Comparing Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello Essay -- comparison compare co

Comparing Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello  Ã‚      Shakespeare’s tragedies were extremely popular in Elizabethan times and today. A tragedy is described as â€Å"a sad, serious story or play, usually ending with the death of the hero. A disastrous, fatal or dreadful event.† By comparing the three plays, Macbeth, Hamlet and Othello it is possible to see how he has used techniques appropriate to tragedy and how he applied them to his plays. The opening of the play is significant because it sets the scene and the preceding atmosphere. When looking at the start of many of Shakespeare’s plays the audience generally discovers the protagonist by other characters. The audience also become aware of where the play is performed, together with important events contained in the play’s plot. In order to compose the openings of the plays it is necessary to examine the way in which Shakespeare uses setting, imagery, language, theme and structure. In doing this it will be possible to understand Shakespeare engages the audi ence attention in his opening scenes. The setting of a play is very important. The setting creates the mood and can say a lot about the characters in that scene, following scenes, and often introduces characters we have not yet met. In Othello a dubious character Iago is introduced in a dark alley. Dark, shady pathways are synonymous with wrong doings and give the audience a hint that the character is bad. Shakespeare does this therefore, to create a picture of the character. He puts that character in a stereotypical environment. There is a degree of mystery surrounding the dark as it limits your senses. This helps accentuate the idea that Iago is a dubious character. In Macbeth the witches appear amidst thunder and li... ... Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Macbeth. http://chemicool.com/Shakespeare/macbeth/full.html, no lin. Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Norton Critical ed. Ed. Cyrus Hoy. New York: Norton, 1992.   Shakespeare, William. Othello. Clayton: Prestwick House Inc., 2005

The Twilight Saga 4: Breaking Dawn 19. Burning

The pain was bewildering. Exactly that – I was bewildered. I couldn't understand, couldn't make sense of what was happening. My body tried to reject the pain, and I was sucked again and again into a blackness that cut out whole seconds or maybe even minutes of the agony, making it that much harder to keep up with reality. I tried to separate them. Non-reality was black, and it didn't hurt so much. Reality was red, and it felt like I was being sawed in half, hit by a bus, punched by a prize fighter, trampled by bulls, and submerged in acid, all at the same time. Reality was feeling my body twist and flip when I couldn't possibly move because of the pain. Reality was knowing there was something so much more important than all this torture, and not being able to remember what it was. Reality had come on so fast. One moment, everything was as it should have been. Surrounded by people I loved. Smiles. Somehow, unlikely as it was, it seemed like I was about to get everything I'd been fighting for. And then one tiny, inconsequential thing had gone wrong. I'd watched as my cup tilted, dark blood spilling out and staining the perfect white, and I'd lurched toward the accident reflexively. I'd seen the other, faster hands, but my body had continued to reach, to stretch___ Inside me, something had yanked the opposite direction. Ripping. Breaking. Agony. The darkness had taken over, and then washed away to a wave of torture. I couldn't breathe – I had drowned once before, and this was different; it was too hot in my throat. Pieces of me shattering, snapping, slicing apart___ More blackness. Voices, this time, shouting, as the pain came back. ‘The placenta must have detached!† Something sharper than knives ripped through me – the words, making sense in spite of the other tortures. Detached placenta – I knew what that meant. It meant that my baby was dying inside me. â€Å"Get him out!† I screamed to Edward. Why hadn't he done it yet? â€Å"He can't breathe! Do it now!† â€Å"The morphine – â€Å" He wanted to wait, to give me painkillers, while our baby was dying?! â€Å"No! Now – ,† I choked, unable to finish. Black spots covered the light in the room as a cold point of new pain stabbed icily into my stomach. It felt wrong – I struggled automatically to protect my womb, my baby, my little Edward Jacob, but I was weak. My lungs ached, oxygen burned away. The pain faded away again, though I clung to it now. My baby, my baby, dying___ How long had passed? Seconds or minutes? The pain was gone. Numb. I couldn't feel. I still couldn't see, either, but I could hear. There was air in my lungs again, scraping in rough bubbles up and down my throat. â€Å"You stay with me now, Bella! Do you hear me? Stay! You're not leaving me. Keep your heart beating!† Jacob? Jacob, still here, still trying to save me. Of course,I wanted to tell him. Of course I would keep my heart beating. Hadn't I promised them both? I tried to feel my heart, to find it, but I was so lost inside my own body. I couldn't feel the things I should, and nothing felt in the right place. I blinked and I found my eyes. I could see the light. Not what I was looking for, but better than nothing. As my eyes struggled to adjust, Edward whispered, â€Å"Renesmee.† Renesmee? Not the pale and perfect son of my imagination? I felt a moment of shock. And then a flood of warmth. Renesmee. I willed my lips to move, willed the bubbles of air to turn into whispers on my tongue. I forced my numb hands to reach. â€Å"Let me†¦ Give her to me.† The light danced, shattering off Edward's crystal hands. The sparkles were tinged with red, with the blood that covered his skin. And more red in his hands. Something small and struggling, dripping with blood. He touched the warm body to my weak arms, almost like I was holding her. Her wet skin was hot – as hot as Jacob's. My eyes focused; suddenly everything was absolutely clear. Renesmee did not cry, but she breathed in quick, startled pants. Her eyes were open, her expression so shocked it was almost funny. The little, perfectly round head was covered in a thick layer of matted, bloody curls. Her irises were a familiar – but astonishing – chocolate brown. Under the blood, her skin looked pale, a creamy ivory. All besides her cheeks, which flamed with color. Her tiny face was so absolutely perfect that it stunned me. She was even more beautiful than her father. Unbelievable. Impossible. â€Å"Renesmee,† I whispered. â€Å"So†¦ beautiful.