, stable ‘meaning’. Thus, a text may ‘betray’ itself. A
deconstructive criticism of a text reveals that there is nothing except the text… That is, one
cannot evaluate, criticize or construe a meaning for a text by reference to anything external to
it. (Cuddon, 2013)

PSYCHOLOGICAL CRITICISM

This approach reflects the effect that modern psychology has had upon both literature and
literary criticism. Fundamental figures in psychological criticism include Sigmund Freud,
whose “psychoanalytic theories changed our notions of human behavior by exploring new or
controversial areas like wish-fulfillment, sexuality, the unconscious, and repression” as well
as expanding our understanding of how “language and symbols
operate by demonstrating their ability to reflect unconscious fears or desires”; and Carl Jung,
whose theories about the unconscious are also a key foundation of Mythological Criticism.
Psychological criticism has a number of
approaches, but in general, it usually employs one (or more) of three approaches:
1.      An investigation of “the creative process of the artist: what is the nature of literary
genius and how does it relate to normal mental functions?”

2.     The psychological study of a particular artist, usually noting how an author’s

biographical circumstances affect or influence their motivations and/or behavior; and

3.      The analysis of fictional characters using the language and methods of psychology

(Kennedy and Gioia, 1995)
FEMINIST CRITICISM

A development and movement in critical theory and in the evaluation of literature that was
well underway by the late 1960s and which has burgeoned steadily since. It is an attempt
to describe and interpret (and reinterpret) women’s experiences as depicted in various kinds
of literature – especially the novel, and, to a lesser extent, poetry and drama.
It questions the long-standing, dominant, male, phallocentric ideologies (which add up to a
kind of male conspiracy), patriarchal attitudes, and male interpretations in literature
(and critical evaluation of literature). It attacks male notions of value in literature – by
offering critiques of male authors and representations of men in literature and also by
privileging women writers. In addition it challenges traditional and accepted male ideas about
the nature of women and about how women feel, act and think, or are supposed to feel, act
and think, and how in general they respond to life and living. It thus questions numerous
prejudices and assumptions about women made by male writers, not least any tendency
to cast women in stock character roles. (Cuddon, 2013).

Module 2: Learning the Language of Literature

 
What is Literature?

Generally speaking, literature (which comes from the Latin littera which means “letters”)

refers to artistic compositions that are designed to tell stories, dramatize events, express
emotions, and analyze and advocate
ideas. Works which were written before the invention of the printing press were obviously
spoken or sung and kept only as long as the people learned and practiced them. While many
of these oral literatures are lost, many of them
have also been recovered and preserved as printed texts. There is still an oral tradition of
literature, with many poems designed to be read aloud in their entirety, and with all the plays
intended to be performed and spoken by live actors. Today, however, writing and printing
give life to most literature. As a result, reading and appreciating literary texts are often a
highly private, personal, silent experience.
 
The Genres of Literature

Literature may be classified into five categories or genres: (1) prose fiction, (2) poetry, (3)
drama, (4) nonfiction prose, and (5) creative nonfiction.
 
While all are art forms, each with its structure and style requirements, the first three are
usually classed as imaginative literature. The genres of imaginative literature have a lot in
common, but they also have distinctive features.
 
Prose fiction includes novels, short stories, myths, parables, romances, and epics. Fiction
originally meant anything made up, crafted, or shaped, but as we understand the word today,
it means a prose narrative based on the author's imagination.
         
Although fiction, like all imaginative literature, may introduce true historical details, it is not
real history, for its purpose is primarily to interest, divert, stimulate and instruct. The essence
of fiction is narration, the telling or recounting of a sequence of events or actions. Works of
fiction typically focus on one or more characters as they undergo change as they interact or
deal with other characters.
          
Poetry is more economical than prose fiction in the use of words, and it relies heavily on
imagery, figurative
language, and sound. 
 
Drama is a literary work which is designed to be performed by actors on stage. Like fiction,
drama may focus on one or more characters, and presents dramatic events as if they were
happening at present, to be performed on stage and witnessed by an audience. 
           
Imaginative literature differs from nonfiction prose, the fourth genre, which refers to any
kind of prose writing that is based on facts and deals with real people, things, events, and
places. The text must conform to what is true and cannot be manipulated by the writer’s
imagination. Major goals of nonfiction prose are truth in reporting and logic in reasoning.
 
The distinction between fiction and non-fiction has become blurred in recent
years. Fictionists frequently base their stories on real-life scenarios and imagined characters,
and historians often inserted fictional conversations to convey historical figures' thoughts or
views. This genre of writing is called creative non-fiction. It is a form of writing that
incorporates literary styles and techniques to construct factual stories.
 

The Language of Literature

As to language, literature can be divided into three forms: prose, verse, and poetic prose.

 
Prose is the most typical form of language. It is a type of language that uses
ordinary linguistic structure and natural speech flow rather than metrical structure. Novels,
short stories, essays, fable, folk tale, legend, myth, narrative, saga, and science fiction are
examples of prose fiction.
 
On the other hand, a verse is a type of language in which language is used for its artistic and
suggestive qualities in addition to its apparent meaning. Examples of verse include poems
and songs.
 
Finally, poetic prose is a type of language that uses prose and verse at the same time. When a
literary piece is written with special attention to its beauty and special attention to its
meaning, then the language used is called "poetic prose."
 
