Othello Tragic Hero

According to Aristotle, a tragic hero is a character of noble status and greatness. He is a man who is not entirely good or entirely evil, rather, he is a man who on the whole is good, but also contributes to his own destruction by some moral weaknesses, known as the fatal flaw. Aristotle further explains that the protagonist must be dominated by a ‘hamartia’ or tragic flaw which leads to his downfall. All tragedies have a hero with a flaw, and in the play Othello, the hero becomes transformed by his tragic flaws of jealousy and gullibility. Othello is the general in the army of Venice and is in love with Desdemona. He is a Moor of African descent, who has risen through the ranks of the Venetian army through hard work and success in battle. Othello is a cultural and racial outsider, often described as a ‘black ram’ or ‘moor’, and his relationship with Desdemona was not accepted by the society at the time, thus resulting in their actions to elope and get married. Othello is an admirable figure and despite of the colour of his skin, was respected by many people in the society. In the play, Othello’s central flaw is jealousy, bringing about death and misunderstanding for many of the characters. His flaw of jealousy was exploited by Iago and manipulated through many incidental events. Othello is a very trusting and noble character and is regarded as Shakespeare’s most romantic character. Othello’s boundless love for Desdemona makes it unbearable for him to think of another man looking at her. Othello’s fatal flaw of jealousy is shown, as due to his suspicious and jealous nature, he believes everything Iago tells him about Cassio and Desdemona. Iago uses Othello’s great love through extreme manipulation to get Othello more and more jealous, this can be seen when Othello is slowly starting to believe Iago, â€Å"Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. † Othello later accuses Desdemona of lying to him, â€Å"O, devil, devil! If that the Earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight! † this proves as a surprise for Desdemona as although she is being faithful to her husband, he does not believe a word she is saying due to his flaw of jealousy. Othello’s flaw of jealousy takes him through a series of predicaments, led by Iago, where he makes the decisions to believe Iago’s accusations on Desdemona and Cassio. It is then his jealousy that causes him to suspect Desdemona, and piece together irrelevant information that gives him the wrong information about his wife’s infidelity. Iago cleverly brings up Othello’s flaw in Act 3 Scene 3, warning him to beware of jealousy, as he deceives him about Cassio and Desdemona’s affair, while attempting to play with his mind, â€Å"O beware, my lord, or jealousy: It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on. At the beginning of the play, when Shakespeare introduces Othello as a high-status, noble man, who is in love with his wife Desdemona, the villain is immediately brought out, uncovering the protagonists fatal flaw of naivety. Iago takes Othello’s flaw to his advantage, deceiving him into believing that his wife and his lie utenant are having an affair. To Iago’s luck, Othello regards Iago as an honest man who he trusts very much, showing dramatic irony in the lines, â€Å"Iago is most honest† and â€Å"A man he is of honesty and trust†. Shakespeare’s use of dramatic irony creates a connection between the characters in the play and the audience. Othello’s naive and trusting nature allows him to believe anything and everything Iago tells him, despite of his lack of physical evidence, which proved to be a deadly mistake. Othello’s gullibility also results in the change in his marriage. As Othello starts to believe Iago’s lies, the relationship between Othello and Desdemona changed from respectful and caring to bitter and condescending. Othello soon loses all respect for Desdemona and even refers to her as a whore, for having an affair with Cassio while she is married. Othello’s flaws of gullibility and jealousy combined resulted in his downfall. Another fatal flaw Othello possessed was trusting people easily. Othello trusted Iago very easily soon after they met. Although Iago cannot be blamed for Othello’s flaws, he was still responsible for planting the seeds in Othello’s mind. Othello also made a mistake of allowing Iago to mess with his mind, planting many accusations of his Desdemona and Cassio. Othello love Desdemona, and she always loved him. But because of his jealousy and gullibility his speech is juxtaposed and his love killed. After Othello murdered Desdemona for betraying his love, he realises his false accusations of Desdemona and Cassio and finally realises the true villain to be Iago and kills himself. In Othello’s last speech in the play, he speaks of the betrayal, remorse and of his lost love. Othello can be seen as a tragic hero, as his flaws are the cause of his death. His fatal flaws of gullibility, jealousy and easily trusting people can be seen as the cause of his death and others around him. He recognises his flaws in the end; however it is too late to bring back his wife, whom he had earlier killed. Iago takes Othello’s flaws to his advantage, playing with Othello’s mind, planting lies and accusations about Desdemona and Cassio. Iago can be seen as the villain as he does not care about the lives of anyone else he has ruined, instead only caring to achieve his own ends, by doing whatever necessary. Aristotles definition of a tragic hero can be compared with the life of Othello, thus making him a truly tragic hero.

Deception Point Page 38

Tench stood suddenly, her lanky frame dominating the cramped space. With the cigarette dangling from her lips, she walked over to a wall safe, removed a thick manila envelope, returned to the desk, and sat back down. Gabrielle eyed the burgeoning envelope. Tench smiled, cradling the envelope in her lap like a poker player holding a royal flush. Her yellowed fingertips flicked at the corner, making an annoying repetitive scratch, as if savoring the anticipation. Gabrielle knew it was just her own guilty conscience, but her first fears were that the envelope contained some kind of proof of her sexual indiscretion with the senator. Ridiculous, she thought. The encounter had occurred after hours in Sexton's locked senatorial office. Not to mention, if the White House actually had any evidence, they would have gone public with it already. They may be suspicious, Gabrielle thought, but they don't have proof. Tench crushed out her cigarette. â€Å"Ms. Ashe, whether or not you are aware, you are caught in the middle of a battle that has been raging behind the scenes in Washington since 1996.† This opening gambit was not at all what Gabrielle expected. â€Å"I beg your pardon?† Tench lit another cigarette. Her spindly lips curled around it, and the tip glowed red. â€Å"What do you know about a bill called the Space Commercialization Promotions Act?† Gabrielle had never heard of it. She shrugged, lost. â€Å"Really?† Tench said. â€Å"That surprises me. Considering your candidate's platform. The Space Commercialization Promotions Act was proposed back in 1996 by Senator Walker. The bill, in essence, cites the failure of NASA to do anything worthwhile since putting a man on the moon. It calls for the privatization of NASA by immediately selling off NASA assets to private aerospace companies and allowing the free-market system to explore space more efficiently, thus relieving the burden NASA now places on taxpayers.† Gabrielle had heard NASA critics suggest privatization as a solution to NASA's woes, but she was not aware the idea had actually taken the form of an official bill. â€Å"This commercialization bill,† Tench said, â€Å"has been presented to Congress four times now. It is similar to bills that have successfully privatized government industries like uranium production. Congress has passed the space commercialization bill all four times it has seen it. Thankfully, the White House vetoed it on all occasions. Zachary Herney has had to veto it twice.† â€Å"Your point?† â€Å"My point is that this bill is one Senator Sexton will certainly support if he becomes President. I have reason to believe Sexton will have no qualms about selling off NASA assets to commercial bidders the first chance he gets. In short, your candidate would support privatization over having American tax dollars fund space exploration.† â€Å"To my knowledge, the senator has never commented publicly about his stance on any Space Commercialization Promotions Act.† â€Å"True. And yet knowing his politics, I assume you would not be surprised if he supported it.† â€Å"Free-market systems tend to breed efficiency.† â€Å"I'll take that as a ‘yes.'† Tench stared. â€Å"Sadly, privatizing NASA is an abominable idea, and there are countless reasons why every White House administration since the bill's inception has shot it down.† â€Å"I've heard the arguments against privatizing space,† Gabrielle said, â€Å"and I understand your concerns.† â€Å"Do you?† Tench leaned toward her. â€Å"Which arguments have you heard?† Gabrielle shifted uneasily. â€Å"Well, the standard academic fears mostly-the most common being that if we privatize NASA, our current pursuit of scientific space knowledge would be quickly abandoned in favor of profitable ventures.† â€Å"True. Space science would die in a heartbeat. Instead of spending money to study our universe, private space companies would strip-mine asteroids, build tourist hotels in space, offer commercial satellite launch services. Why would private companies bother studying the origins of our universe when it would cost them billions and show no financial return?† â€Å"They wouldn't,† Gabrielle countered. â€Å"But certainly a National Endowment for Space Science could be founded to fund academic missions.† â€Å"We already have that system in place. It's called NASA.† Gabrielle fell silent. â€Å"The abandonment of science in favor of profits is a side issue,† Tench said. â€Å"Hardly relevant compared to the utter chaos that would result by permitting the private sector to run free in space. We would have the wild west all over again. We would see pioneers staking claims on the moon and on asteroids and protecting those claims with force. I've heard petitions from companies who want to build neon billboards that blink advertisements in the nighttime sky. I've seen petitions from space hotels and tourist attractions whose proposed operations include ejecting their trash into the void of space and creating orbiting trash heaps. In fact, I just read a proposal yesterday from a company that wants to turn space into a mausoleum by launching the deceased into orbit. Can you imagine our telecommunications satellites colliding with dead bodies? Last week, I had a billionaire CEO in my office who was petitioning to launch a mission to a near-field asteroid, drag it clos er to earth, and mine it for precious minerals. I actually had to remind this guy that dragging asteroids into near earth orbit posed potential risks of global catastrophe! Ms. Ashe, I can assure you, if this bill passes, the throngs of entrepreneurs rushing into space will not be rocket scientists. They will be entrepreneurs with deep pockets and shallow minds.† â€Å"Persuasive arguments,† Gabrielle said, â€Å"and I'm sure the senator would weigh those issues carefully if he ever found himself in a position to vote on the bill. Might I ask what any of this has to do with me?† Tench's gaze narrowed over her cigarette. â€Å"A lot of people stand to make a lot of money in space, and the political lobby is mounting to remove all restrictions and open the floodgates. The veto power of the office of the President is the only remaining barrier against privatization†¦ against complete anarchy in space.† â€Å"Then I commend Zach Herney for vetoing the bill.† â€Å"My fear is that your candidate would not be so prudent if elected.† â€Å"Again, I assume the senator would carefully weigh all the issues if he were ever in a position to pass judgment on the bill.† Tench did not look entirely convinced. â€Å"Do you know how much Senator Sexton spends on media advertising?† The question came out of left field. â€Å"Those figures are public domain.† â€Å"More than three million a month.† Gabrielle shrugged. â€Å"If you say so.† The figure was close. â€Å"That's a lot of money to spend.† â€Å"He's got a lot of money to spend.† â€Å"Yes, he planned well. Or rather, married well.† Tench paused to blow smoke. â€Å"It's sad about his wife, Katherine. Her death hit him hard.† A tragic sigh followed, clearly feigned. â€Å"Her death was not all that long ago, was it?† â€Å"Come to your point, or I'm leaving.† Tench let out a lung-shaking cough and reached for the burgeoning manila folder. She pulled out a small stack of stapled papers and handed them to Gabrielle. â€Å"Sexton's financial records.† Gabrielle studied the documents in astonishment. The records went back several years. Although Gabrielle was not privy to the internal workings of Sexton's finances, she sensed this data was authentic-banking accounts, credit card accounts, loans, stock assets, real estate assets, debts, capital gains and losses. â€Å"This is private data. Where did you get this?†