† The impossible face suddenly smiled – a wide, deliberate smile. Behind the shell-pink lips was a full complement of snowy milk teeth. She leaned her head down, against my chest, burrowing against the warmth. Her skin was warm and silky, but it didn't give the way mine did. Then there was pain again – just one warm slash of it. I gasped. And she was gone. My angel-faced baby was nowhere. I couldn't see or feel her. No!I wanted to shout. Give her back to me! But the weakness was too much. My arms felt like empty rubber hoses for a moment, and then they felt like nothing at all. I couldn't feel them. I couldn't feel me. The blackness rushed over my eyes more solidly than before. Like a thick blindfold, firm and fast. Covering not just my eyes but also my self with a crushing weight. It was exhausting to push against it. I knew it would be so much easier to give in. To let the blackness push me down, down, down to a place where there was no pain and no weariness and no worry and no fear. If it had only been for myself, I wouldn't have been able to struggle very long. I was only human, with no more than human strength. I'd been trying to keep up with the supernatural for too long, like Jacob had said. But this wasn't just about me. If I did the easy thing now, let the black nothingness erase me, I would hurt them. Edward. Edward. My life and his were twisted into a single strand. Cut one, and you cut both. If he were gone, I would not be able to live through that. If I were gone, he wouldn't live through it, either. And a world without Edward seemed completely pointless. Edward had to exist. Jacob – who'd said goodbye to me over and over but kept coming back when I needed him. Jacob, who I'd wounded so many times it was criminal. Would I hurt him again, the worst way yet? He'd stayed for me, despite everything. Now all he asked was that I stay for him. But it was so dark here that I couldn't see either of their faces. Nothing seemed real. That made it hard not to give up. I kept pushing against the black, though, almost a reflex. I wasn't trying to lift it. I was just resisting. Not allowing it to crush me completely. I wasn't Atlas, and the black felt as heavy as a planet; I couldn't shoulder it. All I could do was not be entirely obliterated. It was sort of the pattern to my life – I'd never been strong enough to deal with the things outside my control, to attack the enemies or outrun them. To avoid the pain. Always human and weak, the only thing I'd ever been able to do was keep going. Endure. Survive. It had been enough up to this point. It would have to be enough today. I would endure this until help came. I knew Edward would be doing everything he could. He would not give up. Neither would I. I held the blackness of nonexistence at bay by inches. It wasn't enough, though – that determination. As the time ground on and on and the darkness gained by tiny eighths and sixteenths of my inches, I needed something more to draw strength from. I couldn't pull even Edward's face into view. Not Jacob's, not Alice's or Rosalie's or Charlie's or Renee's or Carlisle's or Esme's†¦ Nothing. It terrified me, and I wondered if it was too late. I felt myself slipping – there was nothing to hold on to. No!I had to survive this. Edward was depending on me. Jacob. Charlie Alice Rosalie Carlisle Renee Esme†¦ Renesmee. And then, though I still couldn't see anything, suddenly I could feel something. Like phantom limbs, I imagined I could feel my arms again. And in them, something small and hard and very, very warm. My baby. My little nudger. I had done it. Against the odds, I had been strong enough to survive Renesmee, to hold on to her until she was strong enough to live without me. That spot of heat in my phantom arms felt so real. I clutched it closer. It was exactly where my heart should be. Holding tight the warm memory of my daughter, I knew that I would be able to fight the darkness as long as I needed to. The warmth beside my heart got more and more real, warmer and warmer. Hotter. The heat was so real it was hard to believe that I was imagining it. Hotter. Uncomfortable now. Too hot. Much, much too hot. Like grabbing the wrong end of a curling iron – my automatic response was to drop the scorching thing in my arms. But there was nothing in my arms. My arms were not curled to my chest. My arms were dead things lying somewhere at my side. The heat was inside me. The burning grew – rose and peaked and rose again until it surpassed anything I'd ever felt. I felt the pulse behind the fire raging now in my chest and realized that I'd found my heart again, just in time to wish I never had. To wish that I'd embraced the blackness while I'd still had the chance. I wanted to raise my arms and claw my chest open and rip the heart from it – anything to get rid of this torture. But I couldn't feel my arms, couldn't move one vanished finger. James, snapping my leg under his foot. That was nothing. That was a soft place to rest on a feather bed. I'd take that now, a hundred times. A hundred snaps. I'd take it and be grateful. The baby, kicking my ribs apart, breaking her way through me piece by piece. That was nothing. That was floating in a pool of cool water. I'd take it a thousand times. Take it and be grateful. The fire blazed hotter and I wanted to scream. To beg for someone to kill me now, before I lived one more second in this pain. But I couldn't move my lips. The weight was still there, pressing on me. I realized it wasn't the darkness holding me down; it was my body. So heavy. Burying me in the flames that were chewing their way out from my heart now, spreading with impossible pain through my shoulders and stomach, scalding their way up my throat, licking at my face. Why couldn't I move? Why couldn't I scream? This wasn't part of the stories. My mind was unbearably clear – sharpened by the fierce pain – and I saw the answer almost as soon as I could form the questions. The morphine. It seemed like a million deaths ago that we'd discussed it – Edward, Carlisle, and I. Edward and Carlisle had hoped that enough painkillers would help fight the pain of the venom. Carlisle had tried with Emmett, but the venom had burned ahead of the medicine, sealing his veins. There hadn't been time for it to spread. I'd kept my face smooth and nodded and thanked my rarely lucky stars that Edward could not read my mind. Because I'd had morphine and venom together in my system before, and I knew the truth. I knew the numbness of the medicine was completely irrelevant while the venom seared through my veins. But there'd been no way I was going to mention that fact. Nothing that would make him more unwilling to change me. I hadn't guessed that the morphine would have this effect – that it would pin me down and gag me. Hold me paralyzed while I burned. I knew all the stories. I knew that Carlisle had kept quiet enough to avoid discovery while he burned. I knew that, according to Rosalie, it did no good to scream. And I'd hoped that maybe I could be like Carlisle. That I would believe Rosalie's words and keep my mouth shut. Because I knew that every scream that escaped my lips would torment Edward. Now it seemed like a hideous joke that i was getting my wish fulfilled. If I couldn't scream, how could I tell them to kill me? All I wanted was to die. To never have been born. The whole of my existence did not outweigh this pain. Wasn't worth living through it for one more heartbeat. Let me die, let me die, let me die. And, for a never-ending space, that was all there was. Just the fiery torture, and my soundless shrieks, pleading for death to come. Nothing else, not even time. So that made it infinite, with no beginning and no end. One infinite moment of pain. The only change came when suddenly, impossibly, my pain was doubled. The lower half of my body, deadened since before the morphine, was suddenly on fire, too. Some