need help writing this paper

“The Answer Is No” by Naguib Mahfouz (1911-2006)

http://www.sabri.org/The-Answer-No.htm

“They speak highly of his abilities,” said a colleague of hers. “And they talk too of his strictness.”

It had always been a possibility that might occur, and now it had. Her pretty face paled, and a staring look came to her wide black eyes.

When the time came, the teachers went in single file, decorously attired, to his open room. He stood behind his desk as he received the men and women. He was of medium height, with a tendency to portliness, and had a spherical face, hooked nose, and bulging eyes; the first thing that could be seen of him was a thick, puffed-up mustache, arched like a foam-laden wave. She advanced with her eyes fixed on his chest. Avoiding his gaze, she stretched out her hand. What was she to say? Just what the others had said? However, she kept silent, uttered not a word, What, she wondered, did his eyes express? His rough hand shook hers, and he said in a gruff voice, “Thanks.” She turned elegantly and moved off.

She forgot her worries through her daily tasks, though she did not look in good shape. Several of the girls remarked, “Miss is in a bad mood.” When she returned to her home at the beginning of the Pyramids Road, she changed her clothes and sat down to eat with her mother. “Everything all right?” inquired her mother, looking her in the face.

“Badran, Badran Badawi,” she said briefly. “Do you remember him? He’s been appointed our headmaster.”

“Really!”

Then after a moment of silence, she said, “It’s of no importance at all – it’s an old and long-forgotten story.”

After eating, she took herself off to her study to rest for a while before correcting some exercise books. She had forgotten him completely. No, not completely. How could he be forgotten completely? When he had first come to give her a private lesson in mathematics, she was fourteen years of age. In fact, not quite fourteen. He had been twenty-five years older, the same age as her father. She had said to her mother, “His appearance is a mess, but he explains things well,” And her mother had said, “We are not concerned with what he looks like; what’s important is how he explains things.”

He was an amusing person, and she got on well with him. and benefited from his knowledge. How, then, had it happened? In her innocence she had not noticed any change in his behavior to put her on her guard. Then one day he had been left on his own with her, her father having gone to her aunt’s clinic. She had not the slightest doubts about a man she regarded as a second father. How, then, had it happened? Without love or desire on her part the thing had happened. She had asked in terror about what had occurred, and he had told her, “Don’t be frightened or sad. Keep it to yourself and I’ll come and propose to you the day you come of age.”

And he had kept his promise and had come to ask for her hand. By then she had attained a degree of maturity that gave her an understanding of the dimensions of her tragic position. She had found that she had no love or respect for him and that he was as far as he could be from her dreams and from the ideas she had formed of what constituted an ideal an moral person. But what was to be done? Her father had passed away two years ago, and her mother had been taken aback by the forwardness of the man. However, she had said to her, “I know your attachment to your personal independence, so I leave the decision to you.”

She had been conscious of the critical position she was in. She had either to accept or to close the door forever. It was the sort of situation that could force her into something she detested. She was the rich beautiful girl, a byword in Abbaiyya for her nobility of character, and now here she was struggling helplessly in a well-sprung trap, while he looked down at her with rapacious eyes. Just as she had hated his strength, so too she hated her own weakness. To have abused her innocence was one thing, but for him to have the upper hand now that she was fully in possession of her faculties was something else. He had said, “So here I am, making good my promise because I love you.” He had also said, “I know of your love of teaching, and you will complete your studies at the College of Science.”

She had felt such anger as she had never felt before. She had rejected coercion in the same way as she rejected ugliness. It had meant little to her to sacrifice marriage. She had welcomed being on her own, for solitude accompanied by self-respect was not loneliness. She had also guessed he was after her money. She had told her mother quite straightforwardly, “No,” to which her mother had replied, “I am astonished you did not make this decision from the first moment.”

The man had blocked her way outside and said, “How can you refuse? Don’t you realize the outcome?”

And she had replied with an asperity he had not expected, “For me any outcome is preferable to being married to you.”