10 Reasons Why Online Shopping Is The Best Marketing Essay

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Live Proformence Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 750 words

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Revenue Drivers and Overview of the Strategies at Google Term Paper

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Islam Guide Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 750 words

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Victorian London Essay Example for Free

Victorian London Essay Charles Dickens was born in 1812 in Portsmouth, but spent most of his time in London and Kent. He grew up not being particularly wealthy, especially after his father was arrested for debt when dickens was nine years old. Charles Dickens knew poverty, especially poverty in London, and wanted to better himself through his writing. However he also wanted to educate the educated. At that time the only people who could read were the upper and middle classes as they were the only people who could afford to go to school. But most of London and indeed the countrys population were made up of poor, uneducated people. Dickens wanted to show the wealthy people what others suffered and wanted to tell them what life was really like for the poor. However, Dickens had to be very careful not to alienate his readers. If he produced a story that was too harsh then his readership simply wouldnt believe it. He had to tell them gently otherwise he would fail. I am going to examine whether dickens was successful in his aim of educating his readership, and whether he was accurate in his description. We meet the character of scrooge immediately, during dickenss description of Marley, scrooges ex-business partner. We can tell two things from the quote, even Scrooge was not particularly cut up by the sad event [Marleys death], but that he was an excellent man of business. The first thing we can tell from the source is that scrooge is a man of business and therefore of the middle class. The second is scrooges lack of heart; he does not care very much about Marley, his business partner and friend. Dickens is telling us that scrooge is representative of the middle classes. Dickens then describes scrooges personal characteristics. He is a tight fisted hand at the grindstone. We are being told how much of a heartless person he is through a vile description of his character and when scrooge talks about Christmas he is shown to be even more heartless. Not even Christmas could warm his spirit. This is inferred to us through the quote, no warmth could warm him, no wintry weather could chill him. His clear distaste for Christmas, every idiot who goes out with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding with a stake of holly through his heart. This makes dickens readers realise that scrooge has to change. Dickens then moves on to give his first, albeit brief, description of the life of the poor in Victorian London. A man arrives at scrooges office collecting money for charity. Scrooge is surprised and asks the man if there are any prisons. The man replies that there are. Scrooge then asks if there are any Union Workhouses. The man replies that there are. Scrooge asks finally if there are the treadmill and Poor Law in full vigour. The man replies that they are very busy. In Victorian times there were very few places the poor could go to get help. They would steal or get involved with other crime or go to a workhouse where they would labour for gruel (a kind of porridge) and a space on the floor to sleep. Families were split up and children sent away. Scrooge is happy with these solutions and does not care if they are inhuman or not. Scrooge then sums up the attitude at the time by saying, but besides I dont know that. Just because scrooge does not know acknowledge the dreadful conditions he feels that he has no need to want to change them and rejects basic provisions for the poor. However at the time his was not an extreme view, especially in the middle classes. They had mostly worked their way up the social ladder and feel that if they did it then others can do it -why should they have to pay through higher taxes and charity. The basic message is that the middle class doesnt want to pay, mainly because they think that the existing system is fine. Another view of scrooges is represented in the quote if they had better die they had better do it quickly and decrease the surplus population. Scrooge clearly thinks that these poor people are a waste and it is their fault for having too many children, a system is in place and if they dont like it then tough. Dickens wants his readerships attitude to change and he has decided to do it through four ghosts, and four lessons. This is because he cannot tell them himself or he would never have got the book published as it would have been too risky, and so he got around this by using a third party the ghosts. The ghost of Marley appears and confronts scrooge. Scrooges way of judging people is by how good a businessman they are, just as Marley had done. In death Marley realises this is wrong, the first lesson. In order to change he has to receive three ghosts otherwise he cannot hope to shed the path I [Marley] tread. Not only is dickens telling his character to listen to the ghosts and learn the lessons, he is saying it to the readers as well. The first ghost, the ghost of Christmas past, visits Scrooge and shows him up to a point where he could have chosen to go down a different path. Immediately after seeing how a simple act can make people happy Scrooge changes and wishes to say a word to Bob Cratchit and apologise. Scrooge is then shown what he has lost. He sees Bell who had left him because he spent too much time at work. Bell is married with children and he sees what he could have had and then what he has been missing out on Christmas celebrations. Scrooge is then met by the ghost of Christmas Present. At first Dickens describe the houses as black enough, and the windows blacker, showing the poorest part of London for what it really is. But then he changes showing the shops in London full of food, as if the poor have no problem getting all this food in a happy congruously festive atmosphere. The sentence, steeples called good people all, to church and chapel. Dickens even throws in the idea of going to church to appease his readership and make them feel more charitable if the poor were seen as good Christians like they believed themselves to be they would feel more charitable towards the poor. He even talks about the bakers ovens cooking geese, almost saying they arent that poor because they can afford geese and implies that everyone is the same and generalises the poor. This is before we consider the poor living conditions. Dickens then further identifies the poor with the Cratchits by establishing the identity off Tiny Tim. Scrooge is the introduced to his nephews party and scrooge enjoys being there so much he doesnt want to leave. This is the first real clue as to how much scrooge has changed. The ghost then produces the hideous figures of want and ignorance. To make the blow hit harder they are depicted as children. They are Dickenss way of telling his readers what actually goes on in the perversion of humanity. They are not actually real, rather symbolic representations like cartoon characters and they are different from what scrooge is being told about them. Dickens tells his readers through the ghost to look out for them, particularly ignorance but at the same time he cannot tell his readers the truth. The last ghost appears and shows scrooge his own funeral, but scrooge fail to appreciate the meaning of it. Then the ghost shows scrooge his own grave. Scrooge then tells the ghost that he is a changed man, but is uncertain if the future can be changed. We are also shown the picture of Bob Cratchit weeping over the loss of his son Tiny Tim. Even in death we are not shown a picture of Tiny Tim suffering, there is no illness. Dickens uses this sentimental effect to show how he will be missed. When scrooge wakes up the change is immediately noticeable. He visits his nephew to reunite the family; again this is something his readers will approve of, and makes the Cratchits lives happier. The main message of the book is be charitable and give money to the poor. Dickens is so aware of his readership, however, that he has to insert the mechanical point telling his readers that Tiny Tim did not die. In conclusion Dickens does not describe the social conditions of the poor in London adequately. The proof of this is in Mayhew, who described the social and other appalling conditions in London for the poor. It shows that dickens is not being truthful. He shows the poor homogenously, grouping them together but there is a substantial between dickens version of Victorian London and reality. Dickens needs to get his point across about changing but he can only do so if he provides a sanitised version for his readers. In reality the Cratchits are very well off for people of their class, they have a respectable home and Bob Cratchit has a good job that pays fifteen shillings a week, which is a huge amount for a poor family. I think that dickens wanted to show London as it truly was for the poor but he couldnt do that because people were too sensitive about their own position and standing and felt vulnerable so he inserts pictures such as going to church and no suffering whilst alerting his readers to the problems. To a certain extent he is successful as he shows that there are problems in London but he does not go far enough to show the reality and alienate his readers.