broken connection had been healed – knitted together by the scorching fingers of the flame. The endless burn raqed on. It could have been seconds or days, weeks or years, but, eventually, time came to mean something again. Three things happened together, grew from each other so that I didn't know which came first: time restarted, the morphine's weight faded, and I got stronger. I could feel the control of my body come back to me in increments, and those increments were my first markers of the time passing. I knew it when I was able to twitch my toes and twist my fingers into fists. I knew it, but I did not act on it. Though the fire did not decrease one tiny degree – in fact, I began to develop a new capacity for experiencing it, a new sensitivity to appreciate, separately, each blistering tongue of flame that licked through my veins – I discovered that I could think around it. I could remember why I shouldn't scream. I could remember the reason why I'd committed to enduring this unendurable agony. I could remember that, though it felt impossible now, there was something that might be worth the torture. This happened just in time for me to hold on when the weights left my body. To anyone watching me, there would be no change. But for me, as I struggled to keep the screams and thrashing locked up inside my body, where they couldn't hurt anyone else, it felt like I'd gone from being tied to the stake as I burned, to gripping that stake to hold myself in the fire. I had just enough strength to lie there unmoving while I was charred alive. My hearing got clearer and clearer, and I could count the frantic, pounding beats of my heart to mark the time. I could count the shallow breaths that gasped through my teeth. I could count the low, even breaths that came from somewhere close beside me. These moved slowest, so I concentrated on them. They meant the most time passing. More even than a clock's pendulum, those breaths pulled me through the burning seconds toward the end. I continued to get stronger, my thoughts clearer. When new noises came, I could listen. There were light footsteps, the whisper of air stirred by an opening door. The footsteps gotcloser, and I felt pressure against the inside of my wrist. I couldn't feel the coolness of the fingers. The fire blistered away every memory of cool. â€Å"Still no change?† â€Å"None.† The lightest pressure, breath against my scorched skin. â€Å"There's no scent of the morphine left.† â€Å"I know.† â€Å"Bella? Can you hear me?† I knew, beyond all doubt, that if I unlocked my teeth I would lose it – I would shriek and screech and writhe and thrash. If I opened my eyes, if I so much as twitched a finger – any change at all would be the end of my control. â€Å"Bella? Bella, love? Can you open your eyes? Can you squeeze my hand?† Pressure on my fingers. It was harder not to answer this voice, but I stayed paralyzed. I knew that the pain in his voice now was nothing compared to what it could be. Right now he only feared that I was suffering. â€Å"Maybe†¦ Carlisle, maybe I was too late.† His voice was muffled; it broke on the word late. My resolve wavered for a second. â€Å"Listen to her heart, Edward. It's stronger than even Emmett's was. I've never heard anything so vital. Shell be perfect.† Yes, I was right to keep quiet. Carlisle would reassure him. He didn't need to suffer with me. â€Å"And her – her spine?† â€Å"Her injuries weren't so much worse than Esme's. The venom will heal her as it did Esme.† â€Å"But she's so still. I must have done something wrong.† â€Å"Or something right, Edward. Son, you did everything I could have and more. I'm not sure I would have had the persistence, the faith it took to save her. Stop berating yourself. Bella is going to be fine.† A broken whisper. â€Å"She must be in agony.† â€Å"We don't know that. She had so much morphine in her system. We don't know the effect that will have on her experience.† Faint pressure inside the crease of my elbow. Another whisper. â€Å"Bella, I love you. Bella, I'm sorry.† I wanted so much to answer him, but I wouldn't make his pain worse. Not while I had the strength to hold myself still. Through all this, the racking fire went right on burning me. But there was so much space in my head now. Room to ponder their conversation, room to remember what had happened, room to look ahead to the future, with still endless room left over to suffer in. Also room to worry. Where was my baby? Why wasn't she here? Why weren't they talking about her? â€Å"No, I'm staying right here,† Edward whispered, answering an unspoken thought. â€Å"They'll sort it out.† â€Å"An interesting situation,† Carlisle responded. â€Å"And I'd thought I'd seen just about everything.† â€Å"I'll deal with it later. We'll deal with it.† Something pressed softly to my blistering palm. â€Å"I'm sure, between the five of us, we can keep it from turning into bloodshed.† Edward sighed. â€Å"I don't know which side to take. I'd love to flog them both. Well, later.† â€Å"I wonder what Bella will think – whose side she'll take,† Carlisle mused. One low, strained chuckle. â€Å"I'm sure she'll surprise me. She always does.† Carlisle's footsteps faded away again, and I was frustrated that there was no further explanation. Were they talking so mysteriously just to annoy me? I went back to counting Edward's breaths to mark the time. Ten thousand, nine hundred forty-three breaths later, a different set of footsteps whispered into the room. Lighter. More†¦ rhythmic. Strange that I could distinguish the minute differences between footsteps that I'd never been able to hear at all before today. â€Å"How much longer?† Edward asked. â€Å"It won't be long now,† Alice told him. â€Å"See how clear she's becoming? I can see her so much better.† She sighed. â€Å"Still feeling a little bitter?† â€Å"Yes, thanks so much for bringing it up,† she grumbled. â€Å"You would be mortified, too, if you realized that you were handcuffed by your own nature. I see vampires best, because I am one; I see humans okay, because I was one. But I can't see these odd half-breeds at all because they're nothing I've experienced. Bah!† â€Å"Focus, Alice.† â€Å"Right. Bella's almost too easy to see now.† There was a long moment of silence, and then Edward sighed. It was a new sound, happier. â€Å"She's really going to be fine,† he breathed. â€Å"Of course she is.† â€Å"You weren't so sanguine two days ago.† â€Å"I couldn't see right two days ago. But now that she's free of all the blind spots, it's a piece of cake.† â€Å"Could you concentrate for me? On the clock – give me an estimate.† Alice sighed. â€Å"So impatient. Fine. Give me a sec – â€Å" Quiet breathing. â€Å"Thank you, Alice.† His voice was brighter. How long?Couldn't they at least say it aloud for me? Was that too much to ask? How many more seconds would I burn? Ten thousand? Twenty? Another day – eighty-six thousand, four hundred? More than that? â€Å"She's going to be dazzling.† Edward growled quietly. â€Å"She always has been.† Alice snorted. â€Å"You know what I mean. Look at her.