The Standards of Literature

Like all other art forms, literature has certain criteria by which all texts can be measured for
evaluation.  In A Study of Literary Types and Forms, Garcia, Rosales, and Barranco (1993)
distinguish the following attributes of great literature, namely:
1. Artistry. This is a quality which appeals to our sense of beauty.
2. Intellectual Value. A literary work stimulates thought. It enriches our mental life
by making us realize fundamental truths about ourselves, about other human beings, and
about the world around.
3. Suggestiveness. This is the quality associated with the emotional power of literature.
Great literature moves us deeply and stirs our feeling and imagination, giving and evoking
visions above and beyond the plain of ordinary life and experience.
4. Spiritual Value. Literature elevates the spirit by bringing out moral values which makes
us a better person. The capacity to inspire is part of the spiritual value of literature.
5. Permanence. A great work of literature endures. It can be read again and again as
each reading gives fresh delight and new insights and opens new worlds of meaning and
experience. Its appeal is lasting.
6. Universality. Great literature is timeless and timely. It is forever relevant and appeals
to one and all, anytime, anywhere because it deals with elemental feelings, fundamental
truths, and universal conditions.
7. Style. This is the peculiar way in which a writer sees life, forms his ideas and expresses
them. Great literary works are marked as much by their memorable substance as well as by
their distinctive style. Style should suit content. (Garcia, Rosales, and Barranco, 1993)
 
To these seven qualities of great literature, we should add an eight aspect equally essential to
literature, i.e.:
8. Form. It is the design of the work as a whole, the configuration of all its parts. The “form”
answers the question “how”: how well the work is made, how well the work is written or how
well the work is done. In a literary work, nothing is by accident. Even the smallest detail is an
artistic decision made by the author. Every element in a literary work ought to contribute to
the effectiveness, meaning, and beauty of the whole.
 
Defining Fiction

           Fiction is a term used to describe creative prose work. It is an imagined story, usually
written down, that the author tells in ordinary, natural language. It chiefly uses an array of
narrative techniques and has a wide range in terms of length. It deals, in part or whole, with
information or events that are not factual, but rather, invented and imaginary – that is, made
up by the author. Examples of prose fiction works include novels, novellas, short stories,
fables, fairy tales, legends, myths, etc. but it now also encompasses films, comic books,
and video games.
 
Types of Fiction
 
For the enjoyment of readers everywhere, there are numerous books available. There
are countless fictional books with distinct characters and intriguing stories, ranging from the
novel to the short story. Understanding the various fiction genres for story writing may be
helpful if you enjoy reading or have ever thought about pursuing a career in creative writing. 
 
 Literary and genre fiction are the two main types of fiction.  Literary fiction is preferred to
genre fiction in the academe. Since many literary fiction works are regarded as "classics" and
are therefore worthy of academic study, they frequently appear on the curricula of higher
education institutions and in literature courses. The majority of literary fiction tends to have
the following characteristics:
 
·  The use of artistic language, such as the use of sophisticated or elevated language and
imagery
·  The use of literary devices, such as conflict, imagery, metaphor, irony, and symbol.
·   Ambiguity in plot and subplot, with no straightforward formula or resolution
·   Character-driven and character-focused storytelling
·   Investigation of historical and cultural developments and trends
·   Exploration of philosophical issues such as the human condition, the battle between good
and evil, and so on.
 
Although critics and scholars frequently view genre fiction as inferior to literary fiction, it is
typically much more popular among a broader range of readers. In contrast to literary fiction,
genre fiction has a much higher chance of becoming a bestseller. The following
characteristics are frequently present in genre fiction, including:
 
·   Adherence to formulas for character and plot arcs
·   The use of language that is more literal than artistic
·   The use of literary devices sparingly, avoiding metaphors and allusion
·    The use of obvious symbolism
 
          Another way of categorizing prose fiction is to look at genre or style. Here are some
examples
of prose fiction by type:
 
1. Novel . A novel is a "fictitious prose narrative of considerable length and complexity,
portraying characters and usually presenting a sequential organization of action and scenes."
(Novel – dictionary.com, 2020)

2. Novella. A novella is a written fictitious prose story, less than a novel, yet longer and more
complicated than a short story. Examples of novella include John Steinbeck's "Of Mice and
Men", George Orwell's "Animal
Farm", Ayn Rand's "Anthem", Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness", Franz Kafka's
"Metamorphosis", Saul Bellow's
"Seize the Day", Thomas Mann's "Death in Venice", Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Chronicle of
a Death Foretold", Fyodor
Dostoyevsky's "Notes from Underground", Truman Capote’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, and
Herman Melville's "Billy Budd: A Sailor".

3. Short Story
A short story is "a piece of fiction dealing with a single incident – material or spiritual – that
can be read at a sitting. It is original; it must sparkle, excite, or impress; it must have unity of
effect or impression, and it must move in an even line from its exposition up to its close."
(Poe, 1846) A short story can be a fable or a parable, real or fantasy, a true presentation or a
parody, sentimental or sarcastic, serious in intent, or a light-hearted diversion.  It can be any
of these, but to be memorable, it must catch the eternal in casual, invest a moment with the
immensity of time