Aung San and Faith Bandler Essay Example for Free

Aung San and Faith Bandler Essay ?Today, lack of equality and peace are prominent issues which shape the world. Such things are demonstrated in Aung San Suu Kyi’s speech, ‘Keynote Address at the Beijing World Conference on Women’ and Faith Bandler’s speech, ‘Faith, Hope and Reconciliation’ through the use of various language devices. The common uses of emotive language between the two texts greatly affect the audience as it creates a sense of sympathy and unity. For example, ASSK states, ‘The struggle for democracy and human rights in Burma is a struggle for life and dignity. It is a struggle that encompasses our political, social and economic aspirations. ’ the repetitive use of ‘struggle’ emphasizes the hardships for the people of Burma and their desire for freedom. It is a struggle for ‘young girls’ to be driven to ‘sexual slavery where they are subject to constant humiliation’, there is a struggle for freedom, dignity and security. Her use of emotive language and repetition enables the audience to sympathise with her and the people of Burma that the causes of these struggles are lack of equality and peace in the world or our ‘global village’. Similarly in Faith Bandler’s speech, emotive language and repetition are recognised once again to unify the audience and the speaker to create a sense of sympathy which draws upon the theme of inequality and peace. It was a rather slow process for her to understand, ‘when there are millions†¦who are hungry, millions who are homeless, millions who are without work, the wrongfully imprisoned, the deaths in custody, the tortured†¦why is it so hard to find our commonalities? ’, Faith stresses the absurdity of how difficult it is for people to find ‘commonalities’ with her use of repetition of ‘millions’. Its becomes a problem when ‘millions’ are hungry, homeless and jobless as it portrays our society as unequal. The rhetorical questions asked throughout her speech such as ‘why is it so hard to find our commonalities? ’ and ‘what is reconciliation about? ’ state the obvious truths, that it isn’t hard to find reconciliation or peace within the world. Faith demonstrates a world of inequality through the use of emotive language and repetition. Suu kyi and Bandler’s speeches are effective in connecting to their audience when demonstrating the theme of equality and peace. Both activists demonstrate unity to the audience by using inclusive language and first person. For example, as Suu Kyi acknowledges the ‘strong and principled women’ who have lobbied for her release, ‘I cannot let this opportunity pass without speaking of the gratitude we feel towards our sisters everywhere. ’ The use of first person and inclusive language is evident throughout the speech, it illustrates a personal approach to her audience as well as clearly portraying her firm views of women. Bandler’s speech is also evident of the use of these devices. By using first person throughout her speech, it indicates her familiarity with the audience as she was â€Å"here once before† and also shows that she speaks from a personal experience giving the audience an idea of what she has been through such as her work in campaigning and co founding various companies. In order to move the audience about reconciliation whether it’s the ‘youth’ or the ‘not so young’, her use of first person and inclusive language connects to the audience. Both ASSK and Bandler bring their audiences together as a whole to look at common issues of the world and better ways to bring peace.