† Edward didn't answer, but Alice's words gave me hope that maybe I didn't resemble the charcoal briquette I felt like. It seemed as if I must be just a pile of charred bones by now. Every cell in my body had been razed to ash. I heard Alice breeze out of the room. I heard the swish of the fabric she moved, rubbing against itself. I heard the quiet buzz of the light hanging from the ceiling. I heard the faint wind brushing against the outside of the house. I could hear everything. Downstairs, someone was watching a ball game. The Mariners were winning by two runs. â€Å"It's my turn† I heard Rosalie snap at someone, and there was a low snarl in response. â€Å"Hey, now,† Emmett cautioned. Someone hissed. I listened for more, but there was nothing but the game. Baseball was not interesting enough to distract me from the pain, so I listened to Edward's breathing again, counting the seconds. Twenty-one thousand, nine hundred seventeen and a half seconds later, the pain changed. On the good-news side of things, it started to fade from my fingertips and toes. Fading slowly, but at least it was doing something new. This had to be it. The pain was on its way out†¦ And then the bad news. The fire in my throat wasn't the same as before. I wasn't only on fire, but I was now parched, too. Dry as bone. So thirsty. Burning fire, and burning thirst†¦ Also bad news: The fire inside my heart got hotter. How was that possible? My heartbeat, already too fast, picked up – the fire drove its rhythm to a new frantic pace. â€Å"Carlisle,† Edward called. His voice was low but clear. I knew that Carlisle would hear it, if he were in or near the house. The fire retreated from my palms, leaving them blissfully pain-free and cool. But it retreated to my heart, which blazed hot as the sun and beat at a furious new speed. Carlisle entered the room, Alice at his side. Their footsteps were so distinct, I could even tell that Carlisle was on the right, and a foot ahead of Alice. â€Å"Listen,† Edward told them. The loudest sound in the room was my frenzied heart, pounding to the rhythm of the fire. â€Å"Ah,† Carlisle said. â€Å"It's almost over.† My relief at his words was overshadowed by the excruciating pain in my heart. My wrists were free, though, and my ankles. The fire was totally extinguished there. â€Å"Soon,† Alice agreed eagerly. â€Å"I'll get the others. Should I have Rosalie†¦ ?† â€Å"Yes – keep the baby away.† What? No. No! What did he mean, keep my baby away? What was he thinking? My fingers twitched – the irritation breaking through my perfect facade. The room went silent besides the jack-hammering of my heart as they all stopped breathing for a second in response. A hand squeezed my wayward fingers. â€Å"Bella? Bella, love?† Could I answer him without screaming? I considered that for a moment, and then the fire ripped hotter still through my chest, draining in from my elbows and knees. Better not to chance it. ‘Til bring them right up,† Alice said, an urgent edge to her tone, and I heard the swish of wind as she darted away. And then – oh! My heart took off, beating like helicopter blades, the sound almost a single sustained note; it felt like it would grind through my ribs. The fire flared up in the center of my chest, sucking the last remnants of the flames from the rest of my body to fuel the most scorching blaze yet. The pain was enough to stun me, to break through my iron grip on the stake. My back arched, bowed as if the fire was dragging me upward by my heart. I allowed no other piece of my body to break rank as my torso slumped back to the table. It became a battle inside me – my sprinting heart racing against the attacking fire. Both were losing. The fire was doomed, having consumed everything that was combustible; my heart galloped toward its last beat. The fire constricted, concentrating inside that one remaining human organ with a final, unbearable surge. The surge was answered by a deep, hollow-sounding thud. My heart stuttered twice, and then thudded quietly again just once more. There was no sound. No breathing. Not even mine. For a moment, the absence of pain was all I could comprehend. And then I opened my eyes and gazed above me in wonder.

Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story Chapter 23~24

Chapter 23 Mom and Terrapin Pie â€Å"She's in town,† Jody said. â€Å"She's coming over in a few minutes.† Jody lowered the phone to its cradle. Tommy appeared in the bedroom doorway, Scott still dangling from his sleeve. â€Å"You're kidding.† â€Å"You're missing a cufflink,† Jody said. â€Å"I don't think he's going to let go. Do we have any scissors?† Jody took Tommy by the sleeve a few inches above where Scott was clamped. â€Å"You ready?† Tommy nodded and she ripped his sleeve off at the shoulder. Scott skulked into the bedroom, the sleeve still clamped in his jaws. â€Å"That was my best shirt,† Tommy said, looking at his bare arm. â€Å"Sorry, but we've got to clean this place up and get a story together.† â€Å"Where did she call from?† â€Å"She was at the Fairmont Hotel. We've got maybe ten minutes.† â€Å"So she won't be staying with us.† â€Å"Are you kidding? My mother under the same roof where people are living in sin? Not in this lifetime, turtleboy.† Tommy took the turtleboy shot in stride. This was an emergency and there was no time for hurt feelings. â€Å"Does you mother use phrases like ‘living in sin'?† â€Å"I think she has it embroidered on a sampler over the telephone so she won't forget to use it every month when I call.† Tommy shook his head. â€Å"We're doomed. Why didn't you call her this month? She said you always call her.† Jody was pacing now, trying to think. â€Å"Because I didn't get my reminder.† â€Å"What reminder?† â€Å"My period. I always call her when I get my period each month – just to get all the unpleasantness out of the way at one time.† â€Å"When was the last time you had a period?† Jody thought for a minute. It was before she had turned. â€Å"I don't know, eight, nine weeks. I'm sorry, I can't believe I forgot.† Tommy went to the futon, sat down, and cradled his head in his hands. â€Å"What do we do now?† Jody sat next to him. â€Å"I don't suppose we have time to redecorate.† In the next ten minutes, while they cleaned up the loft, Jody tried to prepare Tommy for what he was about to experience. â€Å"She doesn't like men. My father left her for a younger woman when I was twelve, and Mother thinks all men are snakes. And she doesn't really like women either, since she was betrayed by one. She was one of the first women to graduate from Stanford, so she's a bit of a snob about that. She says that I broke her heart when I didn't go to Stanford. It's been downhill since then. She doesn't like that I live in the City and she has never approved of any of my jobs, my boyfriends, or the way I dress.† Tommy stopped in the middle of scrubbing the kitchen sink. â€Å"So what should I talk about?† â€Å"It would probably be best if you just sat quietly and looked repentant.† â€Å"That's how I always look.† Jody heard the stairwell door open. â€Å"She's here. Go change your shirt.† Tommy ran to the bedroom, stripping off his one-sleever as he went. I'm not ready for this, he thought. I have more work to do on myself before I'm ready for a presentation. Jody opened the door catching her mother poised to knock. â€Å"Mom!† Jody said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. â€Å"You look great.