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....

-------------------------------------------

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.

-------------------------------------------

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.

Literary Criticism (New Criticism)

The Doll's House

by Katherine Mansfield 

When dear old Mrs. Hay went back to town after staying with the Burnells she sent the children a doll's house. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could come of it; it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint would have gone off by the time it had to be taken in. For, really, the smell of paint coming from that doll's house ("Sweet of old Mrs. Hay, of course; most sweet and generous!") -- but the smell of paint was quite enough to make any one seriously ill, in Aunt Beryl's opinion. Even before the sacking was taken off. And when it was . . .
There stood the doll's house, a dark, oily, spinach green, picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys, glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door, gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.
But perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind the smell? It was part of the joy, part of the newness.
"Open it quickly, some one!"
The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat pried it open with his pen- knife, and the whole house-front swung back, and-there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the drawing-room and dining-room, the kitchen and two bedrooms. That is the way for a house to open! Why don't all houses open like that? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat-stand and two umbrellas! That is-isn't it? -- what you long to know about a house when you put your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at dead of night when He is taking a quiet turn with an angel. . . .
"Oh-oh!" The Burnell children sounded as though they were in despair. It was too marvellous; it was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls, painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen; red plush chairs in the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with real bedclothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn't light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil, and that moved when you shook it.
The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll's house. They didn't look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile to Kezia, to say, "I live here." The lamp was real.
The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe, to-well-to boast about their doll's house before the school-bell rang.
"I'm to tell," said Isabel, "because I'm the eldest. And you two can join in after. But I'm to tell first."
There was nothing to answer. Isabel was bossy, but she was always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing.
"And I'm to choose who's to come and see it first. Mother said I might."
For it had been arranged that while the doll's house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time, to come and look. Not to stay to tea, of course, or to come traipsing through the house. But just to stand quietly in the courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties, and Lottie and Kezia looked pleased. . . .
But hurry as they might, by the time they had reached the tarred palings of the boys' playground the bell had begun to jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall into line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her, "Got something to tell you at playtime."
Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. The girls of her class nearly fought to put their arms round her, to walk away with her, to beam flatteringly, to be her special friend. She held quite a court under the huge pine trees at the side of the playground. Nudging, giggling together, the little girls pressed up close. And the only two who stayed outside the ring were the two who were always outside, the little Kelveys. They knew better than to come anywhere near the Burnells.
For the fact was, the school the Burnell children went to was not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if there had been any choice. But there was none. It was the only school for miles. And the consequence was all the children in the neighborhood, the judge's little girls, the doctor's daughters, the store-keeper's children, the milkman's, were forced to mix together. Not to speak of there being an equal number of rude, rough little boys as well. But the line had to be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of the children, including the Burnells, were not allowed even to speak to them. They walked past the Kelveys with their heads in the air, and as they set the fashion in all matters of behaviour, the Kelveys were shunned by everybody. Even the teacher had a special voice for them, and a special smile for the other children when Lil Kelvey came up to her desk with a bunch of dreadfully common-looking flowers.
They were the daughters of a spry, hardworking little washerwoman, who went about from house to house by the day. This was awful enough. But where was Mr. Kelvey? Nobody knew for certain. But everybody said he was in prison. So they were the daughters of a washerwoman and a gaolbird. Very nice company for other people's children! And they looked it. Why Mrs. Kelvey made them so conspicuous was hard to understand. The truth was they were dressed in "bits" given to her by the people for whom she worked. Lil, for instance, who was a stout, plain child, with big freckles, came to school in a dress made from a green art-serge table-cloth of the Burnells', with red plush sleeves from the Logans' curtains. Her hat, perched on top of her high forehead, was a grown-up woman's hat, once the property of Miss Lecky, the postmistress. It was turned up at the back and trimmed with a large scarlet quill. What a little guy she looked! It was impossible not to laugh. And her little sister, our Else, wore a long white dress, rather like a nightgown, and a pair of little boy's boots. But whatever our Else wore she would have looked strange. She was a tiny wishbone of a child, with cropped hair and enormous solemn eyes-a little white owl. Nobody had ever seen her smile; she scarcely ever spoke. She went through life holding on to Lil, with a piece of Lil's skirt screwed up in her hand. Where Lil went our Else followed. In the playground, on the road going to and from school, there was Lil marching in front and our Else holding on behind. Only when she wanted anything, or when she was out of breath, our Else gave Lil a tug, a twitch, and Lil stopped and turned round. The Kelveys never failed to understand each other.
Now they hovered at the edge; you couldn't stop them listening. When the little girls turned round and sneered, Lil, as usual, gave her silly, shamefaced smile, but our Else only looked.
And Isabel's voice, so very proud, went on telling. The carpet made a great sensation, but so did the beds with real bedclothes, and the stove with an oven door.
When she finished Kezia broke in. "You've forgotten the lamp, Isabel."
"Oh, yes," said Isabel, "and there's a teeny little lamp, all made of yellow glass, with a white globe that stands on the dining-room table. You couldn't tell it from a real one."
"The lamp's best of all," cried Kezia. She thought Isabel wasn't making half enough of the little lamp. But nobody paid any attention. Isabel was choosing the two who were to come back with them that afternoon and see it. She chose Emmie Cole and Lena Logan. But when the others knew they were all to have a chance, they couldn't be nice enough to Isabel. One by one they put their arms round Isabel's waist and walked her off. They had something to whisper to her, a secret. "Isabel's my friend."
Only the little Kelveys moved away forgotten; there was nothing more for them to hear.
Days passed, and as more children saw the doll's house, the fame of it spread. It became the one subject, the rage. The one question was, "Have you seen Burnells' doll's house?" "Oh, ain't it lovely!" "Haven't you seen it? Oh, I say!"
Even the dinner hour was given up to talking about it. The little girls sat under the pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches and big slabs of johnny cake spread with butter. While always, as near as they could get, sat the Kelveys, our Else holding on to Lil, listening too, while they chewed their jam sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red blobs.
"Mother," said Kezia, "can't I ask the Kelveys just once?"
"Certainly not, Kezia."
"But why not?"
"Run away, Kezia; you know quite well why not."