After finishing her studies, she had wanted something to do to fill her spare time, so she had worked as a teacher. Chances to marry had come time, but she had turned her back on them all.

“Does no one please you?” her mother asked her.

“I know what I am doing,” she had said gently.

“But time is going by.”

“Let it go as it pleases, I am content.”

Day by day she becomes older. She avoids love, fears it. With all her strength she hopes that life will pass calmly, peacefully, rather than happily. She goes on persuading herself that happiness is not confined to love and motherhood. Never has she regretted her firm decision. Who knows what the morrow holds? But she was certainly unhappy that he could again make his appearance in her life, that she would be dealing with him day after day, and that he would be making of the past a living and painful present.

Then, the first time he was alone with her in his room, he asked her, “How are you?”

She answered coldly, “I’m fine.”

He hesitated slightly before inquiring, ” Have you not…I mean, did you get married”

In the tone of someone intent on cutting short a conversation, she said “I told you, I am fine.”

”
The Answer Is No
”

b
y Naguib Mahfouz

(1911
–
2006)

http://www.sabri.org/The
–
Answer
–
No.htm

“They speak highly of his abilities
,” said a colleague of hers. “And they talk too of his strictness.”

It had always been a possibility that might occur, and now it had. Her pretty face paled, and a staring
look came to her wide black eyes.

When the time came, the teachers went
in single file, decorously attired, to his open room. He stood behind his
desk as he received the men and women. He was of medium height, with a tendency to
portl
iness, and had a
spherical face, hooked nose, and bulging eyes; the first thing that could be seen of him was a thick, puffed
–
up
mustache, arched like a foam
–
laden wave. She advanced with her eyes fixed on his chest. Avoiding his gaze, she
stretched out he
r hand. What was she to say? Just what the others had said? However, she kept silent, uttered
not a word, What, she wondered, did his eyes express? His rough hand shook hers, and he said in a gruff voice,

“Thanks.” She turned elegantly and moved off.

She forgot her worries through her daily tasks, though she did not look in good shape. Several of the girls
remarked, “Miss is in a bad mood.” When she returned to her home at the beginning of the Pyramids Road, she
changed her clothes and sat down to

eat with her mother. “Everything all right?” inquired her mother, looking her
in the face.

“Badran, Badran Badawi,” she said briefly. “Do you remember him? He’s been appointed our headmaster.”

“Really!”

Then after a moment of silence, sh
e said, “It’s of no importance at all
–

it’s an old and long
–
forgotten story.”

After eating, she took herself off to her study to rest for a while before correcting some exercise books. She
had forgotten him completely. No, not completely. How could
he be forgotten completely? When he had first
come to give her a private lesson in mathematics, she was fourteen years of age. In fact, not quite fourteen. He
had been twenty
–
five years older, the same age as her father. She had said to her mother, “His ap
pearance is a
mess, but he explains things well,” And her mother had said, “We are not concerned with what he looks like;
what’s important is how he explains things.”

Without love or desire on her part the thing had happened. She had asked in terror about what had
occurred, and he had told her, “Don’t be frightened or sad. Keep it to yourself an
d I’ll come and propose
to you the day you come of age.”

“The Answer Is No” by Naguib Mahfouz (1911-2006)
http://www.sabri.org/The-Answer-No.htm

