ONLY FOR BRAINY BRAIN
The attachments must be mainly used
Write an essay of at least 1000 words, drawing upon what you learned in Unit 4, Unit 5, and Unit 6. Compare and contrast the texts, considering the ways in which each text does or doesn’t adhere to conventions of the era in which it was written.
5
DIARY OF A MADMAN
Licen se: Pu blic Dom a in
Lu Xun
Translated by Y ang Hsien-yi and G ladys Y ang
Two brothers, whose names I need not mention here, were both good friends
of mine in high school; but after a separation of many years we gradually lost
touch. Some time ago I happened to hear that one of them was seriously ill, and
since I was going back to my old home I broke my journey to call on them, I saw
only one, however, who told me that the invalid was his younger brother.
“I appreciate your coming such a long way to see us,” he said, “but my brother
recovered some time ago and has gone elsewhere to take up an official post.”
Then, laughing, he produced two volumes of his brother’s diary, saying that from
these the nature of his past illness could be seen, and that there was no harm in
showing them to an old friend. I took the diary away, read it through, and found
that he had suffered from a form of persecution complex. The writing was most
confused and incoherent, and he had made many wild statements; moreover he
had omitted to give any dates, so that only by the colour of the ink and the
differences in the writing could one tell that it was not written at one time.
Certain sections, however, were not altogether disconnected, and I have copied
out a part to serve as a subject for medical research. I have not altered a single
illogicality in the diary and have changed only the names, even though the
people referred to are all country folk, unknown to the world and of no
consequence. As for the title, it was chosen by the diarist himself after his
recovery, and I did not change it.
I
Tonight the moon is very bright.
I have not seen it for over thirty years, so today when I saw it I felt in
unusually high spirits. I begin to realize that during the past thirty-odd years I
have been in the dark; but now I must be extremely careful. Otherwise why
should that dog at the Chao house have looked at me twice?
I have reason for my fear.
II
Tonight there is no moon at all, I know that this bodes ill. This morning when
I went out cautiously, Mr. Chao had a strange look in his eyes, as if he were
afraid of me, as if he wanted to murder me. There were seven or eight others,
who discussed me in a whisper. And they were afraid of my seeing them. All the
people I passed were like that. The fiercest among them grinned at me;
whereupon I shivered from head to foot, knowing that their preparations were
complete.
10
15
I was not afraid, however, but continued on my way. A group of children in
front were also discussing me, and the look in their eyes was just like that in Mr.
Chao’s while their faces too were ghastly pale. I wondered what grudge these
children could have against me to make them behave like this. I could not help
calling out: “Tell me!” But then they ran away.
I wonder what grudge Mr. Chao can have against me, what grudge the people
on the road can have against me. I can think of nothing except that twenty years
ago I trod on Mr. Ku Chiu’s account sheets for many years past, and Mr. Ku was
very displeased. Although Mr. Chao does not know him, he must have heard talk
of this and decided to avenge him, so he is conspiring against me with the people
on the road, But then what of the children? At that time they were not yet born,
so why should they eye me so strangely today, as if they were afraid of me, as if
they wanted to murder me? This really frightens me, it is so bewildering and
upsetting.
I know. They must have learned this from their parents!
III
I can’t sleep at night. Everything requires careful consideration if one is to
understand it.
Those people, some of whom have been pilloried by the magistrate, slapped in
the face by the local gentry, had their wives taken away by bailiffs, or their
parents driven to suicide by creditors, never looked as frightened and as fierce
then as they did yesterday.
The most extraordinary thing was that woman on the street yesterday who
spanked her son and said, “Little devil! I’d like to bite several mouthfuls out of
you to work off my feelings!” Yet all the time she looked at me. I gave a start,
unable to control myself; then all those green-faced, long-toothed people began
to laugh derisively. Old Chen hurried forward and dragged me home.
He dragged me home. The folk at home all pretended not to know me; they
had the same look in their eyes as all the others. When I went into the study,
they locked the door outside as if cooping up a chicken or a duck. This incident
left me even more bewildered.
A few days ago a tenant of ours from Wolf Cub Village came to report the
failure of the crops, and told my elder brother that a notorious character in their
village had been beaten to death; then some people had taken out his heart and
liver, fried them in oil and eaten them, as a means of increasing their courage.
When I interrupted, the tenant and my brother both stared at me. Only today
have I realized that they had exactly the same look in their eyes as those people
outside.
Just to think of it sets me shivering from the crown of my head to the soles of
my feet.
They eat human beings, so they may eat me.
20
25
I see that woman’s “bite several mouthfuls out of you,” the laughter of those
green-faced, long-toothed people and the tenant’s story the other day are
obviously secret signs. I realize all the poison in their speech, all the daggers in
their laughter. Their teeth are white and glistening: they are all man-eaters.
It seems to me, although I am not a bad man, ever since I trod on Mr. Ku’s
accounts it has been touch-and-go. They seem to have secrets which I cannot
guess, and once they are angry they will call anyone a bad character. I remember
when my elder brother taught me to write compositions, no matter how good a
man was, if I produced arguments to the contrary he would mark that passage to
show his approval; while if I excused evil-doers, he would say: “Good for you,
that shows originality.” How can I possibly guess their secret thoughts—
especially when they are ready to eat people?
Everything requires careful consideration if one is to understand it. In ancient
times, as I recollect, people often ate human beings, but I am rather hazy about
it. I tried to look this up, but my history has no chronology, and scrawled all over
each page are the words: “Virtue and Morality.” Since I could not sleep anyway, I
read intently half the night, until I began to see words between the lines, the
whole book being filled with the two words—”Eat people.”