† Frances Evelyn Stroud stood on the landing looking at her youngest daughter with restrained disapproval. She was a short, stout woman dressed in layers of wool and silk under an eggshell cashmere coat. Her hair was a woven gray-blond, flared and lacquered to expose a pair of pearl earrings roughly the size of Ping-Pong balls. Her eyebrows had been plucked away and painted back, her cheekbones were high and highlighted, her lips lined, filled, and clamped tight. She had the same striking green eyes as her daughter, flecked now with sparks of judgment. She had been pretty once but was now passing into the limbo-land of the menopausal woman known as handsome. â€Å"May I come in,† she said. Jody, caught in the half-gesture of offering a hug, dropped her arms. â€Å"Of course,† she said, stepping aside. â€Å"It's good to see you,† she said, closing the door behind her mother. Tommy bounded from the bedroom into the kitchen and slid to a stop on stocking feet. â€Å"Hi,† he said. Jody put her hand on her mother's back. Frances flinched, ever so slightly, at the touch. â€Å"Mother, this is Thomas Flood. He's a writer. Tommy, this is my mother, Frances Stroud.† Tommy approached Frances and offered his hand. â€Å"Pleased to meet you†¦Ã¢â‚¬  She clutched her Gucci bag tightly, then forced herself to take his hand. â€Å"Mrs. Stroud,† she said, trying to head off the unpleasantness of hearing her Christian name come out of Tommy's mouth. Jody broke the moment of discomfort so they could pass into the next one. â€Å"So, Mom, can I take your coat? Would you like to sit down?† Frances Stroud surrendered her coat to her daughter as if she were surrendering her credit cards to a mugger, as if she didn't want to know where it was going because she would never see it again. â€Å"Is this your couch?† she asked, nodding toward the futon. â€Å"Have a seat, Mother; we'll get you something to drink. We have†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Jody realized that she had no idea what they had. â€Å"Tommy, what do we have?† Tommy wasn't expecting the questions to start so soon. â€Å"I'll look,† he said, running to the kitchen and throwing open a cabinet. â€Å"We have coffee, regular and decaf.† He dug behind the coffee, the sugar, the powdered creamer. â€Å"We have Ovaltine, and†¦Ã¢â‚¬  He threw open the refrigerator. â€Å"Beer, milk, cranberry juice, and beer – a lot of beer – I mean, not a lot, but plenty, and†¦Ã¢â‚¬  He opened the chest freezer. Peary stared up at him through a gap between frozen dinners. Tommy slammed the lid.†Ã¢â‚¬ ¦ that's it. Nothing in there.† â€Å"Decaf, please,† said Mother Stroud. She turned to Jody, who was returning from balling up her mother's cashmere coat and throwing it in the corner of the closet. â€Å"So, you've left your job at Transamerica. Are you working, dear?† Jody sat in a wicker chair across the wicker coffee table from her mother. (Tommy had decided to decorate the loft in a Pier 1 Imports cheap-shit motif. As a result it was only a ceiling fan and a cockatoo away from looking like a Thai cathouse.) Jody said, â€Å"I've taken a job in marketing.† It sounded respectable. It sounded professional. It sounded like a lie. â€Å"You might have told me and saved me the embarrassment of calling Transamerica only to find out that you had been let go.† â€Å"I quit, Mother. I wasn't let go.† Tommy, trying to will himself invisible, bowed his way between them to deliver the decaf, which he had arranged on a wicker tray with cream and sugar. â€Å"And you, Mr. Flood, you're a writer? What do you write?† Tommy brightened. â€Å"I'm working on a short story about a little girl growing up in the South. Her father is on a chain gang.† â€Å"You're from the South, then?† â€Å"No, Indiana.† â€Å"Oh,† she said, as if he had just confessed to being raised by rats. â€Å"And where did you go to university?† â€Å"I, um, I'm sort of self-educated. I think experience is the best teacher.† Tommy realized that he was sweating. â€Å"I see,† she said. â€Å"And where might I read your work?† â€Å"I'm not published yet.† He squirmed. â€Å"I'm working on it, though,† he added quickly. â€Å"So you have another job. Are you in marketing as well?† Jody intervened. She could see steam rising off Tommy. â€Å"He manages the Marina Safeway, Mother.† It was a small lie, nothing compared to the tapestry of lies she had woven for her mother over the years. Mother Stroud turned a scalpel gaze on her daughter. â€Å"You know, Jody, it's not too late to apply to Stanford. You'd be a bit older than the other freshmen, but I could pull a few strings.† How does she do this? Jody wondered. How does she come into my home and within minutes make me feel like dirt on a stick? Why does she do it? â€Å"Mother, I think I'm beyond going back to school.† Mother Stroud picked up her cup as if to sip, then paused. â€Å"Of course, dear. You wouldn't want to neglect your career and family.† It was a verbal sucker punch delivered with polite, extended-pinky malice. Jody felt something drop inside her like cyanide pellets into acid. Her guilt dropped through the gallows' trap and jerked with broken-neck finality. She regretted only the ten thousand sentences she had started with, â€Å"I love my mother, but†¦Ã¢â‚¬  You do that so people don't judge you cold and inhuman, Jody thought. Too late now. She said, â€Å"Perhaps you're right, Mother. Perhaps if I had gone to Stanford I would understand why I wasn't born with an innate knowledge of cooking and cleaning and child-rearing and managing a career and a relationship. I've always wondered if it's lack of education or genetic deficiency.† Mother Stroud was unshaken. â€Å"I can't speak for your father's genetic background, dear.† Tommy was grateful that Mother Stroud's attention had turned from him, but he could see Jody's gaze narrowing, going from hurt to anger. He wanted to come to her aid. He wanted to make peace. He wanted to hide in the corner. He wanted to wade in and kick ass. He weighed his polite upbringing against the anarchists, rebels, and iconoclasts who were his heroes. He could eat this woman alive. He was a writer and words were his weapons. She wouldn't have a chance. He'd destroy her. And he would have. He was taking a deep breath to prepare to light into her when he saw a swath of denim disappearing slowly under the frame of the futon: his dismembered shirt sleeve. He held his breath and looked at Jody. She was smiling, saying nothing. Mother Stroud said, â€Å"Your father was at Stanford on an athletic scholarship, you know. They would have never let him in otherwise.† â€Å"I'm sure you're right, Mother,† Jody said. She smiled politely, listening not to her mother, but to the melodic scraping of turtle claws on carpet. She focused on the sound and could hear the slow, cold lugging of Scott's heart. Mother Stroud sipped her decaf. Tommy waited. Jody said, â€Å"So how long will you be in the City?† â€Å"I just came up to do some shopping. I'm sponsoring a benefit for the Monterey Symphony and I wanted a new gown. Of course I could have found something in Carmel, but everyone would have seen it already. The bane of living in a small community.