The important piece of news that the new headmaster had arrived spread through the school. She
heard of it in the women teachers’ common room as she was casting a final glance at the day’s lessons.
There was no getting away from joining the other teachers in congratulating him, and from shaking him by
the hand too. A shudder passed through her body, but it was unavoidable.
“They speak highly of his abilities,” said a colleague of hers. “And they talk too of his strictness.”
It had always been a possibility that might occur, and now it had. Her pretty face paled, and a staring
look came to her wide black eyes.
When the time came, the teachers went in single file, decorously attired, to his open room. He stood behind his
desk as he received the men and women. He was of medium height, with a tendency to portliness, and had a
spherical face, hooked nose, and bulging eyes; the first thing that could be seen of him was a thick, puffed-up
mustache, arched like a foam-laden wave. She advanced with her eyes fixed on his chest. Avoiding his gaze, she
stretched out her hand. What was she to say? Just what the others had said? However, she kept silent, uttered
not a word, What, she wondered, did his eyes express? His rough hand shook hers, and he said in a gruff voice,
“Thanks.” She turned elegantly and moved off.
She forgot her worries through her daily tasks, though she did not look in good shape. Several of the girls
remarked, “Miss is in a bad mood.” When she returned to her home at the beginning of the Pyramids Road, she
changed her clothes and sat down to eat with her mother. “Everything all right?” inquired her mother, looking her
in the face.
“Badran, Badran Badawi,” she said briefly. “Do you remember him? He’s been appointed our headmaster.”
“Really!”
Then after a moment of silence, she said, “It’s of no importance at all – it’s an old and long-forgotten story.”
After eating, she took herself off to her study to rest for a while before correcting some exercise books. She
had forgotten him completely. No, not completely. How could he be forgotten completely? When he had first
come to give her a private lesson in mathematics, she was fourteen years of age. In fact, not quite fourteen. He
had been twenty-five years older, the same age as her father. She had said to her mother, “His appearance is a
mess, but he explains things well,” And her mother had said, “We are not concerned with what he looks like;
what’s important is how he explains things.”
He was an amusing person, and she got on well with him. and benefited from his knowledge. How,
then, had it happened? In her innocence she had not noticed any change in his behavior to put her on her
guard. Then one day he had been left on his own with her, her father having gone to her aunt’s clinic. She
had not the slightest doubts about a man she regarded as a second father. How, then, had it happened?
Without love or desire on her part the thing had happened. She had asked in terror about what had
occurred, and he had told her, “Don’t be frightened or sad. Keep it to yourself and I’ll come and propose
to you the day you come of age.”

Dead Men’s Path
(

953) by

Chinua Achebe

(1930 – 2013)

http://www.sabanciuniv.edu/HaberlerDuyurular/Documents/F_Courses_/2012/Dead_Mens_Path

Michael Obi’s hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was appointed headmaster

of Ndume Central School in January 1949. It had always been an unprogressive school, so the Mission

decided to send a young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to put them into practice. He had a sound secondary school education which designated him a “pivotal teacher” in the official records and set him apart from the other headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the

narrow views of these older and often less educated ones.

“We shall make a good job of it, shan’t we?” he asked his young wife when they first heard the joyful news of his promotion.

“We shall do our best,” she replied. “We shall have such beautiful gardens and everything will be just modern and delightful . . . “

In their two years of married life she had become completely infected by his passion for “modern

methods” and his denigration of “these old and superannuated people in the teaching field who would be better employed as traders in the Onitsha market.”

She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster, the queen of the school.

The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set the fashion in everything . . . Then, suddenly, it occurred to her that there might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear, she asked her husband, looking anxiously at him.

“All our colleagues are young and unmarried,” he said with enthusiasm which for once she did not share. “Which is a good thing,” he continued.

“Why?”

“Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school. Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes she became skeptical about the new school; but it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal misfor-tune could not blind her to her husband’s happy prospects. She looked at him as he sat folded up in a chair. He was stoopshouldered and looked frail. But he sometimes surprised people with sudden bursts of physical energy. In his present posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind

his deepset eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was only twentysix, but looked thirty or more. On the whole, he was not unhandsome.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mike,” said Nancy after a while, imitating the woman’s magazine she read.

“I was thinking what a grand opportunity we’ve got at last to show these

people how a school should be run.”

Ndume School was backward in every sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his whole life into the work, and his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard of teaching was insisted upon, and the school com-pound was to be turned into a place of beauty. Nancy’s dream gardens came to life with the coming of the rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges in brilliant red and yellow marked out the carefully tended school compound from the rank neighborhood bushes.

on the other side.

“It amazes me,” said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years in the school, “that you people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath. It is simply incredible.” He shook his head.

