A middle aged man with a full black beard, wearing a black tuxedo with a white dress shirt and shiny black shoes, is lying down on two chairs. He is in either a fancy restaurant or ballroom. There is muted lighting and deep red carpets with gold design. The tables have white table cloths and red flower centerpieces. He is lifting, bench press style, two young, petite Asian women. They are wearing white nurse’s uniforms with nurse’s hats and white stockings and shoes. The well dressed crowd of onlookers is applauding his manly act. The narrator says “the police often question him just because they find him interesting.”
The same man, younger looking, with his trademark full beard and wearing a suit and white shirt, is in a camouflaged command center. He is surrounded by various officers all wearing army uniforms, some even with their medals on. They are all watching intently as he arm wrestles a communist dictator, who is sporting a mustache and a hat that has a gold star on it. The dictator can only put up a few seconds of resistance before he is forced to succumb to the stren...
Waste and blood streamed along the floorboards, covering my toes…Piled like fish in a bucket, the men were stacked on three levels—one just above my feet, another by my waist and a third level by my neck…The men couldn’t stand unless they stooped—chained in pairs—in the narrow corridor where I walked. On their rough planks, they had no room to sit. Some were lying on their backs, others on their stomachs. They were manacled at the ankles, in pairs, the left ankle of one to the right ankle of the other. And through loops in these irons ran chains long enough for a man—with the consent of his partner—to move only a few feet, toward the occasional cone-shaped bucket meant for collecting waste” (Hill
It is nine in the morning, Professor Chagnon informs me of the information and data we hope to collect today, the three main forms of violence that accrue in and out side of each village, “chest pounding, side slapping and club fights” (Chagnon, 118) Professor Chagnon instructs me to follow him with the camera and film equipment. The Professor stops as he watch’s two men pounding each others chests, I begin preparing my camera to talk a photo when a friend of Professor Chagnon come’s over to say hello Professor Chagnon greets his friend an introduces me, Professor Chagnon as his friends what ...
At the smoker, where some of the most important men in town are "quite tipsy", belligerent and out of control. When he gets in the ballroom there is a naked girl dancing. He wants her and at the same time wants her to go away, "to caress her and destroy her". The black boys who were to take part in the battle were humiliated, some passed out, others pleaded to go home. But the white men paid no attention. The white men end up attacking the girl, who is described as having the same terror and fear in her eyes as the black boys.
Shalit, Wendy. "The Future of Modesty." The Presence of others: Voices and Images that Call for Response. Ed. Andrea A. Lunsford, John J. Ruszkiewicz. New York: St. Martin’s 2000. 214-220.
The patient was more beautiful than she realized. If only she could see it for herself. The color from her dainty face had drained to a sickened green tint and her eyes widened in fear. The walls of the clinic exam room were ordained in calming colors, but offered the young woman no comfort. She continued to blink rapidly as if she would awaken from the nightmare; her long eyelashes could not fan the health worker’s words away. She thought it was harmless, just a night of fun. It made her feel valuable and attractive. Yet being desired now left her alone, crumpling to the floor screaming between sobs and desperately reaching to the empty air around her. She couldn’t grasp any security. Not only did that harmless night of fun result in her becoming
A second man walks into the bar, named Singular J. He wears all black, and his t-shirt reads, “Ontologize This!” Nobody knows who he is; he just sits by himself for a while, writes in a little journal, and orders a “highly commercialized and overpriced” Guinness. The bartender, named Benjamin, says that Singular J. has an aura about him that seems contrived. The inevitable third man gallivants into the bar, orders a Cosmopolitan, doesn’t give his name, says he’s a doctor who tries to cure that pestering Condition of Postmodernity. After a few Cosmos, this doctor pulls out his Power Point presentation and tries to illustrate the modern and the postmodern with graphs and charts. DJ T.S. is thoroughly bored and wants to groove on some of his own brilliant tunes. He begins to rap over the doctor’s clinical jargon, “Whĭsper of runňing streams, and winter light-ning. The wild thyme ta-time unseen and the wild straw-ber-ry, The laughter in the garden, echohohoed ecstasy Not lost, but Requiring, poinTing to the Agony of death and birth.” The ladies swoon; he pirouettes out the door.
