Literary Criticism (Novel)

One of the best novels that one could probably read is Richard Paul Evan's (author of Christmas Box which was adapted for a movie) "Finding Noel".  This is a novel written for his mother who passed away and this for him, is a remembrance of that woman. Thus, with such information, it is obvious that the novel tells a story of a "very special" woman as described by the author. The novel used first person point of view which made the message more personal as if the author is just speaking to a person alone. The synopsis is as follow:

"The Christmas season is supposed to be full of joy, but not for Mark Smart. Life had dealt him one body blow after another: he lost his scholarship and had to drop out of school; his beloved mother had died in a car crash; his girlfriend dumped him, and now, late on a snowy night in November, his car had broken down. Stumbling into a coffee house, he was looking for a phone to call a tow truck. What he found was a beautiful young woman with an unusual name who, through a simple act of kindness, changed his life forever.
Macy Wood had little memory of her birth parents, and memories she’d rather forget of her adopted home. A Christmas ornament inscribed with the word “Noel” was the only clue to the little sister she only vaguely remembered, a clue that would send her, and Mark on a journey to reclaim her past, and her family."


The cover, I admit, really catches my attention but then I'm not fond of reading novels. I stared at it for few minutes and started to wonder why is it titled FINDING NOEL. The way writers used titles really amaze me. In the case of this novel, I was just puzzled. At first I thought it's a mystery book but then the cover is just too good to support such dark idea. I started reading the synopsis and later found myself reading chapter one. The approach is like that of a diary which arouse my interest. As I went on reading, I never realized the time because I enjoyed every word that's written. I can't stop myself from reading it and I can't help myself to move on from one chapter to another as if I'm hypnotized. The storyline is very simple really. It just tells the story like that of an everyday boring reality but then the author managed to tickle people's imagination and there are a lot of things to be quoted----words of wisdom. Simplicity, I say is the most powerful technique of this piece. The words are easy to understand which would be perfect for everybody's taste.


The novel tells the story of a woman retold by the speaker, the main male character himself. He's actually telling the story of the woman he loved and his life as well. The author mentioned earlier on his notes that the story was based on a true-to-life of a woman whom he met. Therefore, I say that the author had a wonderful ability of using simple words in order for everybody to understand the meaning of the story. The sacrifices that the two characters had been through is really frustrating but realistic. The woman is considered "special" because despite of her bitter memories of childhood,  she managed to move on and at least live life to its best. However, her sorrowful childhood can't be hidden forever. Macy's line "No good day went unpaid for" reflects her memories of being separated from her sister and living a miserable life with her second family.


The main male character, Mark also has a sorrowful life being a black sheep on the eyes of his father whom he hated the most, a son without a mother, and a College drop-out. However, meeting Macy made him realized that there is still something beautiful about life. He realized that there are people who experienced worse than him but still managed to smile and look at life at its positive side. The meeting of the two characters led them into finding the long lost sister of Macy and the father who abandoned her. They helped each other by fixing the pieces of their life which were missing. 


Generally, the story revolves around the importance of having a Family---people who will always be there no matter what. This will be further supported by the main male character's lines, "I've come to know that our families are a canvas on which we paint our greatest hopes---imperfect and sloppy, for we are all amateurs at life, but if we do not focus too much on our mistakes, a miraculous picture emerges. And we learn that it's not the beauty of the image that warrants our gratitude---it's the chance to paint". 


I learned further from this novel that no matter what happens, everything will turn out right at the end. In this life, the courage to risk will let us discover the reasons on why things are happening to us the way they do.  

Literary Criticism (Short Story)

Desire

by Paz Latorena

She was homely. A very broad forehead gave her face an unpleasant, masculine look. Her eyes, which were small, slanted at the corners and made many of her acquaintances wonder if perchance she had a few drops of celestial blood in her veins. Her nose was broad and flat, and its nostrils were always dilated, as if breathing were an effort. Her mouth, with thick lips, was a long, straight; gash across her face made angular by her unusually big jaws.

But nature, as if ashamed of her meanness in fashioning the face, moulded a body of unusual beauty. From her neck to her small feet, she was perfect. Her bust was full, and her breast rose up like twin roses in full bloom. Her waist was slim as a young girl’s her hips seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon. Her arms were shapely ending in small hands with fine tapering fingers that were the envy of her friends. Her legs with their trim ankles reminded one of those lifeless things seen in shop windows displaying the latest silk stockings.