All these words written in the book, all the words spoken by our tenant, gaze
at me strangely with an enigmatic smile.
I too am a man, and they want to eat me!
I
V
In the morning I sat quietly for some time. Old Chen brought lunch in: one
bowl of vegetables, one bowl of steamed fish. The eyes of the fish were white and
hard, and its mouth was open just like those people who want to eat human
beings. After a few mouthfuls I could not tell whether the slippery morsels were
fish or human flesh, so I brought it all up.
I said, “Old Chen, tell my brother that I feel quite suffocated, and want to have
a stroll in the garden.” Old Chen said nothing but went out, and presently he
came back and opened the gate.
I did not move, but watched to see how they would treat me, feeling certain
that they would not let me go. Sure enough! My elder brother came slowly out,
leading an old man. There was a murderous gleam in his eyes, and fearing that I
would see it he lowered his head, stealing glances at me from the side of his
spectacles.
“You seem to be very well today,” said my brother.
“Yes,” said I.
“I have invited Mr. Ho here today,” said my brother, “to examine you.”
“All right,” said I. Actually I knew quite well that this old man was the
executioner in disguise! He simply used the pretext of feeling my pulse to see
how fat I was; for by so doing he would receive a share of my flesh. Still I was
30
35
not afraid. Although I do not eat men, my courage is greater than theirs. I held
out my two fists, to see what he would do. The old man sat down, closed his eyes,
fumbled for some time and remained still for some time; then he opened his
shifty eyes and said, “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Rest quietly
for a few days, and you will be all right.”
Don’t let your imagination run away with you! Rest quietly for a few days!
When I have grown fat, naturally they will have more to eat; but what good will
it do me, or how can it be “all right”? All these people wanting to eat human flesh
and at the same time stealthily trying to keep up appearances, not daring to act
promptly, really made me nearly die of laughter. I could not help roaring with
laughter, I was so amused. I knew that in this laughter were courage and
integrity. Both the old man and my brother turned pale, awed by my courage and
integrity.
But just because I am brave they are the more eager to eat me, in order to
acquire some of my courage. The old man went out of the gate, but before he had
gone far he said to my brother in a low voice, “To be eaten at once!” And my
brother nodded. So you are in it too! This stupendous discovery, although it
came as a shock, is yet no more than I had expected: the accomplice in eating me
is my elder brother!
The eater of human flesh is my elder brother!
I am the younger brother of
an eater of human flesh!
I myself will be eaten by others, but none the less I am the younger brother of
an eater of human flesh!
V
These few days I have been thinking again: suppose that old man were not an
executioner in disguise, but a real doctor; he would be none the less an eater of
human flesh. In that book on herbs, written by his predecessor Li Shih-chen, it is
clearly stated that men’s flesh can he boiled and eaten; so can he still say that he
does not eat men?
As for my elder brother, I have also good reason to suspect him. When he was
teaching me, he said with his own lips, “People exchange their sons to eat.” And
once in discussing a bad man, he said that not only did he deserve to be killed, he
should “have his flesh eaten and his hide slept on. . . .” I was still young then,
and my heart beat faster for some time, he was not at all surprised by the story
that our tenant from Wolf Cub Village told us the other day about eating a man’s
heart and liver, but kept nodding his head. He is evidently just as cruel as before.
Since it is possible to “exchange sons to eat,” then anything can be exchanged,
anyone can be eaten. In the past I simply listened to his explanations, and let it
go at that; now I know that when he explained it to me, not only was there
human fat at the corner of his lips, but his whole heart was set on eating men.
40
45
VI
Pitch dark. I don’t know whether it is day or night. The Chao family dog has
started barking again.
The fierceness of a lion, the timidity of a rabbit, the craftiness of a fox. . . .
VII
I know their way; they are not willing to kill anyone outright, nor do they
dare, for fear of the consequences. Instead they have banded together and set
traps everywhere, to force me to kill myself. The behaviour of the men and
women in the street a few days ago, and my elder brother’s attitude these last
few days, make it quite obvious. What they like best is for a man to take off his
belt, and hang himself from a beam; for then they can enjoy their heart’s desire
without being blamed for murder. Naturally that sets them roaring with
delighted laughter. On the other hand, if a man is frightened or worried to death,
although that makes him rather thin, they still nod in approval.
They only eat dead flesh! I remember reading somewhere of a hideous beast,
with an ugly look in its eye, called “hyena” which often eats dead flesh. Even the
largest bones it grinds into fragments and swallows: the mere thought of this is
enough to terrify one. Hyenas are related to wolves, and wolves belong to the
canine species. The other day the dog in the Chao house looked at me several
times; obviously it is in the plot too and has become their accomplice. The old
man’s eyes were cast down, but that did not deceive me!
The most deplorable is my elder brother. He is also a man, so why is he not
afraid, why is he plotting with others to eat me? Is it that when one is used to it
he no longer thinks it a crime? Or is it that he has hardened his heart to do
something he knows is wrong?
In cursing man-eaters, I shall start with my brother, and in dissuading man-
eaters, I shall start with him too.
VIII
Actually, such arguments should have convinced them long ago. . . .
Suddenly someone came in. He was only about twenty years old and I did not
see his features very clearly. His face was wreathed in smiles, but when he
nodded to me his smile did not seem genuine. I asked him “Is it right to eat
human beings?”
Still smiling, he replied, “When there is no famine how can one eat human
beings?”
I realized at once, he was one of them; but still I summoned up courage to
repeat my question:
“Is it right?”