At last everybody had seen it except them. On that day the subject rather flagged. It was the dinner hour. The children stood together under the pine trees, and suddenly, as they looked at the Kelveys eating out of their paper, always by themselves, always listening, they wanted to be horrid to them. Emmie Cole started the whisper.
"Lil Kelvey's going to be a servant when she grows up."
"O-oh, how awful!" said Isabel Burnell, and she made eyes at Emmie.
Emmie swallowed in a very meaning way and nodded to Isabel as she'd seen her mother do on those occasions.
"It's true-it's true-it's true," she said.
Then Lena Logan's little eyes snapped. "Shall I ask her?" she whispered.
"Bet you don't," said Jessie May.
"Pooh, I'm not frightened," said Lena. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls. "Watch! Watch me! Watch me now!" said Lena. And sliding, gliding, dragging one foot, giggling behind her hand, Lena went over to the Kelveys.
Lil looked up from her dinner. She wrapped the rest quickly away. Our Else stopped chewing. What was coming now?
"Is it true you're going to be a servant when you grow up, Lil Kelvey?" shrilled Lena.
Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her silly, shame-faced smile. She didn't seem to mind the question at all. What a sell for Lena! The girls began to titter.
Lena couldn't stand that. She put her hands on her hips; she shot forward. "Yah, yer father's in prison!" she hissed, spitefully.
This was such a marvellous thing to have said that the little girls rushed away in a body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning.
In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots. They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she could see that they were the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging. She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside them walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered back on the gate; she had made up her mind; she swung out.
"Hullo," she said to the passing Kelveys.
They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her silly smile. Our Else stared.
"You can come and see our doll's house if you want to," said Kezia, and she dragged one toe on the ground. But at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly.
"Why not?" asked Kezia.
Lil gasped, then she said, "Your ma told our ma you wasn't to speak to us."
"Oh, well," said Kezia. She didn't know what to reply. "It doesn't matter. You can come and see our doll's house all the same. Come on. Nobody's looking."
But Lil shook her head still harder.
"Don't you want to?" asked Kezia.
Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil's skirt. She turned round. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes; she was frowning; she wanted to go. For a moment Lil looked at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the doll's house stood.
"There it is," said Kezia.
There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted; our Else was still as a stone.
"I'll open it for you," said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook and they looked inside.
"There's the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that's the-"
"Kezia!"
Oh, what a start they gave!
"Kezia!"
It was Aunt Beryl's voice. They turned round. At the back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn't believe what she saw.
"How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard?" said her cold, furious voice. "You know as well as I do, you're not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at once. And don't come back again," said Aunt Beryl. And she stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were chickens.
"Off you go immediately!" she called, cold and proud.
They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame, shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed through the white gate.
"Wicked, disobedient little girl!" said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia, and she slammed the doll's house to.
The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did not meet him that evening in Pulman's Bush, he'd come to the front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelveys and given Kezia a good scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone. She went back to the house humming.
When the Kelveys were well out of sight of Burnells', they sat down to rest on a big red drain-pipe by the side of the road. Lil's cheeks were still burning; she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where Logan's cows stood waiting to be milked. What were their thoughts?
Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and stroked her sister's quill; she smiled her rare smile.
"I seen the little lamp," she said, softly.
Then both were silent once more.