Hers was a body of a sculptor, athirst for glory, might have dreamt of and moulded in a feverish frenzy of creation, with hand atremble with a vision of the fame in store for him. Hers was a body that might have been the delight and despair of a painter whose feelings faltering brush tried in vain to depict on the canvass such a beautiful harmony of curves and lines. Hers was a body a poet might have raved over and immortalized in musical, fanciful verses. Hers was a body men would gladly have gone to hell for.

And they did. Men looked at her face and turned their eyes away; they looked at her body and were enslaved. They forget the broad masculine forehead, the small eyes that slanted at the corners, the unpleasant mouth, the aggressive jaws. All they had eyes for was that body, those hips that has stolen the curve of the crescent moon.

But she hated her body – hated that gift which Nature, in a fit of remorse for the wrong done to her face, had given her. She hated her body because it made men look at her with an unbeautiful light in their eyes – married eyes, single eyes.

She wanted love, was starved for it. But she did not want that love that her body inspired in men. She wanted something purer, cleaner.

She was disgusted. And hurt. For men told other women that they loved them looking deep into their eyes to the soul beneath their voices low and soft, their hands quivering with the weight of their tenderness. But men told her that they loved her body with eyes that made her feel as if she were naked, stripped bare of their simple eyes to gaze upon. They told her that with voices made thick with desire, touched her with hand afire, that scared her flesh, filling her with scorn and loathing.

She wanted to be loved as other women were loved. She was as good as pure as they. And some of them were as homely as she was. But they did not have beautiful bodies. And so they were loved for themselves.

Deliberately she set out to hide from the eyes of men the beautiful body that to her was a curse rather than a blessing. She started wearing long, wide dresses that completely disfigured her. She gave up wearing the Filipino costume which outlined her body with startling accuracy.

It took quite a time to make men forget that body that had once been their delight. But after a time they became accustomed to the disfiguring dresses and concluded she had become fate and shapeless. She accomplished the desired result.

And more.. For there came a time when men look at her and turned their eyes away, not with the unbeautiful light of former days but with something akin to pity mirrored there –pity for a homely face and a shapeless mass of flesh.

At first she was glad. Glad that she had succeeded in extinguishing that unbeautiful light in the eyes of men when they looked at her.

After some time, she became rebellious. For she was a woman and she wanted to be loved and to love. But it seemed that men would not have anything to do with a woman with a homely face and an apparently shapeless mass of flesh.

But she became reconciled to her fate. And rather than bring back that unbeautiful light in men’s eyes, she chose to go … with the farce.

She turned to writing to while away the long nights spent brooding all alone.

Little things. Little lyrics. Little sketches. Sometimes they were the heart throbs of a woman who wanted love and sweet things whispered to her in the dark.. Sometimes, they were the ironies of one who sees all the weaknesses and stupidities of men and the world through eye made bitter by loneliness.

She sent them to papers which found the little things acceptable and published them, “To fill space,” she told herself. But she continued to write because it made her forget once in a while how drab her life was.

And then came into her life – a man with white blood in his veins. He was one of those who believed in the inferiority of colored races. But he found something unusual in the light, ironic tirades from the pen of the unknown writer. Not in the little lyrics. No, he thought that those were superfluous effusions of a woman belonging to a race of people who could not think of writing about anything except love. But he liked the light airy sketches. They were like those of the people of his race.

One day, when he had nothing to do, he sent her, to encourage her, a note of appreciation. It was brief, but the first glance showed her that it came from cultured man.

She answered it, a light, nonsensical answer that touched the sense of humor of the white man. That started a correspondence. In the course of time, she came to watch for the mail carrier for the gray tinted stationery that was his.

He asked to see her – to know her personally. Letters were so tantalizing. Her first impulse was to say no. A bitter smile hovered about her lips as she surveyed her face before the mirror. He would be disappointed, she told herself.

But she consented. They would have to meet sooner or later. The first meeting would surely be trial and the sooner it was over, the better.

He, the white man, coming from a land of fair, blue-eyed women, was shocked. Perhaps, he found it a bit difficult to associate this homely woman with one who could write such delightful sketches, such delightful letters.

But she could talk rather well. There was a light vein of humor, faintly ironical at times, in everything she said. And that delighted him.

He asked her to come out with him again. By the shore of Manila Bay one early evening, when her homely face was softened by the darkness around them, he forgot that he was a white man, that she was a brown maiden – a homely and to all appearances, shapeless creature at that. Her silence, as with half closed eyes she gazed at the distance, was very soothing and under the spell of her understanding sympathy, he found himself telling her of his home way over the seas, how he loved the blue of the sea on early morning because it reminded of the blue of the eyes of the women of his native land. He told her of his love of the sea, for the waves that dashed against the rocks in impotent fury, how he could spend his life on the water, sailing on and on, to unknown and uncharted seas.