Short Research Proposal On Fear Of Crime

Short Research Proposal On Fear Of Crime In this short research proposal, I will critically analyse and justify the reasons why I have chosen to use in depth interviews compared to other qualitative methods in order to research fear of crime among young men aged between 18-25 in inner London. My primary objective is to find out to what extent do young men aged 18-25 living in inner London fear crime. Altogether there are three main types of qualitative data; they are in depth interviews, focus groups and ethnography (Bryman, 2004). However, before I justify the reasons why I have chosen to use in depth interviews compared to focus groups and ethnography I will first give a brief definition of fear of crime among young men. In order to carry out a short research proposal, it is important that I have background knowledge on my research topic. On the whole, there are many different types of interviews however in my research I will be conducting in depth interviews with thirty young males aged between 18-25. I have chosen in depth interviews to conduct my research as this will provide me with rich data, it will also enable the participants to express their feelings and experiences on fear of crime (Bryman, 2004). There are two different types of in depth interviews they are known as semi-structured and unstructured interviews. In my research, I will be carrying out semi-structured interviews whereby I will have a set of questions to ask the participants. In Semi structured interviews the questions are usually open ended hence this will enable me to gather rich, detailed information about the experiences and attitudes towards fear of crime among young men (Miller and Brewer, 2003). On the other hand, although unstructured interviews are a great way to build rapport with the respondent there is a slight possibility that the participants may go off on tangents, and hence this will be more time consuming (Seale, 2004). In relation to my research topic, by carrying out a semi-structured interviews young men will feel more comfortable to talk about their experiences. I will now discuss and justify the reasons why I have decided to select in depth interviews compared to focus groups and ethnography to carry out my research. According to May, in depth interview is a great way to understand the attitudes and feelings of an individual on a specific topic (May, 2001). In depth interviews will enable me to explore in more detail the fear of crime among young men in inner London (Seale, 2004). Hence, compared to focus groups and ethnography, in depth interviews will allow me to have a better understanding of the individuals views, experiences, opinions and feelings towards fear of crime among young men (Seale, 2004). Another advantage of in depth interviews is that it allows flexibility; interviews can be adjusted to cater the needs of different types of people (Sarantakos, 2005). Furthermore, another advantage is that researchers can ask questions on the spot, probe the participants as well as change the order of questions if needed (Miller and Brewer, 2003). Another advantage is that during my study, I will have full control of the environment, under which questions are answered (Sarantakos, 2005). In depth interviews will also enable me to clarify any questions which are not understood by the participants (Sarantakos, 2005). Another advantage of in-depth interviews is that I will gain high response rate, with rich, detailed information about the fear of crime among young men. Hence, with in depth interviews it is much easier to discuss sensitive issue compared to when interviewing a group (Miller and Brewer, 2003). Despite these advantages, there are many limitations to in depth interview. With in depth interviews participants may not always be as honest about their fear of crime; hence this will lack reliability (Miller and Brewer, 2003). Another limitation of in depth interview is that it is very time consuming compared to other data collection methods (Seale, 2004). From gaining access to individuals, to conducting the interviews and then analyzing the data will take a huge amount of time (Miller and Brewer, 2003). This is one of the reasons why I will be conducting my research on only thirty individuals. Furthermore, according to May, the researchers physical characteristics such as age, class, race, gender and ethnicity may have an effect on the interviewees responses (May, 2001). This is another limitation as interviews may be affected due to the physical characteristics of the researcher (Sarantakos, 2005). For example, if a female researcher was conducting the study on fear of crime among young men many participants may not be as honest about their attitudes and experiences of fear of crime due to the researcher being a female. Another issue of in depth interview is that people tend to prefer to write about sensitive topics, such as fear of crime rather than discussing the issue in an interview (Sarantakos, 2005). As the study will only be conducted on thirty individuals, another concern is that once the information is gained and analysed, it will be difficult to generalize fear of crime among young men who live in inner London (Sarantakos, 2005). I will now define, discuss and analyse the advantages and limitations of ethnography and why I decided not to use ethnography for my research topic. Ethnography allows researchers to understand the social meanings and activities of people they are conducting research on (Miller and Brewer, 2003). Furthermore, ethnography studies will allow the researcher to observe the participants for a longer period of time (Bryman, 2004). By spending time with the participants, listening and engaging in conversations and getting to know them individually on a daily basis it will help and allow the researcher to have a better understanding of the participants he or she is studying (Bryman, 2004). However, in relation to my research topic my aim objective is to find out the feelings and emotions of fear of crime among young men. With participant observation it will be difficult for me to understand the experiences of fear of crime among young men as the participants may not be able to express their experiences when conducting a participant observation study. Furthermore, when an individual is aware that they are being observed they may behave differently, hence this will lack validity (Bryman, 2004). There are two types of ethnography roles when gaining access to participants, they are known as overt and covert roles. Covert role is whereby an individual discloses the fact that they are a researcher observing the participants for a particular reason. On the other hand, the ethnographer who takes the overt role informs the participants that they are researches (Bryman, 2004). On the whole, covert roles may provide the researcher with more information which is highly valid due to the fact that the participants are not aware that they are being observed. However, by carrying out covert roles you will be breaking the ethical guidelines such as informed consent and deception (Bryman, 2004). I will now define, discuss and analyse the advantages and limitations of using a focus group. Focus groups are when a small group of people are brought together for an interview that share similar experiences and have particular interest. Focus groups have become a very popular method used by many researchers since the 1980s. Focus groups allow participants to ask questions, have discussions and arguments (Bryman, 2004). It also allows participants to justify and articulate their ideas with one another in a group context (Seale, 2004). There are many advantages to having focus groups, by conducting a focus group it will allow individuals to probe one another and challenge each other for holding certain views (Bryman, 2004). Another advantage of using a focus group is that large amount of date can be produced in a short amount of time, however a limitation to this is that it will be difficult for the researcher to record and analyse data from the focus group (Bryman, 2004). Focus groups allow participants to share stories, experiences and thoughts together; hence this provides rich, quality data for the researcher to analyses (Bryman, 2004). Another advantage of a focus group is that it is less time consuming compared to in depth interviews, you can easily get six to ten peoples views and opinions all at the same time rather than interviewing all ten of them (Seale, 2004). Focus groups also allow the participants to listen to other peoples views who have a similar position to them in the community (Sarantakos, 2005). According to Bryman, focus groups are regarded as more naturalistic compared to interviews in the sense that focus groups reflect the processes through which meaning is constructed in everyday life (Bryman, 2004, 348). During the focus group the researcher acts as a facilitator observing the discussion and encouraging participants to contribute (Sarantakos, 2005). Depending on the topic being discussed, focus groups can sometimes encourage the individual to open up and hence take part in the discussion. However, in other situations in-depth interviews are preferred; it all depends on the research topic (Seale, 2004). According to Wilkinson who reviewed more than 200 studies based on focus groups, she found that many researchers fail to analyse and take into account the interaction between the group members (Bryman, 2004). Another critic of a focus group is that some individuals may not express their fear of crime among other young men. By being in a group individuals may not express their true opinions (Sarantakos, 2005). Individuals may feel more comfortable to express their concerns of fear of crime in a one to one interview (Bryman, 2004). In focus groups, individuals may be influenced to follow the group norm and may not open as much compared to in depth interviews (Bryman, 2004). According to Barbour and Kitzinger, focus groups will enable researchers to examine peoples different perspective as they operate within a social network, (Barbour and Kitzinger in Seale, 2004, 181). Furthermore, focus groups may allow the researcher to explore issues which are not easily seen during participant observation (Seale, 2004). However, another concern of using a focus group is that some individuals may dominate the discussion and hence others may not be given the chance to explore their attitudes and feelings towards fear of crime, (Sarantakos, 2005). I will now discuss what sampling method I will use in order to carry out my research. In relation to my research topic and design I will use the purposive sampling method in order to carry out my study. Purposive sampling is when participants are selected due to them having a relation to the subject topic. Purposive sampling is whereby researchers use their expect judgment to find participants who are relevant to their study (Singleton and Straits, 1999). Purposive sampling is a very popular sampling method used by many researchers when conducting qualitative research (Seale, 2004). In relation to my research topic, purposive sampling is the best sampling method to use; it fits in very well with the aims of my research. However, according to Singleton and Straits, a limitation to purposive sampling is that making an informed selection of cases requires considerable knowledge of the population before the sample is drawn (Singleton and Straits, 1999, 159). I will now discuss how I will gain access to my participants. I will gain access to my participants through contacting local organizations who work with youths. I will also gain access by visiting two universities in inner London; I will visit the student union and ask for potential students who are willing to take part in my study. Before the interviews are carried out, I will ensure that I am fully prepared and organised, in order for me to do this I will make a check list of all the things I need to do before the interview and also after the interview. In my research, I will also audio record all the interviews; this will enable me to have a better one to one conversation with my respondents. However, an issue may be that that some respondents may refuse for their voice to be recorded. If this occurs, I will explain to the participants that the interview is only being audio recorded for my use only and that the recording will not be shared with any third party (Bryman, 2004). For the interview to be successful it is vital that the interviewee has an understanding of the subject topic (May, 2001). Before I start my interview, I will define the term fear of crime to my participants in order for them to have a better understanding of the subject topic. Before the interview process, I will make it clear to my participants what is expected of them, by doing this my participants will feel more comfortable and hence more relaxed for the interview to begin (May, 2001). It is important for all researchers to take into consideration ethical issues before conducting any research. The British Sociological Association has set out ethical guidelines for researchers to follow; breaking the guidelines may result in penalties. There are many ethical issues which need to be considered before carrying out a study; however the three main ethical issues are whether there is harm to participants, lack of informed consent, and whether deception is involved (Bryman, 2004). In relation to my study on fear of crime among young men I will ensure that all my participants are fully informed about the study. Before I conduct my research all participants involved will be asked to read and sign the consent forms, all participants will also have the right to withdrew from the study at any given time (Bryman, 2004). Furthermore, in regards to participant harm according to Diener and Crandall, participant harm can be physical harm or personal harm (Diener and Crandall, in Bryman, 2004). I will ensure that in my study none of my participants are physically or emotional harmed. Finally, in regards to deception, I will ensure that all my participants are fully aware of the study and that the results of the interviews will not be shared with anyone else without their consent. Deception usually occurs when the researcher provides false statements to their participants about the study (Bryman, 2004). In conclusion, in depth interview is the best data collection method for me to research the fear of crime among men aged 18-25 living in inner London. Despite its limitations, in relation to my research topic, in depth interview would be the best method to use as it will enable me to understand the attitudes and experiences of fear of crime among young men compared to focus groups and ethnography.