“The path,” said the teacher apologetically, “appears to be very important to them. Although it is hardly used, it connects the village shrine with their place of burial.”

“And what has that got to do with the school?” asked the headmaster.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied the other with a shrug of the shoulders.

“But I remember there was a big row some time ago when we attempted to close it.”

“That was some time ago. But it will not be used now,” said Obi as he walked away. “What will the Government Education Officer think of this when he comes to inspect the school next week? The villagers might, for all I know, decide to use the schoolroom for a pagan ritual during the inspection.”

Heavy sticks were planted closely across the path at the two places where it entered and left the school premises. These were further strengthened with barbed wire.

Three days later the village priest of Ani called on the headmaster. He was an old man and walked with a slight stoop. He carried a stout walking stick which he usually tapped on the floor, by way of emphasis, each time he made a new point in his argument.

“I have heard,” he said after the usual exchange of cordialities, “that our ancestral footpath has recently been closed . . . “

“Yes,” replied Mr. Obi. “We cannot allow people to make a highway of our school compound.”

“Look here, my son,” said the priest bringing down his walking stick, “this path was here before you were born and before your father was born. The whole life of this village depends on it. Our dead relatives depart by it and our ancestors visit us by it. But most important, it is the path of children coming in to be born…”

Mr. Obi listened with a satisfied smile on his face.

“The whole purpose of our school,” he said finally, “is to eradicate just such beliefs as that. Dead men do not require footpaths. The whole idea is just fantastic. Our duty is to teach your children to laugh at such ideas.”

“What you say may be true,” replied the priest, “but we follow the practices of our fathers. If you reopen the path we shall have nothing to quarrel about. What I always say is: let the hawk perch and let the eagle perch.” He rose to go.

“I am sorry,” said the young headmaster. “But the school compound cannot be a thoroughfare. It is against our regulations. I would suggest your constructing another path, skirting our premises. We can even get our boys to help in building it. I don’t suppose the ancestors will find the little detour too

burdensome.”

“I have no more words to say,” said the old priest, already outside.

Two days later a young woman in the village died in childbed. A diviner was immediately consulted and he prescribed heavy sacrifices to propitiate ancestors insulted by the fence.

Obi woke up next morning among the ruins of his work. The beautiful hedges were torn up not just near the path but right round the school, the flowers trampled to death and one of the school buildings pulled down . . .

That day, the white Supervisor came to inspect the school and wrote a nasty report on the state of the premises but more seriously about the “tribal war situation developing between the school and the village, arising in part from the misguided zeal of the new headmaster.”

■ AUTHOR’S PERSPECTIVE

Chinua Achebe

Modern Africa as the Crossroads of Culture 1980

I have always been fond of stories and intrigued by language.—first Igbo, spoken with such eloquence by the old men of the village, and later English, which I began to learn at about the age of eight. I don’t know for certain, but I have probably spoken more words in Igbo than English but I have definitely written more words in English than Igbo. Which I think makes me perfectly bilingual. Some people have suggested that I should be better off writing in Igbo. Sometimes they seek to drive the point home by asking me in which language I dream. When I reply that I dream in both languages they seem not to believe it. More recently I have heard an even more potent and metaphysical version of the question: In what language do you have an orgasm? That should settle the matter if I knew.

We lived at the crossroads of cultures. We still do today; but when I was a boy one could see and sense the peculiar quality and atmosphere of it more clearly. I am not talking about all that rubbish we hear of the spiritual void

and mental stresses that Africans are supposed to have, or the evil forces and irrational passions prowling through Africa’s heart of darkness. We know the racist mystique behind a lot of that stuff and should merely point out that

those who prefer to see Africa in those lurid terms have not themselves demonstrated any clear superiority in sanity or more competence in coping with life.

But still the crossroads does have a certain dangerous potency; dangerous because a man might perish there wrestling with multipleheaded spirits, but also he might be lucky and return to his people with the boon of prophetic vision.