† Jody nodded as if she understood. She had no connection to this woman, not anymore. Frances Evelyn Stroud was a stranger, an unpleasant stranger. Jody felt more of a connection with the turtle under the futon. Under the futon, Scott spotted a pattern of scales on Mother Stroud's shoes. He'd never seen Italian faux-alligator pumps, but he knew scales. When you are lying peacefully buried in the muck at the bottom of a pond and you see scales, it means food. You bite. Frances Stroud shrieked and leaped to her feet, pulling her right foot free of her shoe as she fell into the wicker coffee table. Jody caught her mother by the shoulders and set her on her feet. Frances pushed her away and backed across the room as she watched the snapping turtle emerge from under the futon merrily chomping on the pump. â€Å"What is that? What is that thing? That thing is eating my shoe. Stop it! Kill it!† Tommy hurdled the futon and dived for the turtle, catching the heel of the shoe before it disappeared. Scott dug his claws into the carpet and backed off. Tommy came up with heel in hand. â€Å"I got part of it.† Jody went to her mother's side. â€Å"I meant to call the exterminator, Mother. If I'd had more notice†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Mother Stroud was breathing in outraged yips. â€Å"How can you live like this?† Tommy held the heel out to her. â€Å"I don't want that. Call me a cab.† Tommy paused, considered the opportunity, then let it pass and went to the phone. â€Å"You can't go out without shoes, Mother. I'll get you something to wear.† Jody went to the bedroom and came back with her rattiest pair of sneakers. â€Å"Here, Mom, these will get you back to the hotel.† Mother Stroud, afraid to sit down anywhere, leaned against the door and stepped into the sneakers. Jody tied them for her and slipped the uneaten pump into her mother's bag. â€Å"There you go.† She stepped back. â€Å"Now, what are we going to do for the holidays?† Mother Stroud, her gaze trained on Scott, just shook her head. The turtle had wedged himself between the legs of the coffee table and was dragging it around the loft. A cab pulled up outside and beeped the horn. Mother Stroud tore her gaze away from the turtle and looked at her daughter. â€Å"I'll be in Europe for the holidays. I have to go now.† She opened the door and backed out through it. â€Å"‘Bye, Mom,† Jody said. â€Å"Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stroud,† Tommy called after her. When the cab pulled away, Tommy turned to Jody and said, â€Å"Well, that went pretty well, didn't it? I think she likes me.† Jody was leaning against the door, staring at the floor. She looked up and began to giggle silently. Soon she was doubled over laughing. â€Å"What?† Tommy said. Jody looked up at him, tears streaming her face. â€Å"I think I'm ready to meet your folks, don't you?† â€Å"I don't know. They might be sort of upset that you're not a Methodist.† Chapter 24 The Return of Breakfast The Emperor lay spread-eagle on the end of a dock in the Saint Francis Yacht Club Marina, watching clouds pass over the bay. Bummer and Lazarus lay beside him, their feet in the air, dozing. The three might have been crucified there, if the dogs hadn't been smiling. â€Å"Men,† the Emperor said, â€Å"it seems to me now that there is, indeed, a point to that Otis Redding song about sitting on the dock of the bay. After a long night of vampire hunting, this is a most pleasant way to spend the day. Bummer, I believe a commendation is in order. When you led us down here, I thought you were wasting our time.† Bummer did not answer. He was dreaming of a park full of large trees and bite-sized mailmen. His legs twitched and he let out a sleepy ruff each time he crunched one of their tiny heads. In dreams, mailmen taste like chicken. The Emperor said, â€Å"But pleasant as this is, it tastes of guilt, of responsibility. Two months tracking this fiend, and we are no closer to finding him than when we started. Yet here we lay, enjoying the day. I can see the faces of the victims in these clouds.† Lazarus rolled over and licked the Emperor's hand. â€Å"You're right, Lazarus, without sleep we will not be fit for battle. Perhaps, in leading us here, Bummer was wiser than we thought.† The Emperor closed his eyes and let the sound of waves lapping against the piers lull him to sleep. Lying at anchor, a hundred yards away, was a hundred-foot motor yacht registered in the Netherlands. Belowdecks, in a watertight stainless steel vault, the vampire slept through the day. Tommy had been asleep for an hour when pounding on the door downstairs woke him. In the darkness of the bedroom he nudged Jody, but she was out for the day. He checked his watch: 7:30 A.M. The loft rocked with the pounding. He crawled out of bed and stumbled to the door in his underwear. The morning light spilling though the loft's windows temporarily blinded him and he barked his shin on the corner of the freezer on his way through the kitchen. â€Å"I'm coming,† he yelled. It sounded as if they were using a hammer on the door. He did a Quasimodo step and slid down the stairs, holding his damaged shin in one hand, and cracked the downstairs door. Simon peeked through the crack. Tommy could see a ball-peen hammer in his hand, poised for another pound. Simon said, â€Å"Pardner, we need to have us a sit-down.† â€Å"I'm sleeping, Sime. Jody's sleeping.† â€Å"Well, you're up now. Wake up the little woman, we need breakfast.† Tommy opened the door a little wider and saw Drew dazzling a stoned and goofy grin behind Simon. â€Å"Fearless Leader!† All the Animals were there, holding grocery bags, waiting. Tommy thought, This is how Anne Frank felt when the Gestapo came to the door. Simon pushed through the door, causing Tommy to hop back a step to avoid having his toes skinned. â€Å"Hey.† Simon looked at Tommy's erection-stretched jockey shorts. â€Å"That just a morning wood, or you in the middle of something?† â€Å"I told you, I was sleeping.† â€Å"You're young, it could still grow some. Don't feel bad.† Tommy looked down at his insulted member as Simon breezed past him up the stairs, followed by the rest of the Animals. Glint and Lash stopped and helped Tommy to his feet. â€Å"I was sleeping,† Tommy said pathetically. â€Å"It's my day off.† Lash patted Tommy's shoulder. â€Å"I'm cutting class today. We thought you needed moral support.† â€Å"For what? I'm fine.† â€Å"Cops came by the store last night looking for you. We wouldn't give them your address or anything.† â€Å"Cops?† Tommy was waking up now. He could hear beers being popped open in the loft. â€Å"What did the cops want with me?† â€Å"They wanted to see your time cards. They wanted to see if you were working on a bunch of nights. They wouldn't say why. Simon tried to distract them by accusing me of leading a black terrorist group.† â€Å"That was nice of him.† â€Å"Yeah, he's a sweetheart. He told that new cashier, Mara, that you were in love with her but were too shy to tell her.† â€Å"Forgive him,† Clint said piously. â€Å"He knows not what he does.† Simon popped out onto the landing. â€Å"Flood, did you drug this bitch? She won't wake up.† â€Å"Stay out of the bedroom!† Tommy shook off Lash and Clint and ran up the stairs. Cavuto chewed an unlit cigar. â€Å"I say we go to the kid's house and lean on him.† Rivera looked up from a stack of green-striped computer printout. â€Å"Why? He was working when all the murders happened.† â€Å"Because he's all we've got. What about the prints on the book; any thing?