50
55
60
“What makes you ask such a thing? You really are . . fond of a joke. . . . It is
very fine today.”
“It is fine, and the moon is very bright. But I want to ask you: Is it right?”
He looked disconcerted, and muttered: “No….”
“No? Then why do they still do it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? They are eating men now in Wolf Cub Village, and
you can see it written all over the books, in fresh red ink.”
His expression changed, and he grew ghastly pale. “It may be so,” he said,
staring at me. “It has always been like that. . . .”
“Is it right because it has always been like that?”
“I refuse to discuss these things with you. Anyway, you shouldn’t talk about it.
Whoever talks about it is in the wrong!”
I leaped up and opened my eyes wide, but the man had vanished. I was soaked
with perspiration. He was much younger than my elder brother, but even so he
was in it. He must have been taught by his parents. And I am afraid he has
already taught his son: that is why even the children look at me so fiercely.
I
X
Wanting to eat men, at the same time afraid of being eaten themselves, they
all look at each other with the deepest suspicion. . . .
How comfortable life would be for them if they could rid themselves of such
obsessions and go to work, walk, eat and sleep at ease. They have only this one
step to take. Yet fathers and sons, husbands and wives, brothers, friends,
teachers and students, sworn enemies and even strangers, have all joined in this
conspiracy, discouraging and preventing each other from taking this step.
X
Early this morning I went to look for my elder brother. He was standing
outside the hall door looking at the sky, when I walked up behind him, stood
between him and the door, and with exceptional poise and politeness said to
him:
“Brother, I have something to say to you.”
“Well, what is it?” he asked, quickly turning towards me and nodding.
“It is very little, but I find it difficult to say. Brother, probably all primitive
people ate a little human flesh to begin with. Later, because their outlook
changed, some of them stopped, and because they tried to be good they changed
into men, changed into real men. But some are still eating—just like reptiles.
Some have changed into fish, birds, monkeys and finally men; but some do not
try to be good and remain reptiles still. When those who eat men compare
themselves with those who do not, how ashamed they must be. Probably much
65
70
more ashamed than the reptiles are before monkeys.
“In ancient times Yi Ya boiled his son for Chieh and Chou to eat; that is the
old story. But actually since the creation of heaven and earth by Pan Ku men
have been eating each other, from the time of Yi Ya’s son to the time of Hsu Hsi-
lin, and from the time of Hsu Hsi-lin down to the man caught in Wolf Cub
Village. Last year they executed a criminal in the city, and a consumptive soaked
a piece of bread in his blood and sucked it.
“They want to eat me, and of course you can do nothing about it single-
handed; but why should you join them? As man-eaters they are capable of
anything. If they eat me, they can eat you as well; members of the same group
can still eat each other. But if you will just change your ways immediately, then
everyone will have peace. Although this has been going on since time
immemorial, today we could make a special effort to be good, and say this is not
to be done! I’m sure you can say so, brother. The other day when the tenant
wanted the rent reduced, you said it couldn’t be done.”
At first he only smiled cynically, then a murderous gleam came into his eyes,
and when I spoke of their secret his face turned pale. Outside the gate stood a
group of people, including Mr. Chao and his dog, all craning their necks to peer
in. I could not see all their faces, for they seemed to be masked in cloths; some
of them looked pale and ghastly still, concealing their laughter. I knew they were
one band, all eaters of human flesh. But I also knew that they did not all think
alike by any means. Some of them thought that since it had always been so, men
should be eaten. Some of them knew that they should not eat men, but still
wanted to; and they were afraid people might discover their secret; thus when
they heard me they became angry, but they still smiled their. cynical, tight-lipped
smile.
Suddenly my brother looked furious, and shouted in a loud voice:
“Get out of here, all of you! What is the point of looking at a madman?”
Then I realized part of their cunning. They would never be willing to change
their stand, and their plans were all laid; they had stigmatized me as a madman.
In future when I was eaten, not only would there be no trouble, but people
would probably be grateful to them. When our tenant spoke of the villagers
eating a bad character, it was exactly the same device. This is their old trick.
Old Chen came in too, in a great temper, but they could not stop my mouth, I
had to speak to those people:
“You should change, change from the bottom of your hearts!” I said. “You
most know that in future there will be no place for man-eaters in the world.
“If you don’t change, you may all be eaten by each other. Although so many
are born, they will be wiped out by the real men, just like wolves killed by
hunters. Just like reptiles!”
Old Chen drove everybody away. My brother had disappeared. Old Chen
advised me to go back to my room. The room was pitch dark. The beams and
rafters shook above my head. After shaking for some time they grew larger. They
75
80
piled on top of me.
The weight was so great, I could not move. They meant that I should die. I
knew that the weight was false, so I struggled out, covered in perspiration. But I
had to say:
“You should change at once, change from the bottom of your hearts! You
must know that in future there will be no place for man-eaters in the world . . . .”
XI
The sun does not shine, the door is not opened, every day two meals.
I took up my chopsticks, then thought of my elder brother; I know now how
my little sister died: it was all through him. My sister was only five at the time. I
can still remember how lovable and pathetic she looked. Mother cried and cried,
but he begged her not to cry, probably because he had eaten her himself, and so
her crying made him feel ashamed. If he had any sense of shame. . . .
My sister was eaten by my brother, but I don’t know whether mother realized
it or not.
I think mother must have known, but when she cried she did not say so
outright, probably because she thought it proper too. I remember when I was
four or five years old, sitting in the cool of the hall, my brother told me that if a
man’s parents were ill, he should cut off a piece of his flesh and boil it for them if
he wanted to be considered a good son; and mother did not contradict him. If
one piece could be eaten, obviously so could the whole. And yet just to think of
the mourning then still makes my heart bleed; that is the extraordinary thing
about it!