On one arm of the cross we sang hymns and read the Bible night and day. On the other my father’s brother and his family, blinded by heathenism, offered food to idols. That was how it was supposed to be anyhow. But I knew without knowing why that it was too simple a way to describe what was going on. Those idols and that food had a strange pull on me in spite of my being such a thorough little Christian that often at Sunday services at the height of the grandeur of “Te Deum Laudamus” I would have dreams of a mantle of gold falling on me as the choir of angels drowned our mortal song and the voice of God Himself thundering: This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased. Yet, despite those delusions of divine destiny I was not past taking my little sister to our neighbor’s house when our parents were not looking and partaking of heathen festival meals. I never found their rice and stew to have the flavor of idolatry. I was about ten then. If anyone likes to believe that I was torn by spiritual agonies or stretched on the rack of my ambivalence, he certainly may suit himself. I do not remember any undue distress. What I do remember is a fascination for the ritual and the life on the other arm of the crossroads. And I believe two things were in my favor—that curiosity, and the little distance imposed between me and it by the accident of my birth. The distance becomes not a separation but a bringing together like the necessary backward step which a judicious viewer may take in order to see a canvas steadily and fully.

Dead Men’s Path

(
1953) by
Chinua Achebe

(
1930

–

2013)

http://www.sabanciuniv.edu/HaberlerDuyurular/Documents/F_Courses_/2012/Dead_Mens_Path

Michael Obi’s hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was

appointed headmaster

of Ndume

Central School in January 1949. It had always

been an unprogressive school,
s
o the Mission

decided to send a

young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He
had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to p
ut them into practice.
He had

a sound
secondary school education which designated him a “pivotal teacher” in the official
records and set him
apart from the other

headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the

narrow vi
ews of these older and often les
s
educated

ones.

“We shall make a good job of it, shan’t we?” he asked his young wife when

they first heard the joyful
news of his promotion.

“We shall do our best,” she replied. “We shall have such beautiful gardens

and ever
ything will be
just
modern and delightful . . . ”

In their two years of

married life she had become completely infected by his passion for “modern

methods” and his denigration of “these old and superannuated people in the

teaching field who

would
be
better

employed as traders in the Onitsha market.”

She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster,

the queen of the
school.

The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set

the fashion in everything . . .
Then,

suddenly, it occurred to her that there

might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear,
she asked her

husband, looking anxiously at him.

“All our colleagues are young and unmarried,” he said with enthusiasm

which for once she did not
share. “Whi
ch is a good thing,” he continued.

“Why?”

“Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school
. Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes
she became skeptical about the

new school
;
but

it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal
misfor
–
tune

could not blind her to her husband’s happy prospects. She looked at him as he

sat folded up in a
chair. He was stoopshouldered

and looked frail. But he

sometimes surprised people with sudden bu
rsts of
physical energy. In his present

posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind

his deepset

eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was

only twentysix,

but looked
thirty or more. On the whole, he was not
unhandsome.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mike,” said Nancy after a while, imitating

the woman’s magazine she read.

“I was thinking what a grand opportunity we’ve got at last to show these

people how a school should be run.”

Ndume School was backward in ever
y sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his

whole life into the
w
ork, and
his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard

of teaching was insisted upon, and the school
com
–
pound was to be

turned into a place of beauty. Nancy’s dream

gardens

came to life with th
e

coming of the
rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges

in brilliant red and yellow marked out the
carefully tended school compound

from the rank neighborhood bushes.

One evening as Obi was admiring his work he was scandalized to see
an

old woman from the village
hobble right across the compound, through a

marigold flowerbed

and the hedges. On going up there he
found faint signs

of an almost disused path from the village across the school compound to the

bush on

on the other side.

“It
amazes me,” said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years

in the school, “that you
people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath.

It is simply incredible.” He shook his head.