I Wish to Provide Students with a Thirst for Knowledge Essay -- Teachi

I Wish to Provide Students with a Thirst for Knowledge The different philosophies on education are complex yet necessary for implementation of some type of educational structure in the classroom. The utilization of a variety of methods seems to be the most effective alternative to not only be an effective teacher, but also maintain an adherence to discipline and create an effective learning environment. The idea of linear seating is too confining for the students and doesn’t allow for much freedom of movement either for the teacher or the students. Therefore, â€Å"pod† or â€Å"group† seating could be implemented. This arrangement would allow for more individualized attention. Group learning has its place in the classroom, but allowing individuals to grow and learn at their own pace is not without merit as well. Reference information, magazines, books, and colorful yet informative bulletin boards should fill the room. Information relevant to what we are studying and perhaps what the students think of a particular subject or idea would enhance the learning environment. As the classroom facilitator, an effective approach to discipline would perhaps be to allow the students to expand and/or design their own disciplinary procedures. If they are allowed to prescribe the penalties they must pay for inappropriate behavior, they might be more likely to embrace these penalties rather than rebel against teacher/school policies. The teacher should still be the center of instructional guidance, disseminating knowledge to the students. A teacher who takes it one step further, and becomes a facilitator rather than a dictator, however, allows the students to think for themselves, and design effective solutions and results (progres... ...nge!† Are they right? Possibly so, but the changes necessary do not entail throwing out old methods, merely amending them into viable instructional practices by which our children gain a fuller, more robust education. The role of an educator in this implementation is easily stated: â€Å"Learn to be an effective facilitator, guiding the students along the path to discovery, while still maintaining a degree of control in the classroom.† Continuous learning can be achieved in many ways: continuing education seminars performed during faculty-senate days, professional development classes taught by leading educators in one’s particular field, periodicals, magazines, and participating in a Master’s program of study. Change is a constant, therefore, teachers must be readily adaptable to whatever changes are necessary to ensure their students have a well-rounded education.

Free Handmaids Tale Essays: The Red Motif :: Handmaids Tale Essays

The Red Motif in The Handmaid's Tale In the dystopian novel "The Handmaid's Tale" written by Margaret Atwood, the recurrent appearance of the color red draws an interesting yet perverse parallel between femininity and violence. The dominant color of the novel, red is associated with all things female. However, red is also the color of blood; death and violence therefore are closely associated with women in this male-dominated ultraconservative government. We are first introduced to the color red when the narrator is describing how she gets dressed: "The red gloves are lying on the bed. Everything except the wings around my face is red; the color blood, which defines us." Here, we are unsure if Atwood is referring to blood as menstrual and feminine, or as the result of disobedience and the violence which results. The women of "Handmaid" are cloaked in red as a reminder of their fertility. However, in the context of Gilead, red is not just menstrual blood or blood resulting from birth; the red is a threat of death. Offred would later say, "I never looked good in red, It's not my color. "Red tulips are also a recurrent image in "The Handmaid's Tale." Tulips, often seen as llonic symbols in many works, can be interpreted this way also. Tulips are women, and red tulips are women cloaked in red, red blood. On page 12 Offred narrates: "The tulips are red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they have been cut and are beginning to heal there." If a deeper interpretation of this thought is warranted, I would think the place where the tulip meets the stem in the neck of the woman, and as the government came in and stripped them of all power they "cut off their heads" in a way by depriving them of money, reading materials, and any type of education. Tulips, like the cloaks, are symbols of violence against females in the perverse world of Gilead. A blatant use of red to relate women with violence can be seen on page 32: "But on one bag there's blood, which has seeped through the white cloth, where the mouth must have been. It makes another mouth, a small red one. . . This smile of blood is what fixes the attention finally." The men who are hanging are meant to scare, as Atwood clearly states, yet meant to scare who?

Israel: The Vanguard of Middle East Stability Essay -- International G

The Middle East is a power keg about to burst. There are countries in the Middle East where their national stability is in question due to various terrorist and malicious attacks while others promote the inhalation of nations. If these fuses are allowed to spark, it would lead to a cataclysmic array of international consequences including skyrocketing oil prices, increased acts of terrorism, and even WWIII. But, there is a hope to quell this situation. The country of Israel has safeguarded the complete collapse of the Middle East to violence and chaos. It is the last country standing between relative peace to Total War. But, this country will not be able to combat the dread knight of chaos forever; it needs international support. The United States has always kept a keen eye on Israel and has allowed it to continue its heavy load. Without the United States financial support, Israel will certainly collapse, and the Middle East will become as unpredictable as the shifting sands of its d eserts. Due to the crisis in the Middle East and the potential escalation to World War, America needs to continue funding to Israel. As Israel fights the hydra of destruction, it does not have to look far to see the snarling teeth of Iran. Iran, more so than any other country, has the most turbulent and fragile relationship with Israel. This shaky peace is apparent as Israel and Iran had never had formal diplomatic relations since the Islamic Revolution of Iran in 1979 (Farrar-Wellman). This lack of communication has not only led to increased skepticism between the two countries, but also the severe hatred of each other. The sub-human perspective of Iran about Israel was expressed when current president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadi... ...ifferent regions of the world, the situation will be dramatically worse without the military power of Israel. Without Israel, the terrorists will have a safe heaven by which to stage and plan terrorist attacks across the Middle East. This increased level of attacks will lead to increased levels of instability within the other countries, and eventually lead to the overthrowing of other democracies in the region. Works Cited Brad, Mitchell. â€Å"U.S Aid to Israel.† Jewish Virtual Library. January 13, 2010 (Updated). Codedesman, Anthony H., and Nerguizian, Aram. â€Å"The Gulf Military Balance in 2010: An Overview.† Center for Strategic and International Studies. April 23, 2010. â€Å"Country Reports on Terrorism 2008.† U.S. Department of State. April 30, 2009. Chapter 2. Farrar-Wellman, Ariel. â€Å"Israel-Iran Foreign Relations.† Iran Tracker. April 8, 2010.

Bag of Bones CHAPTER NINE

At nine o'clock the following morning I filled a squeeze-bottle with grapefruit juice and set out for a good long walk south along The Street. The day was bright and already hot. It was also silent the kind of silence you experience only after a Saturday holiday, I think, one composed of equal parts holiness and hangover. I could see two or three fishermen parked far out on the lake, but not a single power boat burred, not a single gaggle of kids shouted and splashed. I passed half a dozen cottages on the slope above me, and although all of them were likely inhabited at this time of year, the only signs of life I saw were bathing suits hung over the deck rail at the Passendales' and a half-deflated fluorescent-green seahorse on the Batchelders' stub of a dock. But did the Passendales' little gray cottage still belong to the Passendales? Did the Batchelders' amusing circular summer-camp with its Cinerama picture-window pointing at the lake and the mountains beyond still belong to the Batchelders? No way of telling, of course. Four years can bring a lot of changes. I walked and made no effort to think an old trick from my writing days. Work your body, rest your mind, let the boys in the basement do their jobs. I made my way past camps where Jo and I had once had drinks and barbecues and attended the occasional card-party, I soaked up the silence like a sponge, I drank my juice, I armed sweat off my forehead, and I waited to see what thoughts might come. The first was an odd realization: that the crying child in the night seemed somehow more real than the call from Max Devore. Had I actually been phoned by a rich and obviously bad-tempered techno-mogul on my first full evening back on the TR? Had said mogul actually called me a liar at one point? (I was, considering the tale I had told, but that was beside the point.) I knew it had happened, but it was actually easier to believe in The Ghost of Dark Score Lake, known around some campfires as The Mysterious Crying Kiddie. My next thought this was just before I finished my juice was that I should call Mattie Devore and tell her what had happened. I decided it was a natural impulse but probably a bad idea. I was too old to believe in such simplicities as The Damsel in Distress Versus The Wicked Stepfather . . . or, in this case, Father-in-Law. I had my own fish to fry this summer, and I didn't want to complicate my job by getting into a potentially ugly dispute between Mr. Computer and Ms. Doublewide. Devore had rubbed my fur the wrong way and vigorously but that probably wasn't personal, only something he did as a matter of course. Hey, some guys snap bra-straps. Did I want to get in his face on this? No. I did not. I had saved Little Miss Red Sox, I had gotten myself an inadvertent feel of Mom's small but pleasantly firm breast, I had learned that Kyra was Greek for ladylike. Any more than that would be gluttony, by God. I stopped at that point, feet as well as brain, realizing I'd walked all the way to Warrington's, a vast barnboard structure which locals sometimes called the country club. It was, sort of there was a six-hole golf course, a stable and riding trails, a restaurant, a bar, and lodging for perhaps three dozen in the main building and the eight or nine satellite cabins. There was even a two-lane bowling alley, although you and your competition had to take turns setting up the pins. Warrington's had been built around the beginning of World War I. That made it younger than Sara Laughs, but not by much. A long dock led out to a smaller building called The Sunset Bar. It was there that Warrington's summer guests would gather for drinks at the end of the day (and some for Bloody Marys at the beginning). And when I glanced out that way, I realized I was no longer alone. There was a woman standing on the porch to the left of the floating bar's door, watching me. She gave me a pretty good jump. My nerves weren't in their best condition right then, and that probably had something to do with it . . . but I think she would have given me a jump in any case. Part of it was her stillness. Part was her extraordinary thinness. Most of it was her face. Have you ever seen that Edvard Munch drawing, The Cry? Well, if you imagine that screaming face at rest, mouth closed and eyes watchful, you'll have a pretty good image of the woman standing at the end of the dock with one long-fingered hand resting on the rail. Although I must tell you that my first thought was not Edvard Munch but Mrs. Danvers. She looked about seventy and was wearing black shorts over a black tank bathing suit. The combination looked strangely formal, a variation on the ever-popular little black cocktail dress. Her skin was cream-white, except above her nearly flat bosom and along her bony shoulders. There it swam with large brown age-spots. Her face was a wedge featuring prominent skull-like cheekbones and an unlined lamp of brow. Beneath that bulge, her eyes were lost in sockets of shadow. White hair hung scant and lank around her ears and down to the prominent shelf of her jaw. God, she's thin, I thought. She's nothing but a bag of A shudder twisted through me at that. It was a strong one, as if someone were spinning a wire in my flesh. I didn't want her to notice it what a way to start a summer day, by revolting a guy so badly that he stood there shaking and grimacing in front of you so I raised my hand and waved. I tried to smile, as well. Hello there, lady standing out by the floating bar. Hello there, you old bag of bones, you scared the living shit out of me but it doesn't take much these days and I forgive you. How the fuck ya doin? I wondered if my smile looked as much like a grimace to her as it felt to me. She didn't wave back. Feeling quite a bit like a fool THERE'S NO VILLAGE IDIOT HERE, WE ALL TAKE TURNS I ended my wave in a kind of half-assed salute and headed back the way I'd come. Five steps and I had to look over my shoulder; the sensation of her watching me was so strong it was like a hand pressing between my shoulderblades. The dock where she'd been was completely deserted. I squinted my eyes, at first sure she must have just retreated deeper into the shadow thrown by the little boozehaus, but she was gone. As if she had been a ghost herself. She stepped into the bar, hon, Jo said. You know that, don't you? I mean . . . you do know it, right? ‘Right, right,' I murmured, setting off north along The Street toward home. ‘Of course I do. Where else?' Except it didn't seem to me that there had been time; it didn't seem to me that she could have stepped in, even in her bare feet, without me hearing her. Not on such a quiet morning. Jo again: Perhaps she's stealthy. ‘Yes,' I murmured. I did a lot of talking out loud before that summer was over. ‘Yes, perhaps she is. Perhaps she's stealthy.' Sure. Like Mrs. Danvers. I stopped again and looked back, but the right-of-way path had followed the lake around a little bit of curve, and I could no longer see either Warrington's or The Sunset Bar. And really, I thought, that was just as well. On my way back, I tried to list the oddities which had preceded and then surrounded my return to Sara Laughs: the repeating dreams; the sunflowers; the radio-station sticker; the weeping in the night. I supposed that my encounter with Mattie and Kyra, plus the follow-up phone-call from Mr. Pixel Easel, also qualified as passing strange . . . but not in the same way as a child you heard sobbing in the night. And what about the fact that we had been in Derry instead of on Dark Score when Johanna died? Did that qualify for the list? I didn't know. I couldn't even remember why that was. In the fall and winter of 1993 I'd been fiddling with a screenplay for The Red-Shirt Man. In February of '94 I got going on All the Way from the Top, and that absorbed most of my attention. Besides, deciding to go west to the TR, west to Sara . . . ‘That was Jo's job,' I told the day, and as soon as I heard the words I understood how true they were. We'd both loved the old girl, but saying ‘Hey Irish, let's get our asses over to the TR for a few days' had been Jo's job. She might say it any time . . . except in the year before her death she hadn't said it once. And I had never thought to say it for her. Had somehow forgotten all about Sara Laughs, it seemed, even when summer came around. Was it possible to be that absorbed in a writing project? It didn't seem likely . . . but what other explanation was there? Something was very wrong with this picture, but I didn't know what it was. Not from nothin. That made me think of Sara Tidwell, and the lyrics to one of her songs. She had never been recorded, but I owned the Blind Lemon Jefferson version of this particular tune. One verse went: It ain't nuthin but a barn-dance sugar It ain't nuthin but a round-and-round Let me kiss you on your sweet lips sugar You the good thing that I found. I loved that song, and had always wondered how it would have sounded coming out of a woman's mouth instead of from that whiskey-voiced old troubadour. Out of Sara Tidwell's mouth. I bet she sang sweet. And boy, I bet she could swing it. I had gotten back to my own place again. I looked around, saw no one in the immediate vicinity (although I could now hear the day's first ski-boat burring away downwater), stripped to my underpants, and swam out to the float. I didn't climb it, only lay beside it holding onto the ladder with one hand and lazily kicking my feet. It was nice enough, but what was I going to do with the rest of the day? I decided to spend it cleaning my work area on the second floor. When that was done, maybe I'd go out and look around in Jo's studio. If I didn't lose my courage, that was. I swam back, kicking easily along, raising my head in and out of water which flowed along my body like cool silk. I felt like an otter. I was most of the way to the shore when I raised my dripping face and saw a woman standing on The Street, watching me. She was as thin as the one I'd seen down at Warrington's . . . but this one was green. Green and pointing north along the path like a dryad in some old legend. I gasped, swallowed water, coughed it back out. I stood up in chest-deep water and wiped my streaming eyes. Then I laughed (albeit a little doubtfully). The woman was green because she was a birch growing a little to the north of where my set of railroad-tie steps ended at The Street. And even with my eyes clear of water, there was something creepy about how the leaves around the ivory-streaked-with-black trunk almost made a peering face. The air was perfectly still and so the face was perfectly still (as still as the face of the woman in the black shorts and bathing suit had been), but on a breezy day it would seem to smile or frown . . . or perhaps to laugh. Behind it there grew a sickly pine. One bare branch jutted off to the north. It was this I had mistaken for a skinny arm and a bony, pointing hand. It wasn't the first time I'd spooked myself like that. I see things, that's all. Write enough stories and every shadow on the floor looks like a footprint, every line in the dirt like a secret message. Which did not, of course, ease the task of deciding what was really peculiar at Sara Laughs and what was peculiar only because my mind was peculiar. I glanced around, saw I still had this part of the lake to myself (although not for much longer; the bee-buzz of the first power boat had been joined by a second and third), and stripped off my soggy underpants. I wrung them out, put them on top of my shorts and tee-shirt, and walked naked up the railroad-tie steps with my clothes held against my chest. I pretended I was Bunter, bringing breakfast and the morning paper to Lord Peter Wimsey. By the time I got back inside the house I was grinning like a fool. The second floor was stifling in spite of the open windows, and I saw why as soon as I got to the top of the stairs. Jo and I had shared space up here, she on the left (only a little room, really just a cubby, which was all she needed with the studio north of the house), me on the right. At the far end of the hall was the grilled snout of the monster air-conditioning unit we'd bought the year after we bought the lodge. Looking at it, I realized I had missed its characteristic hum without even being aware of it. There was a sign taped to it which said, Mr. Noonan: Broken. Blows hot air when you turn it on & sounds full of broken glass. Dean says the part it needs is promised from Western Auto in Castle Rock. I'll believe it when I see it. B. Meserve. I grinned at that last -it was Mrs. M. right down to the ground and then I tried the switch. Machinery often responds favorably when it senses a penis-equipped human in the vicinity, Jo used to claim, but not this time. I listened to the air conditioner grind for five seconds or so, then snapped it off. ‘Damn thing shit the bed,' as TR folks like to say. And until it was fixed, I wouldn't even be doing crossword puzzles up here. I looked in my office just the same, as curious about what I might feel as about what I might find. The answer was next to nothing. There was the desk where I had finished The Red-Shirt Man, thus proving to myself that the first time wasn't a fluke; there was the photo of Richard Nixon, arms raised, flashing the double V-for-Victory sign, with the caption WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN? running beneath; there was the rag rug Jo had hooked for me a winter or two before she had discovered the wonderful world of afghans and pretty much gave up hooking. It wasn't quite the office of a stranger, but every item (most of all, the weirdly empty surface of the desk) said that it was the work-space of an earlier-generation Mike Noonan. Men's lives, I had read once, are usually defined by two primary forces: work and marriage. In my life the marriage was over and the career on what appeared to be permanent hiatus. Given that, it didn't seem strange to me that now the space where I'd spent so many days, usually in a state of real happiness as I made up various imaginary lives, seemed to mean nothing. It was like looking at the office of an employee who had been fired . . . or who had died suddenly. I started to leave, then had an idea. The filing cabinet in the corner was crammed with papers bank statements (most eight or ten years out of date), correspondence (mostly never answered), a few story fragments-but I didn't find what I was looking for. I moved on to the closet, where the temperature had to be at least a hundred and ten degrees, and in a cardboard box which Mrs. M. had marked GADGETS, I unearthed it a Sanyo Memo-Scriber Debra Weinstock gave me at the conclusion of our work on the first of the Putnam books. It could be set to turn itself on when you started to talk; it dropped into its PAUSE mode when you stopped to think. I never asked Debra if the thing just caught her eye and she thought, ‘Why, I'll bet any self-respecting popular novelist would enjoy owning one of these babies,' or if it was something a little more specific . . . some sort of hint, perhaps? Verbalize those little faxes from your subconscious while they're still fresh, Noonan? I hadn't known then and didn't now. But I had it, a genuine pro-quality dictating-machine, and there were at least a dozen cassette tapes in my car, home dubs I'd made to listen to while driving. I would insert one in the Memo-Scriber tonight, slide the volume control as high as it would go, and put the machine in its DICTATE mode. Then, if the noise I'd heard at least twice now repeated itself, I would have it on tape. I could play it for Bill Dean and ask him what he thought it was. What if I hear the sobbing child tonight and the machine never kicks on? ‘Well then, I'll know something else,' I told the empty, sunlit office. I was standing there in the doorway with the Memo-Scriber under my arm, looking at the empty desk and sweating like a pig. ‘Or at least suspect it.' Jo's nook across the hall made my office seem crowded and homey by comparison. Never overfull, it was now nothing but a square room-shaped space. The rug was gone, her photos were gone, even the desk was gone. This looked like a do-it-yourself project which had been abandoned after ninety percent of the work had been done. Jo had been scrubbed out of it scraped out of it and I felt a moment's unreasonable anger at Brenda Meserve. I thought of what my mother usually said when I'd done something on my own initiative of which she disapproved: ‘You took a little too much on y'self, didn't you?' That was my feeling about Jo's little bit of office: that in emptying it to the walls this way, Mrs. Meserve had taken a little too much on herself. Maybe it wasn't Mrs. M. who cleaned it out, the UFO voice said. Maybe Jo did it herself. Ever think of that, sport? ‘That's stupid,' I said. ‘Why would she? I hardly think she had a premonition of her own death. Considering she'd just bought ‘ But I didn't want to say it. Not out loud. It seemed like a bad idea somehow. I turned to leave the room, and a sudden sigh of cool air, amazing in that heat, rushed past the sides of my face. Not my body; just my face. It was the most extraordinary sensation, like hands patting briefly but gently at my cheeks and forehead. At the same time there was a sighing in my ears . . . except that's not quite right. It was a susurrus that went past my ears, like a whispered message spoken in a hurry. I turned, expecting to see the curtains over the room's window in motion . . . but they hung perfectly straight. ‘Jo?' I said, and hearing her name made me shiver so violently that I almost dropped the Memo-Scriber. ‘Jo, was that you?' Nothing. No phantom hands patting my skin, no motion from the curtains . . . which there certainly would have been if there had been an actual draft. All was quiet. There was only a tall man with a sweaty face and a tape-recorder under his arm standing in the doorway of a bare room . . . but that was when I first began to really believe that I wasn't alone in Sara Laughs. So what? I asked myself. Even if it should be true, so what? Ghosts can't hurt anyone. That's what I thought then. When I visited Jo's studio (her air-conditioned studio) after lunch, I felt quite a lot better about Brenda Meserve she hadn't taken too much on herself after all. The few items I especially remembered from Jo's little office the framed square of her first afghan, the green rag rug, her framed poster depicting the wildflowers of Maine had been put out here, along with almost everything else I remembered. It was as if Mrs. M. had sent a message I can't ease your pain or shorten your sadness, and I can't prevent the wounds that coming back here may re-open, but I can put all the stuff that may hurt you in one place, so you won't be stumbling over it unexpected or unprepared. I can do that much. Out here were no bare walls; out here the walls jostled with my wife's spirit and creativity. There were knitted things (some serious, many whimsical), batik squares, rag dolls popping out of what she called ‘my baby collages,' an abstract desert painting made from strips of yellow, black, and orange silk, her flower photographs, even, on top of her bookshelf, what appeared to be a construction-in-progress, a head of Sara Laughs herself. It was made out of toothpicks and lollipop sticks. In one corner was her little loom and a wooden cabinet with a sign reading JO'S KNITTING STUFF! NO TRESPASSING! hung over the pull-knob. In another was the banjo she had tried to learn and then given up on, saying it hurt her fingers too much. In a third was a kayak paddle and a pair of Rollerblades with scuffed toes and little purple pompoms on the tips of the laces. The thing which caught and held my eye was sitting on the old roll-top desk in the center of the room. During the many good summers, falls, and winter weekends we had spent here, that desktop would have been littered with spools of thread, skeins of yarn, pincushions, sketches, maybe a book about the Spanish Civil War or famous American dogs. Johanna could be aggravating, at least to me, because she imposed no real system or order on what she did. She could also be daunting, even overwhelming at times. She was a brilliant scatterbrain, and her desk had always reflected that. But not now. It was possible to think that Mrs. M. had cleared the litter from the top of it and plunked down what was now there, but impossible to believe. Why would she? It made no sense. The object was covered with a gray plastic hood. I reached out to touch it, and my hand faltered an inch or two short as a memory of an old dream (give me that it's my dust-catcher) slipped across my mind much as that queer draft ad slipped across my face. Then it was gone, and I pulled the plastic, over off. Underneath it was my old green IBM Selectric, which I hadn't seen or thought of in years. I leaned closer, knowing that the typewriter ball would be Courier my old favorite even before I saw it. What in God's name was my old typewriter doing out here? Johanna painted (although not very well), she took photographs (very good ones indeed) and sometimes sold