† â€Å"There were half a dozen good prints on the cover. Nothing the computer could match. Interesting thing is, none of the prints were the victim's. He never touched it.† â€Å"What about the kid; a match?† â€Å"No way to tell, he's never been printed. Let it go, Nick. That kid didn't kill these people.† Cavuto ran his hand over his bald head as if looking for a bump that would hold an answer. â€Å"Let's arrest him and print him.† â€Å"On what charges?† â€Å"We'll ask him. You know what the Chinese say, ‘Beat a kid every day; if you don't know why, the kid will.  » â€Å"You ever think about adopting, Nick?† Rivera flipped the last page of the printout and threw it into the wastebasket by his desk. â€Å"Justice doesn't have shit. All the unsolved murders with massive blood loss involve mutilation. No vampires here.† For two months they had avoided using the word. Now, here it was. Cavuto took out a wooden match, scraped it against the bottom of his shoe, and moved it around the tip of his cigar. â€Å"Rivera, we will not refer to this perp by the V-word again. You don't remember the Night Stalker. This fucking Whiplash Killer thing the press has picked up is bad enough.† â€Å"You shouldn't smoke in here,† said Rivera. â€Å"The sprout eaters will file a grievance.† â€Å"Fuck 'em. I can't think without smoking. Let's run sex offenders. Look for priors of rapes and assaults with blood draining. This guy might have just graduated to killing. Then let's run it with cross-dressers.† â€Å"Cross-dressers?† â€Å"Yeah, I want to put this thing with the redhead to bed. Having a lead is ruining our perfect record.† She woke to a miasma of smells that hit her like a sockful of sand: burned eggs, bacon grease, beer, maple syrup, stale pot smoke, whiskey, vomit and male sweat. The smells carried memories from before the change – memories of high school keggers and drunken surfers face-down in puddles of puke. Hangover memories. Coming as they did, right after a visit from her mother, they carried shame and loathing and the urge to fall back into bed and hide under the covers. She thought, I guess there's a few things about being human that I don't miss. She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and one of Tommy's shirts and opened the bedroom door. It looked as if the good ship International Pancakes had run aground in the kitchen. Every horizontal surface was covered with breakfast jetsam. She stepped through the debris, careful not to kick any of the plates, frying pans, coffee cups, or beer cans that littered the floor. Beyond the freezer and the counter she spotted the shipwreck survivor. Tommy lay on the futon, limbs akimbo, an empty Bushmill's bottle by his head, snoring. She stood there for a moment running her options over in her head. On one hand, she wanted to fly into a rage; wake Tommy up and scream at him for violating the sanctity of their home. A justifiable tantrum was strongly tempting. On the other hand, until now Tommy had always been considerate. And he would clean everything up. Plus, the hangover he was about to experience would be more punishment than she could dole out in a week. Besides, she wasn't really that angry. It didn't seem to matter. It was just a mess. It was a tough decision. She thought, Oh heck, no harm, no foul. I'll just make him coffee and give him that â€Å"I'm-so-disappointed-in-you† look. â€Å"Tommy,† she said. She sat down on the edge of the futon and jostled him gently. â€Å"Sweetheart, wake up; you've destroyed the house and I need you to suffer for it.† Tommy opened one bloodshot eye and groaned. â€Å"Sick,† he said. Jody heard a convulsive sloshing in Tommy's stomach and before she could think about it she had caught him under the armpits and was dragging him across the room to the kitchen sink. â€Å"Oh my God!† Tommy cried, and if he was going to say anything else it was drowned out by the sound of his stomach emptying into the sink. Jody held him up, smiling to herself with the satisfaction of the self-righteously sober. After a few seconds of retching, he gasped and looked up at her. Tears streamed down his face. His nose dripped threads of slime. Cheerfully, Jody said, â€Å"Can I fix you a drink?† â€Å"Oh my God!† His head went back into the sink and the body-wrenching heaves began anew. Jody patted his back and said â€Å"Poor baby† until he came up for air again. â€Å"How about some breakfast?† she asked. He dived into the sink once again. After five minutes the heaves subsided and Tommy hung on the edge of the sink. Jody turned on the faucet and used the dish sprayer to hose off his face. â€Å"I guess you and the guys had a little party this morning, huh?† Tommy nodded, not looking up. â€Å"I tried to keep them out. I'm sorry. I'm scum.† â€Å"Yes, you are, sweetheart.† She ruffed his hair. â€Å"I'll clean it up.† â€Å"Yes, you will,† she said. â€Å"I'm really sorry.† â€Å"Yes, you are. Do we want to go back to the futon and sit down?† â€Å"Water,† Tommy said. She ran him a glass of water and steadied him while he drank, then aimed him into the sink when the water came back up. â€Å"Are you finished now?† she asked. He nodded. She dragged him into the bathroom and washed his face, rubbing a little too hard, like an angry mother administering an abrasive spit-bath to a chocolate-covered toddler. â€Å"Now you go sit down and I'll make you some coffee.† Tommy staggered back to the living room and fell onto the futon. Jody found the coffee filters in the cupboard and began to make the coffee. She opened the cupboard to look for a cup but the Animals had used them all. They were strewn around the loft, tipped over or half full of whisky diluted by melted ice. Ice? â€Å"Tommy!† He groaned and grabbed his head. â€Å"Don't yell.† â€Å"Tommy, did you guys use the ice from the freezer?† â€Å"I don't know. Simon was bartending.† Jody brushed the dishes and pans from the lid of the chest freezer and threw it open. The ice trays, the ones Tommy had bought for the drowning experiment, were empty and scattered around the inside of the freezer. Peary's frosty face stared up at her. She slammed the lid shut and stormed across the room to Tommy. â€Å"Dammit, Tommy, how could you be so careless?† â€Å"Don't yell. Please don't yell. I'll clean it up.† â€Å"Clean it up my ass. Someone was in the freezer. Someone saw the body.† â€Å"I think I'm going to be sick.† â€Å"Did they come into the bedroom while I was sleeping? Did they see me?† Tommy cradled his head as if it would crack at any moment and spill his brains onto the floor. â€Å"They had to get to the bathroom. It's okay; I covered you up so the light wouldn't get to you.† â€Å"You idiot!† She snatched up a coffee cup and prepared to throw it at him, then caught herself. She had to get out of here before she hurt him. She shook as she set the cup on the counter. â€Å"I'm going out, Tommy. Clean up this mess.† She turned and went to the bedroom to change. When she emerged, still shaking with anger, Tommy was standing in the kitchen looking repentant. â€Å"Will you be home before I leave for work?† She glared at him. â€Å"I don't know. I don't know when I'll be back. Why didn't you just put a sign on the door, ‘See the Vampire'? This is my life you're playing with, Tommy.† He didn't answer. She turned and walked out, slamming the door. â€Å"I'll feed your turtles for you,† he called after her.