She listened to him silently. Then he woke up from the spell and, as if ashamed of the outburst of confidence, added irrelevantly:

“But you are different from the other women of your race,” looking deep into her small eyes that slanted at the corners.

She smiled. Of course she was, the homely and shapeless mass of flesh that he saw her to be.

No, I do not mean that, “he protested, divining her thoughts, “you do not seem to care much for convention. No Filipino girl would go out unchaperoned with a man, a white mad at that.”

“A homely woman can very well afford to break conventions. Nobody minds her if she does. That is one consolation of being homely,” was her calmly reply.

He laughed.

“You have some very queer ideas,” he observed.

“I should have,” she retorted. “If I didn’t nobody would notice me with my face and my … my figure,” she hated herself for stammering the last words.

He looked at her impersonally, as if trying to find some beauty in her.

“But I like you,” was his verdict, uttered with the almost brutal frankness in his race. “I have not come across a more interesting girl for a long time.”

They met, again. And again. Thoughts, pleasant thoughts, began to fill her mind. Had she at last found one who liked her sincerely? For he liked her, that she was ready to believe. As a friend, a pal who understood him. And the though gave her happiness – a friend, a pal who understood him – such as she had never experienced before.

One day, an idea took hold of her – simply obsesses her. He was such a lover of beautiful things – of beauty in any form. She noticed that in all his conversations, in very look, every gesture of his. A desire to show him that she was not entirely devoid of beauty which he worshipped came over her.

It would not do any harm, she told herself. He had learned to like her for herself. He had leaned to value their friendship, homely as she was shapeless as he thought her to be. Her body would matter not at all now. It would please the aesthete in him perhaps, but it certainly would not matter much to the man.

From the bottom of a very old truck, she unearthed one of those flimsy, shapedly things tha had lain there unused for many years. As she looked at herself in the mirror before the appointment, she grudgingly admitted that her body had lost nothing of its hated beauty.

He was surprised. Pleasantly so.

Accustomed as he was to the beautiful bodies of the women of his race, he had to confess that there was something of unusual beauty.

“Why have you been hiding such a beautiful figure all this time,” he demanded in mock anger.

“I did not know it was beautiful,” she lied.

“Pouff! I know it is not polite to tell a young lady she is a liar so I won’t do it. But… but…”

“But…” fear was beginning to creep into her voice.

“Well… Let us talk of something else.”

She heaved in a deep sigh. She was right. She had found a man to whom her body mattered little if anything at all. She need not take warning. He had learned to like her for herself.

At their next meeting she wore a pale rose Filipino dress that softened the brown of her skin. His eyes lighted up when they rested on her, but whether it was the unbeautiful light that she dreaded so much, she could not determine for it quickly disappeared. No, it could not be the unbeautiful light. He liked her for herself. This belief she treasured fondly.

They had a nice long ride out in the country, where the winds were soft and faintly scented and the bamboo tress sighed love to the breeze. They visited a little our of the way nipa chapel by the roadside where a naked Man, nailed to the Cross, looked at them with eyes which held all the tragedy and sorrow of the world – for the sins of sinning men.

She gazed at the figure feeling something vague and incomprehensible stirring within her. She turned to him for sympathy and found him staring at her… at her body.

He turned slightly red. In silence they left the little chapel. He helped her inside the car but did not start it at once.

“I… I… love…” he stammered after some moment, as if impelled by an irresistible force. Then he stopped.

The small eyes that slanted at the corners were almost beautiful with a tender, soft light as she turned them on hi. So he loved her. Had he learned not only to like her but to love her? For herself. And the half finished confession found an echo in the heart of the woman who was starved for love.

“Yes…” there was a pleading note in her voice.

He swallowed hard. “I love…. Your body.” He finished with a thick voice: And the blue eyes flared with the dreaded, hateful light.

She uttered an involuntary cry of protest, of pain of disillusion. And then a sob escaped her.

And dimly the man from the West realized that he had wronged this little brown maiden with a homely face and the beautiful body as she never had been wronged before. And he felt sorry, infinitely so.

When they stopped before the door of her house, he got out to open the door for her.

“I am sorry,” was all he said.

There was a world of regret in the eyes she turned on him.

“For what?” she asked in a tired voice. “You have just been yourself… like other men.” He winced.

And with a weary smile she passed within.