XII
I can’t bear to think of it.
I have only just realized that I have been living all these years in a place where
for four thousand years they have been eating human flesh. My brother had just
taken over the charge of the house when our sister died, and he may well have
used her flesh in our rice and dishes, making us eat it unwittingly.
It is possible that I ate several pieces of my sister’s flesh unwittingly, and now
it is my turn, . . .
How can a man like myself, after four thousand years of man-caring history—
even though I knew nothing about it at first—ever hope to face real men?
XIII
Perhaps there are still children who have not eaten men? Save the children. . .
.
Compact Anthology of
WORLD
L i t e r a t u r e
PART SIX
The 20th Century and Contemporary Literature
Editor-in-Chief:
ANIT A TURLINGT ON
Publication and Design Editor:
MAT T HEW HORT ON, PHD
Editors:
KAREN DODSON, PHD
LAURA GET T Y , PHD
KY OUNGHY E KWON, PHD
LAURA NG, PHD
Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 20th and 21st Centuries is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 (CC BY -SA 4.0) I nternational License.
This license allows you to remix, tweak, and build upon this work, even commercially, as long as you credit this original
source for the creation and license the new creation under identical terms.
I f you reuse this content elsewhere, in order to comply with the attribution requirements of the license, please attribute
the original source to the University System of G eorgia.
NOTE: The above copyright license which University System of G eorgia uses for their original content does not extend to
or include content which was accessed and incorporated, and which is licensed under various other CC Licenses, such as
ND licenses. Nor does it extend to or include any Special Permissions which were granted to us by the rightsholders for
our use of their content. To determine copyright status of any content, please refer to the bibliographies and appendices
for original source information to further research specific copyright licenses.
I mage Disclaimer: All images and figures in this book are believed to be (after a reasonable investigation) either public
domain or carry a compatible Creative Commons license. I f you are the copyright owner of images in this book and you
have not authorized the use of your work under these terms, please contact Corey Parson at corey.parson@ung.edu to
have the content removed.
Production of this textbook was funded by a grant from Affordable Learning G eorgia.
Acknowledgments
The editors of this text would like to acknowledge the invaluable contributions,
professionalism, and unfailing good humor of Corey Parson, Managing Editor of the
University of North Georgia Press. Corey patiently provided advice on all copyright
concerns, responded promptly to our questions, verified sources for the texts included
here, and managed the peer review process.
We would also like to acknowledge the support of Dr. Joyce Stavick, Head, UNG
English Department, and Dr. Shannon Gilstrap, Associate Head.
- Introduction: How to Use this Textbook
- Unit 1: Modernism (1900-1945)
- Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
- Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936)
- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)
- Violetta Thurstan (1879-1978)
- Lu Xun (1881-1936)
- Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
- James Joyce (1882-1941)
- Franz Kafka (1883-1924)
- Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
- T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
- Anna Akhmatova (1889-1996)
- Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892-1927)
- Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
- William Faulkner (1897-1962)
- Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
- Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)
- Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
- Yi Sang (1910-1937)
- Unit 2: Postcolonial Literature
- Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
- Aimé Fernand David Césaire (1913-2008)
- Chinua Achebe (1930-2013)
- Cho Se-hui (1942- )
- Joy Harjo (1951- )
- Unit 3: Contemporary Literature (1955-present)
- Naguib Mahfouz (1911-2006)
- Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000)
- Gabriel García Márquez (1927-2014)
- Derek Walcott (1930-2017)
- Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)
- Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)
- Hanan al-Shaykh (1945- )
- Salman Rushdie (1947- )
- Leslie Marmon Silko (1948- )
- Haruki Murakami (1949- )
- Jamaica Kincaid (1949- )
- Francisco X. Alarcón (1954-2016)
- Yasmina Reza (1959- )
The Cabuliwallah
Six Characters in Search of an Author
Swann’s Way
Field Hospital and Flying Column
Diary of a Madman
A Room of One’s Own
The Dead
The Metamorphosis
The Garden Party
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Tradition and the Individual Talent
The Waste Land
Lot’s Wife
Requiem
Why Is This Century Worse…
In a Grove
Rashomon
Preface
Strange Meeting
Anthem for Doomed Youth
Dulce et Decorum est
Exposure
Futility
Parable of the Old Men and the Young
Barn Burning
A Rose for Emily
Mother Courage and Her Children
The Garden of Forking Paths
Harlem
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Theme for English B
The Weary Blues
Phantom Illusion
The Golden Threshold
from Notebook of a Return to the Native Land
The Woman and the Flame
Things Fall Apart
Knifeblade
A Little Ball Launched by a Dwarf
The Möbius Strip
Eagle Poem
An American Sunrise
My House Is the Red Earth
A Poem to Get Rid of Fear
When the World as We Knew It Ended
from Midaq Alley
An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mt. Zion
Jerusalem
A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings
The Bounty
from Omeros
The Haw Lantern
The Tollund Man
Identity Card
Victim Number 18
The Women’s Swimming Pool
The Perforated Sheet
Yellow Woman
The Second Bakery Attack
Girl
“Mexican” Is Not a Noun
Prayer
To Those Who Have Lost Everything
God of Carnage
5
10
THE GARDEN PARTY
License: Public Domain
Katherine Mansfield
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect
day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a
cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in
early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and
sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants
had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they
understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties;
the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally
hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.
“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?”
“My dear child, it’s no use asking me. I’m determined to leave everything to
you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured
guest.”