Dead Men’s Path (1953) by Chinua Achebe (1930 – 2013)

http://www.sabanciuniv.edu/HaberlerDuyurular/Documents/F_Courses_/2012/Dead_Mens_Path

Michael Obi’s hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was appointed headmaster
of Ndume Central School in January 1949. It had always been an unprogressive school, so the Mission
decided to send a young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He
had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to put them into practice. He had a sound
secondary school education which designated him a “pivotal teacher” in the official records and set him
apart from the other headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the
narrow views of these older and often less educated ones.
“We shall make a good job of it, shan’t we?” he asked his young wife when they first heard the joyful
news of his promotion.
“We shall do our best,” she replied. “We shall have such beautiful gardens and everything will be just
modern and delightful . . . ”
In their two years of married life she had become completely infected by his passion for “modern
methods” and his denigration of “these old and superannuated people in the teaching field who would be
better employed as traders in the Onitsha market.”
She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster, the queen of the
school.
The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set the fashion in everything . . .
Then, suddenly, it occurred to her that there might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear,
she asked her husband, looking anxiously at him.
“All our colleagues are young and unmarried,” he said with enthusiasm which for once she did not
share. “Which is a good thing,” he continued.
“Why?”
“Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school. Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes
she became skeptical about the new school; but it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal misfor-
tune could not blind her to her husband’s happy prospects. She looked at him as he sat folded up in a
chair. He was stoopshouldered and looked frail. But he sometimes surprised people with sudden bursts of
physical energy. In his present posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind
his deepset eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was only twentysix, but looked
thirty or more. On the whole, he was not unhandsome.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mike,” said Nancy after a while, imitating the woman’s magazine she read.
“I was thinking what a grand opportunity we’ve got at last to show these
people how a school should be run.”

Ndume School was backward in every sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his whole life into the work, and
his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard of teaching was insisted upon, and the school com-
pound was to be turned into a place of beauty. Nancy’s dream gardens came to life with the coming of the
rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges in brilliant red and yellow marked out the
carefully tended school compound from the rank neighborhood bushes.

One evening as Obi was admiring his work he was scandalized to see an old woman from the village
hobble right across the compound, through a marigold flowerbed and the hedges. On going up there he
found faint signs of an almost disused path from the village across the school compound to the bush on
on the other side.
“It amazes me,” said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years in the school, “that you
people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath. It is simply incredible.” He shook his head.

FIRST RESPONSE PAPER ASSIGNMENT

Comment on at least one short story element(s) as described in your handouts, “Elements of Literature” and “Elements of Fiction.” For instance, discuss conflict and character, local color and dialect, or theme and plot in two or more stories. Base your comments on the stories you have read so far: “Rapture,” “The Pedestrian,” “The Story of an Hour,” “I Stand Here Ironing,” or “The Answer is No,”
OR
comment on the techniques that a writer must use to make a short story effective. If you chose the second suggestion, you must refer to the texts as examples of the techniques you are writing about. Do not just write a You do not have to mention all of the stories in your paper. Remember, this is not a book report. I am not asking for the whole story to be retold. But make sure you include:

· Your thesis statement in the introduction

· How the short story elements you chose are presented and developed

· How the short story elements you chose are vital to the theme and plot of the story

· References to the stories, including direct quotations, summaries, or paraphrases.

· References to literary criticism, any class discussion, and your own thoughts. DO NOT quote other students’ essays.

· A SUITABLE TITLE that pertains specifically to your own essay.

· A conclusion in the last paragraph that wraps up all of the points you presented

· Proper MLA format as shown on the first page handout

· Proper MLA in-text citations and Works Cited page at the end of the paper: for more information regarding citations, go to http://www.umuc.edu/library/libhow/mla_examples.cfm or https://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/747/01/, or work with a tutor at the writing center

You may also want to include:

· References to the authors’ style and background

· Historical, cultural, or geographical references if fitting or necessary

· Critical comments from outside literary sources.

This response paper should be 2 (full) – 3 pages in length.

This is a critical, theme-based analysis. As such, you must include your own ideas along with outside sources, not just quotations from the text. Please ask me for assistance with ANY PART of the writing process: speak with me in class or contact me by email with any questions about this assignment.

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