The character's crisis was presented clearly at the very beginning and everything revolved in this problem. It is difficult to say whether such situation really exist in real life or is it just a fantasy. Though there are people who are liked just because of their bodies, it really is doubtful to say that they were experiencing the same situation the main character is into. Whoever woman would be asked, the situation of the woman in the main character is not easy. Being in such case, she would develop distrust to every person she'll meet.

Since the author is a female, I think she tried to present to everybody how difficult it is to be loved because of a particular asset. She expressed the emotions that are usually hidden and described everything in a second person point of view which makes it heavier when striking the emotions. Probably, her aim is to bring lightning to the realization mostly of the men that women must be appreciated based on whoever they are and how they want to be accepted rather than on the physical aspects.

The main character was bothered by the problem that her body is appreciated more and she was only accepted by the people around her because of that. She tried everything to hide this and discovered that there will be someone who will love her just by being her alone. She met a particular person but she failed once more because he was too astonished that he forgot to control his desire. I was really asking myself whether the main character regret it that she showed her body because of thinking that she's in love with the person.

The reason behind its title probably is that the story revolves around a feeling that usually destroys human relations---Desire. This story showed how one's desire could hurt other people. The crisis that was experienced by the main character was not resolved and it even have an open-ending. Before the ending, I thought the woman would experience the joy that she had been looking for but as always, reality will always be reality. It doesn't have a background music for you to imagine and assume that everything will happen the same way you want it to be.

   

Literary Criticism (My Grandmother's Sweater)

My Grandmother's Sweater

The crispness of the morning
awaken the sleeping robins.
The sun peeks out from the horizon
as I put on my grandmother's sweater.

I turn and face the body
wasted of life
tired eyes looking back
full of pain.

The other day my sister asked me,
"Which way does the grass grow?"
Down into the ground, I think
as I snuggle deeper into my grandmother's sweater.

"What's life all about?" she asked me next.
Love. Death. Pain. I think,
as they lay her into the ground.

I feel nothing
as the sun shines down
upon the crosses in a row
only comfort in my grandmother's sweater.

This poem was presented in a free verse. There was no particular pattern of rhyming neither a particular pattern in syllabication. It was a narrative poetry, a story I supposed which was divided into parts to form a poem. This used the first person point of view which probably was one of the techniques so that it will be better understood by the readers. Such method also helped in expressing the emotion that the narrator felt.

Though the poem starts with a positive scene with the rising of the sun, still it wasn't able to hide the sad aura that the poem represents. The author used symbolism which was emphasized in the lines:

The other day my sister asked me,
"Which way does the grass grow?"
Down into the ground, I think
as I snuggle deeper into my grandmother's sweater.

"What's life all about?" she asked me next.
Love. Death. Pain. I think,
as they lay her into the ground.

I wasn't able to understand what these lines really meant but I think the question "which way does the grass grow?" was being compared to life. I would interpret in a way that there is really something deeper about life. Things do happen for reasons we can't immediately see. We have to dig deeper and risk more for us to discover what really are meant by the things that are happening. It may also mean that we always come back to wherever we came from.

The meaning of the poem with regard to the grandmother's death is very obvious. This death was used to make the message vivid for the ones who reads. But as earlier mentioned, with regard to that question, it is unclear. What does the author really mean? What really are his intentions? However, the general idea is very obvious. The narrator was sad because of the grandmother's death and the only thing that made him/her remembered the woman was the sweater which kept (him/her) warm. 

Literary Criticism (Reader-Response Criticism)

The Lion Makers (A tale from the Panchatantra in India)

Long, long, long ago four Brahmans lived in the same town.  They were wonderful friends as children.  Each was very smart.  But the way they showed their intelligence was different.  Three of them were scholars.  They read everything they could find to read and loved to argue and debate.  But, they had very little comon sense in the ways of the world.

The fourth had very good common sense but had very little formal education.  He had to work from the time he was young.  He had not been able to go to school, and he could not read.

"How does being smart help us if we continue to live here where the people are poor and where there is no money to be made?" they asked of each other.  "We should travel to other parts of the world and use our wisdom to make ourselves rich."  This was how they set out on their journey.

When they had gone only a short way, the eldest of them said, "One of us does not deserve to be in our company."  He looked at the fourth Brahman.  "Our companion has no education," he stated.  "He hs only common sense!  No one can become rich without a good education.  I don't think we should share our earnings with him!"

The second Brahman turned to the first and said, "You are right.  Our friend has no education.  Let us send him home instead of sharing our fortune with him that we will earn with our intelligence."

The third said, "No, no.  This is not the way to behave.  We have been friends since childhood.  We should let him come with us.  We will give him an equal part in all that we earn!"

The first two agreed after a long discussion to let the fourth Brahman continue with them on their journey.  They walked along until they came to the bones of a dead lion.

The first of the educated men said, "Here is a chance to show our ignorant friend how much we know.  Here lie the bones of some dead creature.  Let us see if we can bring it back to life by using all that we have learned."  Then he added, "I know how to put a skeleton back together!"

The second Brahman, not wanting to be outdone, said, "I can give it skin and cover it with flesh and give it blood."  As he did this, the third Brahman stated that he could breathe life back into the body.

As he said this, the fourth Brahman spoke up.  "My friends," he said, "I concede that you have learned much more from books and schools than I have.  But, my common sense tells me that we should not bring a lion back to life.  I do not believe we are wise to do this.  If he comes back to life, he will want to eat us."

The first three Brahmans were angry with him.  "We let you travel with us even though you are not very knowledgeable like we are.  You know so very little, and yet you presume to kow more than we do?

"I only know what my common sense tells me," the fourth Brahman stated.  "However, if you intend to persist in bringing the dead lion back to life, please hold your efforts until I have climbed this tree."

After the fourth Brahman climbed the tree, the first three Brahmans completed their task of bringing the lion back to life.  As the breath of life filled his lungs, the lion let out with a great roar and ate up all three scholars who were on the ground.

With a full stomache, the lion was not willing or able to climb the tree and eat the fourth Brahman.  So the man with no formal education had the sense to climb down the tree and go back to his former home. 

This is a famous tale from the Indian epic Mahabharata which emphasizes the thought that Wisdom is much better than having an Intelligence alone. This text can be criticized in a Reader-Response Criticism. Critics in this approach are not interested in a "correct" interpretation of a text or what the author intended but rather on what goes on the mind of the readers during the reading o f a text.

Thus, there is no single perfect interpretation of a text because the reader's interpretations vary and they are the ones who create the absolute meanings of texts.

The author tries to tell to the readers how important it is to have wisdom and not knowledge alone. In the case of the Brahmans, they were blinded by their intense trust on knowledge alone. They weren't even able to manage to think about what they are doing. They were driven by their strong desire to prove that they are very intelligent and that the fourth Brahman was stupid and dumb.

If such things would happen in the modern days, one could immediately say that a dead lion cannot be brought into life again but since this is just a tale, then some things like this would be possible. However, for me it is not the intelligence of the Brahmans that killed them but their too much pride and there urge to prove to the stupid Brahman that they are a lot better than him. The author ended the story by leaving a lesson that people must not boast too  must about their background. 

I learned one simple thing from this which is the fact that we must not rely too much on our knowledge alone. It is not important whether we're smart or not because it won't determine our relationship with other people. What matters most is how we would be living and deciding based on the situations we are into. The way we act in front of the people around us will be the basis of our life. 

  

Literary Criticism (Queer Theory)

Jude the Obscure

(A Summary)

by Thomas Hardy

Jude the Obscure opens as a young Jude Fawley watches his school teacher, Mr. Richard Phillotson, depart the small town of Marygreen and travel to the university at Christminster. Sharing Phillotson's goal of earning a degree, Jude hopes to one day follow the same path and so studies intently. Meanwhile, he lives with his great-aunt, Drusilla Fawley, and learns the trade of stonemasonry in order to earn money for his future. Several years pass and Jude, now nineteen years old, meets Arabella Donn, the daughter of a local pig farmer. Sensuous and physically attractive, Arabella pursues Jude, and the two become lovers. Eventually Arabella convinces Jude that she has become pregnant by him, and they marry. Quickly growing tired of her new husband, however, she leaves him and emigrates to Australia. Jude than resumes his original plan and journeys to Christminster. There he meets his distant cousin Sue Bridehead, an intelligent, unconventional woman with whom he immediately falls in love. He later learns that Sue has also attracted the attention of Phillotson. Disheartened by this news and his inability to gain acceptance to the university, Jude departs Christminster for Melchester, where he hopes to pursue theological studies instead. Now also in Melchester at a training college, Sue spends time with Jude, but grows cold when he professes his love to her. After a fearful Jude reveals to her that he is married, she responds by proclaiming her own marriage, to Phillotson. However, the marriage is not to Sue's liking, and the return of Arabella, who has since married an Australian man, prompts Sue to change her mind about Jude.

At the funeral for Jude's recently deceased aunt, Sue kisses Jude passionately. Thinking himself no longer suitable for a career in the Church, Jude forsakes his theological studies. Sue, meanwhile, asks Phillotson for his permission to leave. Sue and Jude move in together in the nearby town of Aldbrickham, while Phillotson eventually grants Sue a divorce. After a year Sue still refuses to make love to Jude, until Arabella appears once again, and Sue and Jude, though unmarried, consummate their relationship for the first time. Arabella notifies Jude that they have a son together, a gloomy boy who is called Little Father Time. The boy arrives shortly from Australia to live with Jude and Sue. Meanwhile, public dislike for the couple's unwed lifestyle costs Jude his job, and the two leave Aldbrickham for Kennetbridge. More than two years pass, and Jude and Sue now have two children of their own, while Sue carries another unborn. When Little Father Time hears his adopted mother's unhappy reaction to the pregnancy he mistakenly believes that he and the other children are the source of the family's woes. He responds by hanging his siblings and then himself. He leaves a note nearby that reads "Done because we are to menny." Soon after, Sue delivers her child stillborn. Jude, meanwhile, falls ill and works only irregularly. Arabella then reappears—her Australian husband has since died—with a revived interest in Jude. She contacts Phillotson, who writes to Sue, urging her to return to him. Sue, feeling that she has been wrong to live with Jude unmarried, agrees. Arabella then contrives to get Jude back, and the two remarry. Jude, who has grown more and more ill over time, professes his enduring love for Sue, but both remain, unhappily, with their former spouses. When Jude dies one year later, having never realized his ambitions, he is attended only by Arabella and Mrs. Edlin, a family friend.

Queer theory or gender studies questions and problematizes the issues of gender identity and sexual orientation in literary texts. In this novel, since there were no issues with regard to the real identity or personal preference of the main character, Jude Fawley, his sexual orientation would then be the issue of criticism. Many people have criticized this novel of Hardy since it has a very vulgar or frank presentation of the sexual desires of the characters.

Jude had a critical life when it comes to his relationships with women. He is torn between with his relationship with the whom he got pregnant, Arabella  and his distant cousin Sue. Even the supporting characters, the women were very vulgar which opposed the idea of conservatism. This way of describing such characters as Arabella and Sue was the technique of the author to probably caught the attention of the readers. It was mentioned that Arabella tempted Jude and told him that she got pregnant by him which only prove how sensual her character is. This was also observable on Sue's character whom despite of her relationship with Phillotson, managed to have a relationship with Jude.

Probably one more thing that cause high negative reactions from the readers is the immorality that was presented in this novel. Evidence of this is the reality that whatever it is, Jude and Sue are still cousins yet they were described to have an intimate relationship. The lines ..."Sue kisses Jude passionately" is a proof for this. 


Moreover, the novel is not a good sample for inspiration. It was very serious and most of the situations are harsh and tragic. The son called Little Father Time killed his siblings and his self which portrayed a possible psychotic problem with that particular character.

At the end, the author still managed to deliver the lesson that one could get from the story. Wherever you'll be, whatever may happen, the ones who love you for real will always be there. Another thing, a desire will always be a desire. One can't have it until old days. What will be left is the love and true concern of the people who's always there for you.

Literary Criticism (Psychological Criticism)

THE TUNNEL

A Zen Story

Zenkai, the son of a samurai, journeyed to Edo and there became the retainer of a high official. He fell in love with the official's wife and was discovered. In self-defense, he slew the official. Then he ran away with the wife.

Both of them later became thieves. But the woman was so greedy that Zenkai grew disgusted. Finally, leaving her, he journeyed far away to the province of Buzen, where he became a wandering mendicant.

To atone for his past, Zenkai resolved to accomplish some good deed in his lifetime. Knowing of a dangerous road over a cliff that had caused the death and injury of many persons, he resolved to cut a tunnel through the mountain there.

Begging food in the daytime, Zenkai worked at night digging his tunnel. When thirty years had gone by, the tunnel was 2,280 feet long, 20 feet high, and 30 feet wide.

Two years before the work was completed, the son of the official he had slain, who was a skillful swordsman, found Zenkai out and came to kill him in revenge.

"I will give you my life willingly," said Zenkai. "Only let me finish this work. On the day it is completed, then you may kill me."

So the son awaited the day. Several months passed and Zendai kept on digging. The son grew tired of doing nothing and began to help with the digging. After he had helped for more than a year, he came to admire Zenkai's strong will and character.

At last the tunnel was completed and the people could use it and travel in safety.

"Now cut off my head," said Zenkai. "My work is done."

"How can I cut off my own teacher's head?" asked the younger man with tears in his eyes.

A Zen story is something that teaches an important value to the readers which is a very popular genre in Japan. This story will be further analyze through Psychological Criticism. The basis of this approach of Literature is the idea of the existence of human consciousness---those impulses, desires, and feelings about which a person is unaware but which influence emotions or behavior. Thus, it goes without saying that the focus will be on the character's desires and how this affect his reactions toward his environment.

The main character, Zenkai went through a lot before realizing the lesson that those adventures had emphasized in his life. At first, one could say that he's a ruthless person since he killed the official and ran away with the latter's wife. However, at the middle of the story, he grew tired of being wicked and did a good thing.

The author probably tries to play with the reader's emotions at first by making the character bad. This was sure an effective technique in making the story clear  and understandable to the readers. Moreover, the son of the official's character played an important part in the story. Using his character, the author was able to present the change that he wanted to show out of the main character. 

Zenkai's strong desire to pay off his bad deeds pushed him to sacrifice by helping the people. He did this by doing a very dangerous task alone. On the part of the official's son, his strong desire to earn his revenge for his father's death brought him to where Zenkai is. But it has a surprising ending that gave a satisfaction to the readers. 

Literary Criticism (New Historicism)

Footnote to Youth

by Jose Garcia Villa

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and let it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, but he wanted his father to know. What he had to say was of serious import as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, at a thought came to him his father might refuse to consider it. His father was silent hard-working farmer who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong's grandmother.

I will tell it to him. I will tell it to him.

The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worms emerged from the furrows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong's foot and crawled calmly over it. Dodong go tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where it fell, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young any more.

Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it land the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interests.

Dodong started homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, the down on his upper lip already was dark--these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man--he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it although he was by nature low in statue. Thinking himself a man grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.

He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dreams of himself and Teang. Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him dream even during the day.

Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field
work was healthy, invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then he marched obliquely to a creek.

Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray undershirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the water, wet his body over, and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.

It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling already was lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. His parents and he sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried fresh-water fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar.

Dodong ate fish and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held them they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of the cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parents.

Dodong's mother removed the dishes when they were through and went out to the batalan to wash them. She walked with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone.

His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him again, Dodong knew. Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father.

Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what he had to say, and over which he had done so much thinking. He had said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father expectantly. A decrescent moon outside shed its feeble light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father looked old now.

"I am going to marry Teang," Dodong said.

His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The silence became intense and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck that troublous tooth again. Dodong was uncomfortable and then became angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.

"I will marry Teang," Dodong repeated. "I will marry Teang."

His father kept gazing at him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.

"I asked her last night to marry me and she said...yes. I want your permission. I... want... it...." There was impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sounds it made broke dully the night stillness.

"Must you marry, Dodong?"

Dodong resented his father's questions; his father himself had married. Dodong made a quick impassioned easy in his mind about selfishness, but later he got confused.

"You are very young, Dodong."

"I'm... seventeen."

"That's very young to get married at."

"I... I want to marry...Teang's a good girl."

"Tell your mother," his father said.

"You tell her, tatay."

"Dodong, you tell your inay."

"You tell her."

"All right, Dodong."

"You will let me marry Teang?"

"Son, if that is your wish... of course..." There was a strange helpless light in his father's eyes. Dodong did not read it, so absorbed was he in himself.

Dodong was immensely glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father. For a while he even felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then he confined his mind to dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dream....

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Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely, so that his camiseta was damp. He was still as a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He had wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt. Afraid of the house. It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe tyranny. Afraid also of Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that, he seemed to be rebuking him. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry.

In a few moments he would be a father. "Father, father," he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now, contradicting himself of nine months comfortable... "Your son," people would soon be telling him. "Your son, Dodong."

Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his callused toes. Suppose he had ten children... What made him think that? What was the matter with him? God!

He heard his mother's voice from the house:

"Come up, Dodong. It is over."

Suddenly he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something no properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust dirt off his kundiman shorts.

"Dodong," his mother called again. "Dodong."

He turned to look again and this time saw his father beside his mother.

"It is a boy," his father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.

Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for him. His parents' eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp.

He wanted to hide from them, to run away.

"Dodong, you come up. You come up," he mother said.

Dodong did not want to come up and stayed in the sun.

"Dodong. Dodong."

"I'll... come up."

Dodong traced tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untrue. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him.

His father thrust his hand in his and gripped it gently.

"Son," his father said.

And his mother: "Dodong..."

How kind were their voices. They flowed into him, making him strong.

"Teang?" Dodong said.

"She's sleeping. But you go on..."

His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his girl-wife, asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did not want her to look that pale.

Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over him and before his parents he did not want to be demonstrative.

The hilot was wrapping the child, Dodong heard it cry. The thin voice pierced him queerly. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.

“You give him to me. You give him to me," Dodong said.

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Blas was not Dodong's only child. Many more children came. For six successive years a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but they came. It seemed the coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.

Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was shapeless and thin now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to be done. Cooking. Laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had not married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong, whom she loved. There has been another suitor, Lucio, older than Dodong by nine years, and that was why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio had married another after her marriage to Dodong, but he was childless until now. She wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have borne him children. Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong...

Dodong whom life had made ugly.

One night, as he lay beside his wife, he rose and went out of the house. He stood in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He w anted to be wise about many things.

One of them was why life did not fulfill all of Youth's dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken... after Love.

Dodong would not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth Youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it.

When Blas was eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It was late at night and Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard Blas's steps, for he could not sleep well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called him name and asked why he did not sleep. Blas said he could not sleep.

"You better go to sleep. It is late," Dodong said.

Blas raised himself on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering voice.

Dodong did not answer and tried to sleep.

"Itay ...," Blas called softly.

Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.

"I am going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight."

Dodong lay on the red pillow without moving.

"Itay, you think it over."

Dodong lay silent.

"I love Tona and... I want her."

Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard, where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white.

"You want to marry Tona," Dodong said. He did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard...

"Yes."

"Must you marry?"

Blas's voice stilled with resentment. "I will marry Tona."

Dodong kept silent, hurt.

"You have objections, Itay?" Blas asked acridly.

"Son... n-none..." (But truly, God, I don't want Blas to marry yet... not yet. I don't want Blas to marry yet....)

But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must triumph... now. Love must triumph... now. Afterwards... it will be life.

As long ago Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong... and then Life.

Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.

This short story by the Filipino writer Jose Garcia Villa is a literary piece under New Historicism. New Historicism is an approach in literature which pays attention to many different dimensions of a culture, including political, social, economic, and aesthetic concerns. This regards that the culture of a certain text plays an active role in the social and political conflicts of an age. In this manner, a text should be analyzed based on how the culture plays an important role in the action of the characters in the story.

In this story, the emotions of a teenager highlighted the topic of having a family at an early age. Philippines is considered as a conservative country which supports that teenage pregnancy by any means is something that would arise people's negative comments.  The author used the rural setting to further emphasized the way of living and how this affects the characters and how would the readers react to it. 

Through the characters and the situations they are into, the author tries to reiterate that teenage pregnancy won't do any help to both the man and the woman. In this case, the character of Dodong was used to emphasize the regrets that one could have after doing such decision and the character of Teang probably to show the state that women might be into when they would end up with the same decision. 

When I first read this, I was in my first year in high school and back then, I realized the sad and regretful message of the story. My teacher even asked me if I were in the situation, would I do the same? I was really puzzled since I was put in the hot seat. The ending however, was not satisfying since it only presents another problem to the characters. The crisis they are experiencing was not even solved instead they are soaked in the same situation that they are into from the very beginning up to the end.

Literary Criticism (Formalist Criticism)

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

This poem by Elizabeth Bishop is an example of a literary piece under the Formalist Criticism. Formalist critics read literature as an independent piece of work or art object and so do not place any kind of importance on the author or the time it was written in. Anything outside of the work is ignored (not examined or given attention to). Thus, in analyzing this piece, one should not include the author's background and other factors which were not part of the text. It is believed in this literary approach that the focus should be more on the content of the text itself.

At short notice, one could say that there is a pattern when it comes to the rhyming of the end words. Since there are three lines for every stanza with an a-b-a rhyming, one could immediately thought that there's a rhyming. However, the last stanza highlighted the confusion since it differs among all with regard to rhyming and even the lines. Thus, I would say it is in a free verse. In addition, there was no pattern with regard to the syllables. 

The poem used the first person point of view. It is easy to notice that the poem is narrating. However, it contains different stories presented through different situations which tackles one topic---the art of losing. At first, just by reading the title, one might thought that the poem will cover about something happy but as the first stanza entered, one should realize that the whole will tackle "bitterness". Also, this poem used hyperbolic figure of speech in the following lines just to pretend that there is really nothing wrong with losing something.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent...

Although the writer tries to point out again and again the art of losing as something that could be easily mastered, it is not difficult to realize that she might be stating this ironically like that of a person who says something opposite of what he/she really thinks and feels. The last stanza is an evident example of this where she even include ...though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.