But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her
hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a
dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a
silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.
“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.”
Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It’s so delicious
to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to
arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much better than anybody else.
Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path.
They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung
on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she had not got
the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t possibly
throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-
sighted as she came up to them.
“Good morning,” she said, copying her mother’s voice. But that sounded so
fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl, “Oh—er
—have you come—is it about the marquee?”
“That’s right, miss,” said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow, and he
shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her. “That’s
about it.”
His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes he
had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, they were
smiling too. “Cheer up, we won’t bite,” their smile seemed to say. How very nice
workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn’t mention the
morning; she must be business-like. The marquee.
15
20
“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?”
And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the bread-and-
butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap thrust out his
under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.
“I don’t fancy it,” said he. “Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like
a marquee,” and he turned to Laura in his easy way, “you want to put it
somewhere where it’ll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you follow me.”
Laura’s upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite
respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she did quite
follow him.
“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the band’s going to be in
one corner.”
“H’m, going to have a band, are you?” said another of the workmen. He was
pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-court. What was
he thinking?
“Only a very small band,” said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind so
much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.
“Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over there. That’ll do
fine.”
Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were so
lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow fruit. They
were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, solitary, lifting
their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour. Must they be
hidden by a marquee?
They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for
the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig of
lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the smell.
When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her wonder at
him caring for things like that—caring for the smell of lavender. How many men
that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice
workmen were, she thought. Why couldn’t she have workmen for her friends
rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to Sunday night
supper? She would get on much better with men like these.
It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the back of
an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of these absurd
class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn’t feel them. Not a bit, not an
atom… And now there came the chock-chock of wooden hammers. Some one
whistled, some one sang out, “Are you right there, matey?” “Matey!” The
friendliness of it, the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the
tall fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura
took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt
just like a work-girl.
“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from the
25
30
35
house.
“Coming!” Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, across
the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie were brushing
their hats ready to go to the office.
“I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a squiz at my coat
before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.”
“I will,” said she. Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself. She ran at Laurie and
gave him a small, quick squeeze. “Oh, I do love parties, don’t you?” gasped Laura.
“Ra-ther,” said Laurie’s warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister too,
and gave her a gentle push. “Dash off to the telephone, old girl.”
The telephone. “Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to lunch?
Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch meal—just the
sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what’s left over. Yes, isn’t it a
perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly should. One moment—hold the
line. Mother’s calling.” And Laura sat back. “What, mother? Can’t hear.”
Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear that sweet hat
she had on last Sunday.”
“Mother says you’re to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One
o’clock. Bye-bye.”
Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep breath,
stretched and let them fall. “Huh,” she sighed, and the moment after the sigh she
sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be
open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green
baize door that led to the kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled
thud. And now there came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy
piano being moved on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was
the air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the tops of
the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sun, one on the
inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots.
Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star.
She could have kissed it.
The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie’s print skirt
on the stairs. A man’s voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, “I’m sure I
don’t know. Wait. I’ll ask Mrs Sheridan.”
“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall.
“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.”
It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray full of
pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies—canna lilies, big pink
flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on bright crimson stems.
“O-oh, Sadie!” said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She crouched
down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they were in her fingers,
on her lips, growing in her breast.
“It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go
40
45
50
and find mother.”
But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.
“It’s quite right,” she said calmly. “Yes, I ordered them. Aren’t they lovely?”
She pressed Laura’s arm. “I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in
the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I shall have enough
canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse.”
“But I thought you said you didn’t mean to interfere,” said Laura. Sadie had
gone. The florist’s man was still outside at his van. She put her arm round her
mother’s neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother’s ear.
“My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? Don’t do
that. Here’s the man.”
He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.
“Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please,” said
Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?”
“Oh, I do, mother.”
In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in
moving the piano.
“Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything out of
the room except the chairs, don’t you think?”
“Quite.”
“Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to take
these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—” Jose loved giving orders
to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel they
were taking part in some drama. “Tell mother and Miss Laura to come here at
once.
“Very good, Miss Jose.”
She turned to Meg. “I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I’m
asked to sing this afternoon. Let’s try over ‘This life is Weary.'”
Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that Jose’s face
changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and enigmatically at her
mother and Laura as they came in.
This Life is Wee-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,
This Life is Wee-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,
And then… Good-bye!
But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more desperate
than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile.
“Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed.
55
60
65
70
This Life is Wee-ary,
Hope comes to Die.
A Dream—a Wa-kening.
But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?”
“If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the sandwiches?”
“The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?” echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And
the children knew by her face that she hadn’t got them. “Let me see.” And she
said to Sadie firmly, “Tell cook I’ll let her have them in ten minutes.”
Sadie went.
“Now, Laura,” said her mother quickly, “come with me into the smoking-
room. I’ve got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You’ll have to
write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off
your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you hear me, children,
or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home to-night? And—and, Jose,
pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I’m terrified of her this
morning.”
The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it
had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.
“One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember
vividly—cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?”
“Yes.”
“Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. “It looks like
mice. It can’t be mice, can it?”
“Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder.
“Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and olive.”
They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found
Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.
“I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s rapturous voice.
“How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?”
“Fifteen, Miss Jose.”
“Well, cook, I congratulate you.”
Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly.
“Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had
seen the man pass the window.
That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their cream
puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.
“Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook.
Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Jose
were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, they
couldn’t help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook began
arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.
75
80
85
90
“Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said Laura.
“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried back.
“They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.”
“Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma won’t
know.”
Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made
one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their
fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream.