To her, the youngish black man 一 a broad six feet two inches with a beard and billowing hair, both hands shoved into the pockets of a bulky military jacket 一seemed menacingly close. After a few more quick glimpses, she picked up her pace and was soon running in earnest. Within seconds she disappeared into a cross street.”(294)
It's been nine years since he left home at eighteen to escape his parent's iron cages and leaching love. It was a moonless autumn night, cooler than usual. Everything seemed to be in order: tables set, plates stacked, cups washed, shades drawn, lighting just below half for ambiance, music audible but not intrusive, air temperature at a comfortable range so women can decide to remove their shawl or not and men can keep their vests or choose to set them aside. Neatly, of course. He watched as a man entered, bringing a wave of cold air with him. This man, older, was certainly not the type to dine here. Royce's intuition was telling him something was very wrong. That’s when their eyes met. It sparked a cold sweat to bead up around his hairline. But his training kicked in and his feet moved silently and politely over to where the man was waiting to be seated. The words 'right this way, sir' slipped from his mouth as it did thousands of times before, as he chauffeured the man to an empty
This short story revolves around a young boy's struggle to affirm and rationalize the death and insanity of an important figure in his life. The narrator arrives home to find that Father James Flynn, a confidant and informal educator of his, has just passed away, which is no surprise, for he had been paralyzed from a stroke for some time. Mr. Cotter, a friend of the family, and his uncle have much to say about the poor old priest and the narrator's relationship with him. The narrator is angered by their belief that he's not able, at his young age, to make his own decisions as to his acquaintances and he should "run about and play with young lads of his own age ..." That night, images of death haunt him; he attempts make light of the tormenting face of the deceased priest by "smiling feebly" in hopes of negating his dreadful visions. The following evening, his family visits the house of the old priest and his two caretakers, two sisters, where he lies in wake. There the narrator must try and rationalize his death and the mystery of his preceding insanity.
The old man, Claude Robichaux, was brought before the police sergeant as well as the officer who brought him in. A black man named Jones made comments during the man’s “interrogation” and was repeatedly told to shut up by name, giving the idea that this wasn’t the first time Jones had been there.
Alder, Peter. "Stalin: Man of Steel." Prod. Guido Knopp. Dir. Oliver Halmburger. Perf. Ed Herrman. The History Channel, 2003. Videocassette. Youtube. 15 Mar. 2013. Web. 12 May 2015.
In conclusion, Charles Dickens, a social critic of humble origins himself, has conveyed his conception of a true gentleman, which is such a good conception that it is commonly used in our society today. He shows that you can only be a true gentleman at heart and if you are not it will be revealed. Matthew Pocket’s metaphor that ‘No varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself’ very successfully delivers and summarises Dickens’ message, that no matter how much you try to, your true identity will always be revealed. It also effectively reinforces Dickens’ treatment of the Victorian preconception of a gentleman as misconstrued and mistakenly engrossed with social status, wealth, birth, and apparel.
The 19th century was a time when middle to upper-middle class women became ornamental. Their lives revolved around image, their husbands, and as much idleness as their husbands wealth could afford them(iii). There were servants to tend to the home and servants to tend to children. An afternoon tea and shopping expedition was an acceptable, even proper, way to spend ones day as a lady. The husband in The Yellow Wallpaper cannot see why his wife should be stressed or nervous. He tells her that she is allowing her mind to get carried away and that that is her sole problem. Her illness reflects directly on him as both her husband and her doctor adding to her overwhelming sense of anguish.
Travers wandered around the room his shabby clothing (that was three sizes too big for him) was falling off his shoulder more and more with every step that he took. His crumpled up shirt with holes in was far from decent and his trousers that were once grey were black with filth. Travers was not a handsome man and had many distorting features: his ragged black hair filled with knots covered his pale forehead; his blue eyes had gone many weeks ago and in their place were red bloodshot ones; the bags under his eyes were those of an elderly woman. Sweat poured down his face and it was nothing to do with the heat of the room. Travers wiped his brow and slowly trod around the room. “He’s coming,” he thought. Shaking, Travers sat down onto the ancient settee. His fingers, which were extremely pale, could not stop shaking. His body hunched over as if he was protecting himself from pain and harm.
An interesting person should have lots of intrigues in his brain, and he should have a curious characteristic. So the adjective "interesting" seems to be the best word to describe me, there is no other better word. All of my old friends know I am a person who has lots of intrigues and happiness. In every important party, I am always invited to be the joker. For these reasons, I believe that I am the most interesting person I know.