them, she knitted, she crocheted, she wove and dyed cloth, she could play eight or ten basic chords on the guitar. She could write, of course; most English majors can, which is why they become English majors. Did she demonstrate any blazing degree of literary creativity? No. After a few experiments with poetry as an undergrad, she gave up that particular branch of the arts as a bad job. You write for both of us, Mike, she had said once. That's all yours; I'll just take a little taste of everything else. Given the quality of her poems as opposed to the quality of her silks, photographs, and knitted art, I thought that was probably wise. But here was my old IBM. Why? ‘Letters,' I said. ‘She found it down cellar or something, and rescued it to write letters on.' Except that wasn't Jo. She showed me most of her letters, often urging me to write little postscripts of my own, guilt-tripping me with that old saying about how the shoemaker's kids always go barefoot (‘and the writer's friends would never hear from him if it weren't for Alexander Graham Bell,' she was apt to add). I hadn't seen a typed personal letter from my wife in all the time we'd been married if nothing else, she would have considered it shitty etiquette. She could type, producing mistake-free business letters slowly yet methodically, but she always used my desktop computer or her own Powerbook for those chores. ‘What were you up to, hon?' I asked, then began to investigate her desk drawers. Brenda Meserve had made an effort with these, but Jo's fundamental nature had defeated her. Surface order (spools of thread segregated by color, for instance) quickly gave way to Jo's old dear jumble. I found enough of her in those drawers to hurt my heart with a hundred unexpected memories, but I found no paperwork which had been typed on my old IBM, with or without the Courier ball. Not so much as a single page. When I was finished with my hunt, I leaned back in my chair (her chair) and looked at the little framed photo on her desk, one I couldn't remember ever having seen before. Jo had most likely printed it herself (the original might have come out of some local's attic) and then hand-tinted the result. The final product looked like a wanted poster colorized by Ted Turner. I picked it up and ran the ball of my thumb over the glass facing, bemused. Sara Tidwell, the turn-of-the-century blues shouter whose last known port of call had been right here in TR-90. When she and her folks some of them friends, most of them relatives had left the TR, they had gone on to Castle Rock for a little while . . . then had simply disappeared, like a cloud over the horizon or mist on a summer morning. She was smiling just a little in the picture, but the smile was hard to read. Her eyes were half-closed. The string of her guitar not a strap but a string was visible over one shoulder. In the background I could see a black man wearing a derby at a killer angle (one thing about musicians: they really know how to wear hats) and standing beside what appeared to be a washtub bass. Jo had tinted Sara's skin to a caf? ¦-au-lait shade, maybe based on other pictures she'd seen (there are quite a few knocking around, most showing Sara with her head thrown back and her hair hanging almost to her waist as she bellows out her famous carefree yell of a laugh), although none would have been in color. Not at the turn of the century. Sara Tidwell hadn't just left her mark in old photographs, either. I recalled Dickie Brooks, owner of the All-Purpose Garage, once telling me that his father claimed to have won a teddybear at the Castle County Fair's shooting-pitch, and to have given it to Sara Tidwell. She had rewarded him, Dickie said, with a kiss. According to Dickie the old man never forgot it, said it was the best kiss of his life . . . although I doubt if he said it in his wife's hearing. In this photo she was only smiling. Sara Tidwell, known as Sara Laughs. Never recorded, but her songs had lived just the same. One of them, ‘Walk Me Baby,' bears a remarkable resemblance to ‘Walk This Way,' by Aerosmith. Today the lady would be known as an African-American. In 1984, when Johanna and I bought the lodge and consequently got interested in her, she would have been known as a Black. In her own time she would have been called a Negress or a darkie or possibly an octoroon. And a nigger, of course. There would have been plenty of folks free with that one. And did I believe that she had kissed Dickie Brooks's father a white man in front of half of Castle County? No, I did not. Still, who could say for sure? No one. That was the entrancing thing about the past. ‘It ain't nuthin but a barn-dance sugar,' I sang, putting the picture back on the desk. ‘It ain't nuthin but a round-and-round.' I picked up the typewriter cover, then decided to leave it off. As I stood, my eyes went back to Sara, standing there with her eyes closed and the string which served her as a guitar strap visible over one shoulder. Something in her face and smile had always struck me as familiar, and suddenly it came to me. She looked oddly like Robert Johnson, whose primitive licks hid behind the chords of almost every Led Zeppelin and Yardbirds song ever recorded. Who, according to the legend, had gone down to the crossroads and sold his soul to Satan for seven years of fast living, high-tension liquor, and streetlife babies. And for a jukejoint brand of immortality, of course. Which he had gotten. Robert Johnson, supposedly poisoned over a woman. In the late afternoon I went down to the store and saw a good-looking piece of flounder in the cold-case. It looked like supper to me. I bought a bottle of white wine to go with it, and while I was waiting my turn at the cash register, a trembling old man's voice spoke up behind me. ‘See you made a new friend yes'ty.' The Yankee accent was so thick that it sounded almost like a joke . . . except the accent itself is only part of it; mostly, I've come to believe, it's that singsong tone real Mainers all sound like auctioneers. I turned and saw the geezer who had been standing out on the garage tarmac the day before, watching along with Dickie Brooks as I got to know Kyra, Mattie, and Scoutie. He still had the gold-headed cane, and I now recognized it. Sometime in the 1950s, the Boston Post had donated one of those canes to every county in the New England states. They were given to the oldest residents and passed along from old fart to old fart. And the joke of it was that the Post had gone toes-up years ago. ‘Actually two new friends,' I replied, trying to dredge up his name. I couldn't, but I remembered him from when Jo had been alive, holding down one of the overstuffed chairs in Dickie's waiting room, discussing weather and politics, politics and weather, as the hammers whanged and the air-compressor chugged. A regular. And if something happened out there on Highway 68, eye-God, he was there to see it. ‘I hear Mattie Devore can be quite a dear,' he said heah, Devoah, deeah and one of his crusty eyelids drooped. I have seen a fair number of salacious winks in my time, but none that was a patch on the one tipped me by that old man with the gold-headed cane. I felt a strong urge to knock his waxy beak of a nose off. The sound of it parting company from his face would be like the crack of a dead branch broken over a bent knee. ‘Do you hear a lot, old-timer?' I asked. ‘Oh, ayuh!' he said. His lips dark as strips of liver parted in a grin. His gums swarmed with white patches. He had a couple of yellow teeth still planted in the top one, and a couple more on the bottom. ‘And she gut that little one cunnin, she is! Ayuh!' ‘Cunnin as a cat a-runnin,' I agreed. He blinked at me, a little surprised to hear such an old one out of my presumably newfangled mouth, and then that reprehensible grin widened. ‘Her don't mind her, though,' he said. ‘Baby gut the run of the place, don'tcha know.' I became aware better belated than never that half a dozen people were watching and listening to us. ‘That wasn't my impression,' I said, raising my voice a bit. ‘No, that wasn't my impression at all.' He only grinned . . . that old man's grin that says Oh, ayuh, deah; I know one worth two of that. I left the store feeling worried for Mattie Devore. Too many people were minding her business, it seemed to me. When I got home, I took my bottle of wine into the kitchen it could chill while I got the barbecue going out on the deck. I reached for the fridge door, then paused. Perhaps as many as four dozen little magnets had been scattered randomly across the front vegetables, fruits, plastic letters and numbers, even a good selection of the California Raisins but they weren't random anymore. Now they formed a circle on the front of the refrigerator. Someone had been in here. Someone had come in and . . . Rearranged the magnets on the fridge? If so, that was a burglar who needed to do some heavy remedial work. I touched one of them gingerly, with just the tip of my finger. Then, suddenly angry with myself, I reached out and spread them again, doing it with enough force to knock a couple to the floor. I didn't pick them up. That night, before going to bed, I placed the Memo-Scriber on the table beneath Bunter the Great Stuffed Moose, turning it on and putting it in the DICTATE mode. Then I slipped in one of my old home-dubbed cassettes, zeroed the counter, and went to bed, where I slept without dreams or other interruption for eight hours. The next morning, Monday, was the sort of day the tourists come to Maine for the air so sunny-clean that the hills across the lake seemed to be under subtle magnification. Mount Washington, New England's highest, floated in the farthest distance. I put on the coffee, then went into the living room, whistling. All my imaginings of the last few days seemed silly this morning. Then the whistle died away. The Memo-Scriber's counter, set to 000 when I went to bed, was now at 012. I rewound it, hesitated with my finger over the PLAY button, told myself (in Jo's voice) not to be a fool, and pushed it. ‘Oh Mike,' a voice whispered mourned, almost-on the tape, and I found myself having to press the heel of one hand to my mouth to hold back a scream. It was what I had heard in Jo's office when the draft rushed past the sides of my face . . . only now the words were slowed down just enough for me to understand them. ‘Oh Mike,' it said again. There was a faint click. The machine had shut down for some length of time. And then, once more, spoken in the living room as I had slept in the north wing: ‘Oh Mike.' Then it was gone.