No Life Without Education Essay

â€Å"Born in San Francisco in 1876 Jack London grew up in a world witnessing the settlement of the last frontier. It was a world in transition. The memory of Jack London’s early life was etched and scarred by the bitterness of poverty. His family was continually on the move to find subsistence. At the age of ten the boy was on the street selling newspapers to supplement the family’s meager income. For fourteen years thereafter — until his first writing success at twenty-four. He became a â€Å"work beast† laboring in a cannery, a jute mill, a laundry, and shoveling coal in a power station. He worked for ten cents an hour, thirteen to fourteen hours a day, six and seven days a week. Is it any wonder that he saw life in terms of man’s unending struggle against a ruthless nature? Is it any wonder that he saw in socialism a chance for the salvation of others as lost as he had once been? Is it any wonder that he hungered for knowledge and success that would lift him above the degrading plain of poverty? Look, then, to the formative years for a clue to the life and works of Jack London. There you will see the birth of that indomitable spirit which could eventually lead him only to a philosophy of individualism. In his heart and sympathies Jack London was a socialist; he could not forget the sufferings of his past. But in his mind and actions he struggled — he was an individualist — he could not forget his achievements. Throughout his life he struggled valiantly to reconcile these conflicting philosophies. While he did not live long enough to begin the autobiography his notes indicate he planned to write, we are fortunate that so much of his writing is autobiographical in nature. Oyster pirate, deep-sea sailor, hobo, Alaskan prospector, all these incidents in his life make fascinating reading. But most important of all Jack London’s adventures was his struggle to become a writer. Without guidance, writing under almost impossible circumstances, for the most part educating himself, and faced with continual economic hardship, he stumbled and groped for three long years in the literary wilderness. In the beginning the rejection slips followed one another with monotonous regularity. Had he been a weaker man he might have succumbed. Certainly the odds were against him. But at the end of his three-year travail success was his. He had conquered his Everest; the world was at his feet! † He became the highest paid, most popular novelist and short story writer of his day. He wrote passionately and prolifically about the great questions of life and death, the struggle to survive with dignity and integrity, and he wove these elemental ideas into stories of high adventure based on his own first hand experiences at sea, or in Alaska, or in the fields and factories of California. As a result, his writing appealed not to the few, but to millions of people all around the world. Along with his books and stories, however, London was widely known for his personal exploits. He was a celebrity, a colorful and controversial personality who was often in the news. Generally fun-loving and playful, he could also be combative, and was quick to side with the underdog against injustice or oppression of any kind. He was a fiery and eloquent public speaker, and much sought after as a lecturer on socialism and other economic and political topics. Despite his avowed socialism, most people considered him a living symbol of rugged individualism, a man whose fabulous success was due not to special favor of any kind, but to a combination of unusual mental ability and immense vitality. Strikingly handsome, full of laughter, restless and courageous to a fault, always eager for adventure on land or sea, he was one of the most attractive and romantic figures of his time. He described his literary success largely to hard work – to â€Å"dig,† as he put it. He tried never to miss his early morning 1,000-word writing stint, and between 1900 and 1916 he completed over fifty books, including both fiction and non-fiction, hundreds of short stories, and numerous articles on a wide range of topics. Several of the books and many of the short stories are classics of their kind, well thought of in critical terms and still popular around the world. Today, almost countless editions of his writings are available and some of them have been translated into as many as seventy different languages. Somehow, he managed to do all these things and still find time to go swimming, horseback riding, or sailing on San Francisco Bay. He also spent 27 months cruising the South Pacific in the Snark, put in two tours of duty as an overseas war correspondent, traveled widely for pleasure, entertained a continual stream of guests whenever he was at home in Glen Ellen, and did his fair share of barroom socializing and debating. In order to fit all this living into the narrow confines of one lifetime, he often tried to make do with no more than four or five hours of sleep at night. By the age of 29 he was already internationally famous for The Call of the Wild (1903), The Sea-Wolf (1904), and other literary and journalistic accomplishments. He was divorced from Bessie, his first wife and the mother of his two daughters, Joan and Little Bess, and he had married Charmian (Kittredge). Summary Buck, a physically impressive dog, is living the good life in California when he gets stolen and put into dog slavery. For him, this means pulling a ridiculously heavy sled through miles and miles of frozen ice with little or nothing to eat and frequent beatings. As the definition of a domestic dog, Buck is out of his element until he begins to adapt to his surroundings, and learn from the other dogs. Buck also starts having strange dreams about the primitive days of dogs and men, before the advent of cities or houses or culture. There are no rules or morality here (interesting, since Buck’s first owner was a judge), save for what is called â€Å"the law of club and fang,† a kill-or-be-killed, ruthless way of thinking. Buck becomes involved in a struggle for power with another dog, Spitz. They end up fighting and Buck wins, taking over as leader of the sled dog team. The team changes human management (new drivers) and the new people don’t seem to be very competent. They’re bad drivers and end up killing everyone, including themselves. Fortunately, Buck is saved by a kind man named John Thornton, moments before the group death in an icy river. Buck becomes attached to Thornton and even saves his life several times. Buck sets off on a journey with his new master and several other men, loving his new life, except for the need to run off and kill things in the woods every once in a while. Buck fights with temptation: stay with Thornton, or kill things? Be civilized, or be wild? And naturally there are several missed phone calls from The Wild and a lot of angry messages (â€Å"Where are you already?†). At the end of Call of the Wild, Thornton is killed by the Yeehat tribe, on which Buck later extracts vengeance. Buck is then free to run with the wild dog packs, but only on the condition that he is leader. Character sketch Thornton Character Analysis Thornton is one of the main human characters in the book. He is important in the life of Buck, but we don’t know much about him. In one sense, Thornton’s role in the story is to help us learn more about Buck – Thornton’s there so we can understand this mysterious call of the wild and why Buck feels torn about whether to stay with humans or go into the wild. Thornton is both the greatest thing that’s ever happened to Buck and the one thing holding back from his true destiny as a wild dog pack leader. One the one hand, Buck is devoted to Thornton in a way that he is not devoted to anyone or anything else – recall how Buck was willing to jump off a cliff for Thornton. On the other hand, Thornton’s presence is preventing Buck from going off into the wild and answering â€Å"the call† that he hears so often. How do you view Thornton’s role in The Call of the Wild? Does he bring out the best in Buck, or does he prevent Buck from realizing his dream? Or is it both? Francois Character Analysis OK, if you’re having a hard time keeping Francois and Perrault straight, Francois is the Robin character in this Batman and Robin-like team. He doesn’t have Perrault’s brains, and defers to his buddy’s decisions. But Francois is a nice guy, as we see when he uses his own shoes to make moccasins for Buck. In short, we’re partial to the guy, and we feel sorry when Buck parts ways with the two men. Buck’s commentary on how the people in his life are always transient becomes all the more sad for us, because we’ve already gotten to like Francois and Perrault.

Compare and Contrast SRM vs. CRM Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 2250 words

Compare and Contrast SRM vs. CRM - Essay Example Whereas, CRM is mainly to increase customer satisfaction with a better support and more targeted products and to reduce costs by linking marketing, sales, research & developments and customer support services. SRM is a comprehensive approach to managing an enterprises interactions with the organizations that supply the goods and services it uses. SRM aims to streamline and make more effective the processes between an enterprise and its suppliers and includes both business practices and software. SRM is part of the information flow component of supply chain management (SCM). SRM increases the efficiency of processes associated with acquiring goods and services, managing inventory, and processing materials. The use of SRM software can lead to lower production costs and a higher quality with lower priced product. Some definitions of SRM are given below: â€Å"The practices needed to establish the business rules, and the understanding needed for interacting with suppliers of products and services of varied criticality to the profitability of the enterprise† