Silly

Silly Goose, Silly Willy, Silly Silly Silly... Everyone has a little silly in them.  But does that mean that we are blissful or pitiable?  Full of joy or just a fool?  The line between a positive and negative connotation in regards to the word 'silly' is a blurred and jagged one.

Mother Monster (and no, I'm not talking about Lady Gaga)

- Frankenstein is clearly written by a woman based solely on the subject of birth: its emphasis is on the trauma of the afterbirth rather than what precedes the birth or even the birth itself.

- Victor defies morality not by living forever, but by giving birth.

- Throughout the text, birth is a dangerous and hideous thing.

- Shelley's perspective as a woman, and a woman with topsy-turvy past concerning children and sexuality defined the work.

Lost & Sir Gawain

Although separated by 1,000 years, medium, and special effects, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the hit television series 'Lost' share many themes.  The former may not have a smoke monster or involve an airplane crash, and the latter may not have a Green Knight--although with the at-times frivolously intricate and overly obtuse plot lines, anything could have been possible for future seasons.  The two do share, however, tests of virtues, hidden human connections and relations, and statuses of being embedded into history and a never-ending timeline.

A test of virtues is common to both Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and 'Lost.'  Jack Shepherd, who comes closest out of the ensemble cast to being the protagonist figure of 'Lost', is tested repeatedly just as Sir Gawain is, on his virtues by a force impervious to human intervention.  This force in 'Lost' manifests itself in a gamut of intangible ways, sometimes as a visible being such as the enigmatic and frightening smoke monster or immortal and evil Man in Black, but usually as a personal struggle or almost religious and transcendental entity that is beyond not only human control, but also nearly human comprehension.  Such a test, or rather series of tests, is placed upon Sir Gawain and his strength of character.  It is perpetrated most evidently by Bertilak, of course, but also tacitly by Gawain himself.

The idea of hidden human connections and relations is crucial to both Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and 'Lost.'  In 'Lost,' just as in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, identities appear much simpler than they actually are.  The revealing of startling family connections in 'Lost'--including but not limited to the true identities of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, etc.--marked watershed moments in the series.  Such is the same in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, in which the reader and Gawain himself realizes that Beatlik is the Green Knight and the Old Lady at the Castle is Morgan La Fluer, or more significantly King Arthur's half-sister and Gawain's own aunt.  The revelations in both tales are crucial in connecting the puzzle pieces. This idea of hidden human connections and relationships is further demonstrated by historical ties and links.

Both Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and 'Lost' are embedded into history.
The optimistic essence of the future is present in the ending of both tales.  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, for instance, ends with the following: "Many such, ere we were born,/Have befallen here, ere this./ May He that was crowned with thorn/Bring all men to His bliss!  Amen" (Norton, 165).  'Lost' ends with an equally spiritual tone that is forward-looking yet has reverence for the past.

It's A Small Word After All

To write with just short words is a hard task, but I will try my best.  See, I have a thing for big words--you might even say that I love huge words.  I can't write my name, or the place where I was born.  I am forced to use the words 'can't' and 'won't'--and I can't even say what type of word these are.  I have pain and stress in my head and my heart beats fast.  I don't know what to do; all I want to do is use big words.  I am at a loss at what to say.  Yes, I know that small words are said to be great and the best and all, but I am a fan of large words.  Even though I do not like small words as much, this has been quite fun.  I like to think about what words I place and how they sound.  A lot of great words are short--laugh, smile, love, and lots more.  But a lot of things can't be said through such small words--we need big words too, to talk more about why we laugh and why we smile and why we love and why we do lots more.

a (1) 

indefinite article, mid-12c., a variation of O.E. an (see an) in which the -n- began to disappear before consonants, a process mostly complete by mid-14c. The -n- also was retained before words beginning with a sounded -h- until c.1600; it still is retained by many writers before unaccented syllables in h- or (e)u-, but is now no longer normally spoken as such. The -n- also lingered (especially in southern England dialect) before -w- and -y- through 15c.

lot 

O.E. hlot "object (anything from dice to straw, but often a chip of wood with a name inscribed on it) used to determine someone's share," also "what falls to a person by lot," from P.Gmc. *khlutom (cf. O.N. hlutr "lot, share," O.H.G. hluz "share of land," O.E. hleotan "to cast lots, to foretell"), of unknown origin. The object was placed with others in a receptacle, which was shaken, the winner being the one that fell out first. Hence, to cast lots. In some cases the lots were drawn by hand. The word was adopted from Germanic into the Romanic languages (cf.lottery, lotto). Meaning "choice resulting from the casting of lots" first attested c.1200. Sense of "plot of land" is first recorded 1630s (distribution of the best property in new settlements often determined by casting lot), that of "group, collection" is 1725, from notion of auction lots. The generalized sense of "great many" is first attested in 1812. To cast (one's) lot with another is to agree to share winnings.

of 

O.E. of, unstressed form of æf (prep., adv.) "away, away from," from P.Gmc. *af- (cf. O.N. af, O.Fris. af, of "of," Du. af "off, down," Ger. ab"off, from, down"), from PIE *apo- "off, away" (see apo-). Primary sense in O.E. was still "away," but shifted in M.E. with use of the word to translate L. de, ex, and especially O.Fr. de, which had come to be the substitute for the genitive case. "Of shares with another word of the same length, as, the evil glory of being accessory to more crimes against grammar than any other." 

great 

O.E. great "big, tall, thick, stout; coarse," from W.Gmc. *grautaz "coarse, thick" (cf. O.S. grot, O.Fris. grat, Du. groot, Ger. groß "great"). Said to have meant originally "big in size, coarse," and, if so, perhaps from PIE base *ghreu- "to rub, grind." It took over much of the sense of M.E. mickle, and is now largely superseded by big and large except for non-material things.

As a prefix to terms denoting "kinship one degree further removed" (early 15c., earliest attested use is in great uncle) it is from the similar use of Fr. grand, itself used as the equivalent of L. magnus. An O.E. way of saying "great-grandfather" was þridda fæder, lit. "third father."

In the sense of "excellent, wonderful" great is attested from 1848. Great White Way "Broadway in New York City" is from 1901. Great Spirit "high deity of the North American Indians," 1703, originally translates Ojibwa kitchi manitou. The Great War originally (1887) referred to the Napoleonic Wars, later (1914) to what we now call World War I (see world).

"The Great War" -- as, until the fall of France, the British continued to call the First World War in order to avoid admitting to themselves that they were now again engaged in a war of the same magnitude. [Arnold Toynbee, "Experiences," 1969]

Also formerly with a verb form, O.E. greatian, M.E. greaten "to become larger, increase, grow; become visibly pregnant," which became archaic after 17c.

word 

O.E. word "speech, talk, utterance, word," from P.Gmc. *wurdan (cf. O.S., O.Fris. word, Du. woord, O.H.G., Ger. wort, O.N. orð, Goth.waurd), from PIE *were- "speak, say" (see verb). The meaning "promise" was in O.E., as was the theological sense. In the plural, the meaning "verbal altercation" (as in to have words with someone) dates from mid-15c. Word processor first recorded 1970; word processingis from 1984; word wrap is from 1977. A word to the wise is from Latin phrase verbum sapienti satis est "a word to the wise is enough."Word of mouth is recorded from 1550s.

are (v.) 

present plural indicative of be, from O.E. earun (Mercian), aron (Northumbrian); see be. Also from O.N. cognates. In 17c., began to replacebe, ben as first person plural present indicative in standard English. The only non-dialectal survival of be in this sense is the powers that be. But in southwest England, we be (in Devonshire us be) remains non-standard idiom as a contradictory positive ("You people aren't speaking correct English." "Oh, yes we be!").

short (adj.) 

O.E. sceort, scort, probably from P.Gmc. *skurta- (cf. O.N. skorta "to be short of," skort "shortness;" O.H.G. scurz "short"), from PIE base*sker- "to cut," with notion of "something cut off" (cf. Skt. krdhuh "shortened, maimed, small;" L. curtus "short," cordus "late-born," originally "stunted in growth;" O.C.S. kratuku, Rus. korotkij "short;" Lith. skurstu "to be stunted," skardus "steep;" O.Ir. cert "small," M.Ir.corr "stunted, dwarfish"). Meaning "rude" is attested from late 14c. To fall short is from archery. Short fuse in fig. sense of "quick temper" first attested 1968. Short story first recorded 1877. To make short work of is first attested 1570s. Phrase short and sweet is from 1530s.

laugh (v.) 

O.E. (Anglian) hlæhhan, earlier hlihhan, from P.Gmc. *klakhjanan (cf. O.N. hlæja, Ger. lachen, Goth. hlahjan), from PIE *klak-, of imitative origin (cf. L. cachinare "to laugh aloud," Skt. kakhati "laughs," O.C.S. chochotati "laugh," Lith. klageti "to cackle," Gk. kakhazein).

If I coveted nowe to avenge the injuries that you have done me, I myght laughe in my slyve. [John Daus, "Sleidanes Commentaries," 1560]

The noun is first attested 1680s, from the verb. Meaning "a cause of laughter" is from 1895; ironic use (e.g. that's a laugh) attested from 1930. Nitrous oxide has been called laughing gas since 1842 (for its exhilarating effects). Laugh track "canned laughter on a TV program" is from 1966.

smile (v.) 

c.1300, perhaps from M.L.G. *smilen or a Scandinavian source (e.g. Dan. smile, Swed. smila "smile"), from PIE base *smei- (cf. O.E. smerian"to laugh at," O.H.G. smieron "to smile," L. mirus "wonderful"). Gradually pushed the usual O.E. word, smearcian (modern smirk), into a specific, unpleasant sense. Related: Smiled; smiling. The noun is from 1560s. Romance, Celtic, and Slavic languages tend to use a dim. of the word for "laugh" to mean "smile" (cf. L. ridere "laugh;" subridere "smile"), with perhaps a literal notion of "small laugh," or "low laugh."

love (n.) 

O.E. lufu "love, affection, friendliness," from P.Gmc. *lubo (cf. O.Fris. liaf, Ger. lieb, Goth. liufs "dear, beloved;" not found elsewhere as a noun, except O.H.G. luba, Ger. Liebe), from PIE *leubh- "to care, desire, love" (cf. L. lubet, later libet "pleases;" Skt. lubhyati "desires;" O.C.S. l'ubu "dear, beloved;" Lith. liaupse "song of praise"). Meaning "a beloved person" is from early 13c. The sense "no score" (in tennis, etc.) is 1742, from the notion of "playing for love," i.e. "for nothing" (1670s). Love-letter is attested from mid-13c.; love-song from early 14c. To be in love with (someone) is from c.1500. Love life "one's collective amorous activities" is from 1919, originally a term in psychological jargon. Love affair is from 1590s. Phrase for love or money "for anything" is attested from 1580s. To fall in love is attested from early 15c. The phrase no love lost (between two people) is ambiguous and was used 17c. in ref. to two who love each other well (c.1640) as well as two who have no love for each other (1620s).

and 

O.E. and, ond, originally meaning "thereupon, next," from P.Gmc. *unda (cf. O.S. endi, O.Fris. anda, M.Du. ende, O.H.G. enti, Ger. und, O.N.enn), from PIE *en; cognate with L. ante, Gk. anti (see ante).

more 

O.E. mara (adj.) "greater, more," used as a comp. of micel "great" (see mickle), from P.Gmc. *maizon (cf. O.S. mera, O.N. meiri, O.Fris.mara, M.Du. mere, O.H.G. mero, Ger. mehr), from PIE *meis (cf. Avestan mazja "greater," O.Ir. mor "great," Welsh mawr "great," Gk. -moros "great," Oscan mais "more"). O.E. used related ma "more" as adverb and noun, from P.Gmc. *mais; this became M.E. mo, but more in this sense began to predominate in later M.E.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde's dark novel The Picture of Dorian Gray provides insight into the flipping quarter that is human nature.  The story's greatest strength, without a doubt, is its component of artistic vision and idea.  Wilde takes the reader on a wild ride through the corroding mind of an externally beautiful boy, but internally withering remnants of a soul.  While the prose demonstrates upmost thought and intellect through floral language, Dorian's transformation occurs swiftly.  What is most disturbing about the text is not Dorian's steep downward spiral towards debauchery and his eventual demise, but rather Wilde's disturbing revelations about human nature.  The effects of Wilde's tale are long-lasting: the reader will long after contemplate such themes as the power of influence, the fleeting but treasured natures of youthful purity and beauty, the dichotomy of soul and body, and several others.  Religious parallels hinted at by Wilde and easily established by the reader keep the text connected to the literary canon.  One can easily draw from the text the Genesis story in which Lord Henry is the equivalent to the snake, Dorian portrays Adam, and knowledge remains the constant.  There is also the relation between Dorian and Jesus: Dorian must sacrifice himself for humanity, or at least Lord Henry's study of it, while the latter puts his G-d complex into dangerous motion.  The ability to form connections to the past literary tradition  demonstrates Wilde's complex artistic vision and his ability to keep the reader engaged for much beyond mere words typed onto a page.  I chose The Picture of Dorian Gray not for its unpredictability in plot as I had already known--along with the rest of the literate world--how the text ends plot-wise, but rather for its unpredictability in subject and lessons.  Wilde twists and turns on a trail of didacticism and thus is how he keeps his reader engaged.  The plot itself when one breaks it down, is actually relatively simple.  The ideas and themes, however, not quite.  Overall, Wilde succeeds in doing what every single author attempts to accomplish: even long after reading the final chapter and putting the book back onto the shelf, the reader never really stops finishing the text as he or she continues to contemplate the text for, well, just about eternity.

My 6 Most Memorable Books

I feel I should put a disclaimer before my list: few of these texts are scholarly or AP-level; they are just the books that are glued to my memory and influence and guide me in living my life.

1. Room by Emma Donoghue: Self-explanatory; see previous post.
2. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon: Mark Haddon colorfully (but without the color yellow, of course!) constructs the lonely, magical, and endearing world of autistic 15 year-old Christopher John Francis Boone.  The final sentence of the first-person narrative, "And I know I can do this because I went to London on my own, and because I solved the mystery of Who Killed Wellington? and I found my mother and I was brave and I wrote a book and that means I can do anything," reminds me as a reader and as a young adult coming into the world that even when the world says 'no,' I can do anything too.  
Note: This quote is so important to me that I copy-and-pasted it from my favorite quotes on Facebook! 
3. Eloise by Kay Thompson: Okay, okay, Kay Thompson's childish creation may not be PCDS scholarly reading material at all, but the childlike magic and joy de vivre sticks with the reader, even if he or she is over the age of six.  Eloise is memorable because it always reminds me to stay youthful with an active imagination like the spunky, self-described 'city-child' protagonist.
4. Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote: This novella about a shallow girl has made me a pondering scholar.  The themes of isolation and identity haunt me to this day and so I find myself frequently flipping back and forth through the pages looking for some be-all, end-all answer from Mr. Capote about these fickle themes.  Unfortunately--or rather, fortunately for the intelligent reader--no such luck, and thus I remain--and shall remain--contemplating Holly Golightly's somewhat vacuous world.  
5. A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon: This text  has the qualities that every author should aspire for: it provides an enjoyable reading experience and leaves the reader thinking after.  The text left me thinking about the nature of family, secrets, and of course, eczema.
6. The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum: I like to think of this as not a populist text intended for the promotion of the People's Party, but rather a case for dreaming big.  Whatever Baum's original intention for his work was, this sparkling tale reminds me to dream big and to remember that all evil is no more than an ephemeral entity that can easily be melted or squashed by a house.

Room by Emma Donoghue

"Hey, you know what, if you put him under your pillow a fairy will come in the night invisibly and turn him into money."
"Not in here, sorry," says Ma.
"Why not?"
"The tooth fairy does not know about Room."  Her eyes are looking through the walls.
Outside has everything.  Whenever I think of a thing now like skis or fireworks or islands or elevators or yo-yos, I have to remember they're real, they're actually happening in Outside all together.  It makes my head tired.  And people too, firefighters teachers burglars babies saints soccer players and all sorts, they're all really in Outside.  I'm not there, though, me and Ma, we're the only ones not there.  Are we still real?
After dinner Ma tells me Hansel and Gretel and How the Berlin Wall Fell Down and Rumpelstiltskin.  I like when the queen has to guess the little man's name or else he'll take her baby away.  "Are stories true?"
"Which ones?"
"The mermaid mother and Hansel and Gretel and all them."
"Well," says Ma, "not literally."
"What's--"
"They're magic, they're not about real people walking around today."
"So they're fake."
"No, no.  Stories are a different kind of true."
My face is all scrunched up from trying to understand.  "Is the Berlin Wall true?"
"Well, there was a wall, but it's not there anymore."
I'm so tired I'm going to rip in two like Rumpelstiltskin did at the end.
"Night-night," says Ma, shutting the doors of Wardrobe, "sleep tight, don't let the bugs bite."

Though I had to drive one hour home from volunteering downtown, complete thirty convoluted Calculus problems, search high and low to find the golden ratio between Hershey's syrup and milk for the perfect chocolate milk, and much more, my most daunting task of the night has without a doubt been picking just one passage from Emma Donoghue's Room that, as your blog says, Mr. Coon, 'illustrates why [I] find it to be excellent storytelling.'  Why the difficulty?  Well, just about every carefully placed punctuation mark, conversation, and moment of narration sparkles as some of the best storytelling I have experienced in my not-quite-adult life. And thus picking just one brief passage that demonstrates the required criterium has taken me nearly twenty minutes.  I finally settled on the above passage for both its excellent storytelling, as well as its relevance that aptly suits this assignment and the question, 'What makes good storytelling?' posed in class today.  However, Room is not merely good storytelling--it is so marvelous that it reminds the reader why stories exist.  Aside from the captivating plot that keeps the reader palpitating whilst dancing on his or her toes out of excitement and Donoghue's carefully crafted wording that makes the reader pause and reflect to think about such heavy subjects as human nature, Room's strongest feature that makes it a storytelling gem is its endearing characters.  Precocious, but socially deficient from years of isolation, 5 year-old narrator Jack and his adoring, but emotionally and physically damaged, mother are the hero and heroine, respectively of this at-times jaw-dropping, but always charming, tale.  Few stories are so magical that they make even the unswayed of readers--yours truly typically being self-categorized as this--laugh, cry, and just be completely and utterly rapt in the novel's caress.  If you ever pick up Room, beware: you will be so consumed in Jack's colorful world, you will not be able to floss, count, or tie your shoelaces properly until you finish the novel, put it down, and just say, "Wow."