“Let’s go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I want to see
how the men are getting on with the marquee. They’re such awfully nice men.”
But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans.
Something had happened.
“Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped
to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans’s face was screwed up in the
effort to understand. Only Godber’s man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was
his story.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
“There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man killed.”
“A man killed! Where? How? When?”
But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under his very
nose.
“Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of course,
she knew them. “Well, there’s a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter.
His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and
he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed.”
“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man.
“Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber’s man with relish. “They were
taking the body home as I come up here.” And he said to the cook, “He’s left a
wife and five little ones.”
“Jose, come here.” Laura caught hold of her sister’s sleeve and dragged her
through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There she paused
and leaned against it. “Jose!” she said, horrified, “however are we going to stop
everything?”
“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you mean?”
“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend?
But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don’t
be so absurd. Of course we can’t do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to.
Don’t be so extravagant.”
“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the
front gate.”
That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves
at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran
between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore,
95
100
105
and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They were little mean
dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing
but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of
their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike
the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans’ chimneys.
Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose
house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed.
When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of
the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since they were grown
up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. It was
disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must go
everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.
“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,” said
Laura.
“Oh, Laura!” Jose began to be seriously annoyed. “If you’re going to stop a
band playing every time some one has an accident, you’ll lead a very strenuous
life. I’m every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic.” Her eyes
hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and
fighting together. “You won’t bring a drunken workman back to life by being
sentimental,” she said softly.
“Drunk! Who said he was drunk?” Laura turned furiously on Jose. She said,
just as they had used to say on those occasions, “I’m going straight up to tell
mother.”
“Do, dear,” cooed Jose.
“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass door-knob.
“Of course, child. Why, what’s the matter? What’s given you such a colour?”
And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a
new hat.
“Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura.
“Not in the garden?” interrupted her mother.
“No, no!”
“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off
the big hat and held it on her knees.
“But listen, mother,” said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the
dreadful story. “Of course, we can’t have our party, can we?” she pleaded. “The
band and everybody arriving. They’d hear us, mother; they’re nearly neighbours!”
To Laura’s astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to
bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.
“But, my dear child, use your common sense. It’s only by accident we’ve heard
of it. If some one had died there normally—and I can’t understand how they keep
alive in those poky little holes—we should still be having our party, shouldn’t
we?”
Laura had to say “yes” to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on
110
115
120
her mother’s sofa and pinched the cushion frill.
“Mother, isn’t it terribly heartless of us?” she asked.
“Darling!” Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before
Laura could stop her she had popped it on. “My child!” said her mother, “the hat
is yours. It’s made for you. It’s much too young for me. I have never seen you
look such a picture. Look at yourself!” And she held up her hand-mirror.
“But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at herself; she turned
aside.
This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.
“You are being very absurd, Laura,” she said coldly. “People like that don’t
expect sacrifices from us. And it’s not very sympathetic to spoil everybody’s
enjoyment as you’re doing now.”
“I don’t understand,” said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into
her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this
charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and a
long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Is
mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being
extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another
glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body being carried
into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper.
I’ll remember it again after the party’s over, she decided. And somehow that
seemed quite the best plan…
Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready for the
fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a corner of the
tennis-court.
“My dear!” trilled Kitty Maitland, “aren’t they too like frogs for words? You
ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the middle
on a leaf.”
Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him Laura
remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the
others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him into the hall.
“Laurie!”
“Hallo!” He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura
he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. “My word, Laura!
You do look stunning,” said Laurie. “What an absolutely topping hat!”
Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and didn’t tell him after all.
Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the hired
waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there were
couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn.
They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans’ garden for this
one afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with
people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.
“Darling Laura, how well you look!”
125
130
135
140
“What a becoming hat, child!”
“Laura, you look quite Spanish. I’ve never seen you look so striking.”
And Laura, glowing, answered softly, “Have you had tea? Won’t you have an
ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special.” She ran to her father and
begged him. “Daddy darling, can’t the band have something to drink?”
And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals
closed.
“Never a more delightful garden-party… ” “The greatest success… ” “Quite the
most… ”
Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the
porch till it was all over.
“All over, all over, thank heaven,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Round up the others,
Laura. Let’s go and have some fresh coffee. I’m exhausted. Yes, it’s been very
successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will you children insist on
giving parties!” And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee.
“Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took
another. “I suppose you didn’t hear of a beastly accident that happened to-day?”
he said.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. It nearly ruined
the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.”
“Oh, mother!” Laura didn’t want to be teased about it.
“It was a horrible affair all the same,” said Mr. Sheridan. “The chap was
married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen
kiddies, so they say.”
An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it
was very tactless of father…
Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes,
puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas.
“I know,” she said. “Let’s make up a basket. Let’s send that poor creature some
of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the
children. Don’t you agree? And she’s sure to have neighbours calling in and so
on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!” She jumped up. “Get me
the big basket out of the stairs cupboard.”
“But, mother, do you really think it’s a good idea?” said Laura.
Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps
from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?
“Of course! What’s the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you were
insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—”
Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother.
“Take it yourself, darling,” said she. “Run down just as you are. No, wait, take
the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by arum lilies.”
“The stems will ruin her lace frock,” said practical Jose.
145
150
155
So they would. Just in time. “Only the basket, then. And, Laura!”—her mother
followed her out of the marquee—”don’t on any account—”
“What mother?”
No, better not put such ideas into the child’s head! “Nothing! Run along.”
It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by
like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little
cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she
was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn’t
realize it. Why couldn’t she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that
kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were
somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She
looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, “Yes, it was the most
successful party.”
Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in
shawls and men’s tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the
children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages.
In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved
across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had
put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer—if
only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a
mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back
even now?
No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood
outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair, watching.
She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drew near. The
group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they had known she
was coming here.
Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she
said to a woman standing by, “Is this Mrs. Scott’s house?” and the woman,
smiling queerly, said, “It is, my lass.”
Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, “Help me, God,” as she walked up
the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to be covered
up in anything, one of those women’s shawls even. I’ll just leave the basket and
go, she decided. I shan’t even wait for it to be emptied.
Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.
Laura said, “Are you Mrs. Scott?” But to her horror the woman answered,
“Walk in please, miss,” and she was shut in the passage.
“No,” said Laura, “I don’t want to come in. I only want to leave this basket.
Mother sent—”
The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. “Step
this way, please, miss,” she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her.
She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp.
There was a woman sitting before the fire.
160
165
170
175
“Em,” said the little creature who had let her in. “Em! It’s a young lady.” She
turned to Laura. She said meaningly, “I’m ‘er sister, miss. You’ll excuse ‘er, won’t
you?”
“Oh, but of course!” said Laura. “Please, please don’t disturb her. I—I only
want to leave—”
But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up,
red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though
she couldn’t understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was this
stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? And the
poor face puckered up again.
“All right, my dear,” said the other. “I’ll thenk the young lady.”
And again she began, “You’ll excuse her, miss, I’m sure,” and her face, swollen
too, tried an oily smile.
Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The
door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where the dead
man was lying.
“You’d like a look at ‘im, wouldn’t you?” said Em’s sister, and she brushed past
Laura over to the bed. “Don’t be afraid, my lass,”—and now her voice sounded
fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet—”‘e looks a picture. There’s
nothing to show. Come along, my dear.”
Laura came.
There lay a young man, fast asleep—sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he
was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming.
Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his eyes were closed;
they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his dream. What did
garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all
those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while
the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy… happy… All is
well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content.
But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn’t go out of the room without
saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob.
“Forgive my hat,” she said.
And this time she didn’t wait for Em’s sister. She found her way out of the
door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the lane she met
Laurie.
He stepped out of the shadow. “Is that you, Laura?”
“Yes.”
“Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?”
“Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!” She took his arm, she pressed up against him.
“I say, you’re not crying, are you?” asked her brother.
Laura shook her head. She was.
Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he said in his warm,
loving voice. “Was it awful?”
“No,” sobbed Laura. “It was simply marvellous. But Laurie—” She stopped, she
looked at her brother. “Isn’t life,” she stammered, “isn’t life—” But what life was
she couldn’t explain. No matter. He quite understood.
“Isn’t it, darling?” said Laurie.
Compact Anthology of
WORLD
L i t e r a t u r e
PART SIX
The 20th Century and Contemporary Literature
Editor-in-Chief:
ANITA TURLINGTON
Publication and Design Editor:
MATTHEW HORTON, PHD
Editors:
KAREN DODSON, PHD
LAURA GETTY, PHD
KYOUNGHYE KWON, PHD
LAURA NG, PHD
Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 20th and 21st Centuries is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 (CC BY-SA 4.0) International License.
This license allows you to remix, tweak, and build upon this work, even commercially, as long as you credit this original
source for the creation and license the new creation under identical terms.
If you reuse this content elsewhere, in order to comply with the attribution requirements of the license, please attribute
the original source to the University System of Georgia.
NOTE: The above copyright license which University System of Georgia uses for their original content does not extend to
or include content which was accessed and incorporated, and which is licensed under various other CC Licenses, such as
ND licenses. Nor does it extend to or include any Special Permissions which were granted to us by the rightsholders for
our use of their content. To determine copyright status of any content, please refer to the bibliographies and appendices
for original source information to further research specific copyright licenses.
Image Disclaimer: All images and figures in this book are believed to be (after a reasonable investigation) either public
domain or carry a compatible Creative Commons license. If you are the copyright owner of images in this book and you
have not authorized the use of your work under these terms, please contact Corey Parson at corey.parson@ung.edu to
have the content removed.
Production of this textbook was funded by a grant from Affordable Learning Georgia.
Acknowledgments
The editors of this text would like to acknowledge the invaluable contributions,
professionalism, and unfailing good humor of Corey Parson, Managing Editor of the
University of North Georgia Press. Corey patiently provided advice on all copyright
concerns, responded promptly to our questions, verified sources for the texts included
here, and managed the peer review process.
We would also like to acknowledge the support of Dr. Joyce Stavick, Head, UNG
English Department, and Dr. Shannon Gilstrap, Associate Head.