This short story by Katherine Mansfield is an example of a literary piece under New Criticism. New Criticism Approach suggests that the text is a self-contained entity, and that everything that the reader needs to know to understand is already in the text. New critics totally discount the importance of historical context, authorial intent, effects on the reader, and social contexts, choosing to focus instead on the layers in the next. It simpler form, New Criticism looked at the literary works on the basis of what is written, and not at the goals of the author or biographical issues. 

This short story tries to give the readers every inch of information needed to understand the story by describing the characters' socio-economic status. This is probably the approach since Mansfield is considered an author who touches the harsh realities of life to teach people the lessons they have to learn. However, in this case, discussion of such would be inappropriate since we're trying to look at its side under New Criticism. This paragraph I think is not important anymore in the story since it focused more on the emotions of a character whose role is not as important as the main characters. "The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did not meet him that evening in Pulman's Bush, he'd come to the front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelveys and given Kezia a good scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone. She went back to the house humming."


This story revolves around a simple thing---the doll's house which can mostly take for granted but the author managed to use such idea. The doll's house, a simple children's toy which is the dream of every young girls, was used to present an obscure reality of the society. Such thing served as an eye-opener for everybody to see the thick wall between the rich and the poor. This conviction was used to understand the whole story. Therefore, the parts of this literary piece clearly defines the whole.


Moreover, the simplicity of this literary piece is the key for every reader to understand its message. The characters of the Kelveys and Kezia serve as the major help for understanding such text. This text however, is open-ended which leaves everything to the reader. At least, the crisis of the Kelveys which is their strong desire to see the doll's house was resolved.

Literary Criticism (Marxist Criticism)

“The Ninny”

By Anton Chekkov

Translated by Robert Payne

                Just a few days ago, I invited Yulia Vassilyevna, the governess of my children, to come to my study; I wanted to settle my account with her.

                “Sit down, Yulia Vassilyevna”, I said to her. “Let’s get our accounts settled. I’m sure you need some money, but you keep standing on ceremony and never ask for it. Let me see. We agreed to give you thirty rubles a month, didn’t we? 

                “Forty.”

                “No, thirty. I made a note of it. I always pay the governess thirty. Now let me see, you have been with us for two months?”

                “Two months and five days.”

                “Two months exactly. I made a note of it. So you have sixty rubles coming to you. Subtract nine Sundays. You know you don’t tutor Kolya on Sundays, so you just go out for a walk. And then the three holidays…”

                Yulia Vassilyevna blushed and picked at the trimmings of her dress, but said not a word.

                “Three holidays. So we take off twelve rubles. Kolya was sick for four days-those days you didn’t look after him. You looked after Vanya, only Vanya. Then there were the three days you had toothache, when my wife gave you permission to stay away from the children after dinner. Twelve and seven makes nineteen. Subtract…that leaves…hm…forty-one rubles. Correct?”

                Yulia Vassilyevna’s left eye reddened and filled with tears. Her chin trembled. She began to cough nervously, blew her nose, and said nothing.

                “Then around New Year’s Day, you broke a cup and saucer, subtract two rubles. The cup cost more than that-it was a heirloom, but we won’t bother about that. We’re the ones who pay. Another matter. Due to your carelessness, Kolya climbed a tree and tore his coat. Subtract ten. Also, due to your carelessness, the chambermaid ran off with Vanya’s boots. You ought to have kept your eyes open. You get a good salary. So we dock off five more… on the tenth of January, you took ten rubles from me.”

                “I didn’t.” Yulia Vassilyevna whispered.

                “But I made a note of it.”

                “Well yes…perhaps.”

                “From forty-one, we take twenty-seven. That leaves fourteen.”

                 Her eyes filled with tears, and her thin pretty little nose was shining with perspiration. Poor child!

                “I only took money once,” she said in a trembling voice. “I took three rubles from your wife…never anything more.”

                “Did you now? You see, I never made a note of it. Take three from fourteen. That leaves eleven. Here’s your money my dear. Three, three, three…one and one. Take it my dear.”

                I gave her the eleven rubles. With trembling fingers, she took them and slipped them into her pocket.

                “Merci,” she whispered.

                I jumped up, and began pacing up and down the room. I was in furious temper.

                “Why did you say ‘merci’?” I asked.

                “For the money.”

                “Don’t you realize I’ve been cheating you? I steal your money and all you can say is ‘merci’!”

                “In my other places, they gave me nothing.”

                “They gave you nothing! Well, no wonder! I was playing a trick on you-a dirty trick … I’ll give you your eighty rubles, they are all here in an envelope made out for you. Is it possible for anyone to be such a nitwit? Why didn’t you protest? Why did you keep your mouth shut? Is it possible that there is anyone in this world who is such a spineless? Why are you such a ninny?”

                She gave me a bitter little smile. On her face I read the words: “Yes it is possible.”

                I apologized for having played this cruel trick on her and to her great surprise gave her the eighty rubles. And then she said “merci” again several times, always timidly, and went out. I gazed after her, thinking how very easy it is in this world to be strong.

One of the major political ideas of the last century is the concept of cultural and economic determinism, deriving from the theories of the social philosopher Karl Marx. He emphasized that the primary influence on life was economics and he saw society as an opposition between the capitalists and the working classes. As a result, much literature can be judged from an economic perspective as to what the economic status of the characters is and what happens to them as a result of this status.

I consider “The Ninny” by Anton Chekkov an example of Marxist Criticism because of its characteristic which can be best described as “competing socioeconomic interests such as money and power over socialist interests such as morality and justice”. This is particularly visible in the part of the story where the boss insisted that he noted everything that must be cancelled from the governess’ account while the latter didn’t find the courage to protest.

           

However, the only difference of this story is that at the end, the one who has the power gave justice to the other character and this does not include instances to which the poor and oppressed who spend their lives in endless drudgery and misery, and whose attempts to rise above their disadvantages usually result in renewed suppression. In this, the governess didn’t protest nor do something to be in the same level as the “boss” but accepted whatever the powerful one said.

Nowadays, it would be difficult to encounter people as weak as the governess thus; this literary piece hardly reflects reality. I admire though the honesty of both characters. The governess admitted (whether conscious or not), that she took three rubles from the boss’ wife and the boss’ apology for tricking someone as innocent as the governess.