- Introduction: How to Use this Textbook
- Unit 1: Modernism (1900-1945)
- Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
- Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936)
- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)
- Violetta Thurstan (1879-1978)
- Lu Xun (1881-1936)
- Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
- James Joyce (1882-1941)
- Franz Kafka (1883-1924)
- Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
- T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
- Anna Akhmatova (1889-1996)
- Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892-1927)
- Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
- William Faulkner (1897-1962)
- Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
- Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)
- Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
- Yi Sang (1910-1937)
- Unit 2: Postcolonial Literature
- Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
- Aimé Fernand David Césaire (1913-2008)
- Chinua Achebe (1930-2013)
- Cho Se-hui (1942- )
- Joy Harjo (1951- )
- Unit 3: Contemporary Literature (1955-present)
- Naguib Mahfouz (1911-2006)
- Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000)
- Gabriel García Márquez (1927-2014)
- Derek Walcott (1930-2017)
- Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)
- Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)
- Hanan al-Shaykh (1945- )
- Salman Rushdie (1947- )
- Leslie Marmon Silko (1948- )
- Haruki Murakami (1949- )
- Jamaica Kincaid (1949- )
- Francisco X. Alarcón (1954-2016)
- Yasmina Reza (1959- )
The Cabuliwallah
Six Characters in Search of an Author
Swann’s Way
Field Hospital and Flying Column
Diary of a Madman
A Room of One’s Own
The Dead
The Metamorphosis
The Garden Party
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Tradition and the Individual Talent
The Waste Land
Lot’s Wife
Requiem
Why Is This Century Worse…
In a Grove
Rashomon
Preface
Strange Meeting
Anthem for Doomed Youth
Dulce et Decorum est
Exposure
Futility
Parable of the Old Men and the Young
Barn Burning
A Rose for Emily
Mother Courage and Her Children
The Garden of Forking Paths
Harlem
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Theme for English B
The Weary Blues
Phantom Illusion
The Golden Threshold
from Notebook of a Return to the Native Land
The Woman and the Flame
Things Fall Apart
Knifeblade
A Little Ball Launched by a Dwarf
The Möbius Strip
Eagle Poem
An American Sunrise
My House Is the Red Earth
A Poem to Get Rid of Fear
When the World as We Knew It Ended
from Midaq Alley
An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mt. Zion
Jerusalem
A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings
The Bounty
from Omeros
The Haw Lantern
The Tollund Man
Identity Card
Victim Number 18
The Women’s Swimming Pool
The Perforated Sheet
Yellow Woman
The Second Bakery Attack
Girl
“Mexican” Is Not a Noun
Prayer
To Those Who Have Lost Everything
God of Carnage
6
Lu Xun (1881 – 1936)
Diary of a Madman
Chinese
Modernism
“Diary of a Madman” is a famous short story by Lu Xun, who is regarded as a great writer of modern Chinese literature. Lu Xun (surname: Lu, and the pen name of Zhou Shuren) was a short story writer, translator, essayist, and literary scholar. Although Lu was educated in the Confucian tradition when he was young, he later received a modern western education; he studied modern medicine in Japan and was exposed to western literature (including English, German, and Russian literatures). In 1918, “Diary of a Madman” was published in New Youth, a magazine of the New Culture Movement that promoted democracy, egalitarianism, vernacular literature, individual freedom, and women’s rights. Inspired by the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol’s story of the same title, Lu wrote this story, which is the first western-style story in vernacular Chinese. The cannibalistic society that the madman narrator sees is generally interpreted as a satirical allegory of traditional Chinese society based on Confucianism. Although Lu and his works were associated with leftist ideas (and Mao Zedong favored Lu’s works), Lu never joined the Communist Party of China. The English translations of this short story include a version by William A. Lyell, a former professor of Chinese at Stanford University.
Consider while reading:
- What elements of detective fiction does Borges include in “The Garden of Forking Paths”?
- How does having multiple possible outcomes influence the resolution of the text?
- How does Borges use the symbolism of the labyrinth?
- Borges is known for his use of magical realism and his work in the science fiction genre. How does Borges incorporate magical realism into “The Garden of the Forking Paths?” What effect does it create?
Kwon, Kyounghye. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia Press.
CC-BY-SA.
6
Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
The Garden Party
New Zealander
Modernism
Best known for her modernist short stories, Katherine Mansfield was born into a prominent New Zealand family in Wellington in 1888. At 19, she moved to London, where she eventually became part of the Bloomsbury group that included Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf; the two later published Mansfield’s short stories through their Hogarth Press. Mansfield struggled to balance her ambitions as a writer with a tumultuous love life; she had numerous love affairs with both men and women, and two brief marriages; at the time of her death, she was married to the prominent editor and critic John Middleton Murry, whom she met in 1911 and married in 1918. The last five years of Mansfield’s life were dominated by her efforts to find a successful treatment for the tuberculosis that would end her life at the age of 34.
Mansfield began writing short stories as a teenager in New Zealand. Her early efforts were marked by a sympathetic presentation of the Maori minority, who were often oppressed by the white colonialists. While she traveled back to New Zealand once as a young adult, most of her adult life was spent in London or travelling on the continent, where she pursued her ambition to write professionally. An accomplished cellist, she acknowledged the influence of music on her writing process. Like other modernist writers, Mansfield is less interested in plot than in the psychology of her characters, who are often frustrated, alienated, and isolated. Depicting the rich inner lives of her characters through interior monologues, she also makes use of free indirect discourse. Also a poet, Mansfield’s style is characterized by her use of imagery. In the tightly constructed form of the short story, she is also notable for her frequent use, like Joyce and Woolf, of the epiphany, what Woolf refers to as “a moment of being.”
Along with “The Daughters of the Late Colonel” and “Miss Brill,” “The Garden Party” (1922) is one of Mansfield’s best-known short stories. The story is set in Mansfield’s home town, Wellington; Laura Sheridan, the protagonist, is preoccupied with all of the details of planning a garden party, including her pleasure in wearing a new hat, when tragedy intervenes in the death of a local tradesman. Even as she considers the poverty in which the carter’s wife and family will be left, Sheridan cannot bring herself to cancel the party. Her epiphany at the story’s end suggests that she will someday grow more critical of the middle class colonial values that she and her family embody.
Consider while reading:
- How does Mansfield characterize Laura?
- How would you describe the relationship between Laura and her mother?
- How is death portrayed in the story?
- What does Mansfield seem to be suggesting about class distinctions during this period?
Turlington, Anita. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia Press.
CC-BY-SA.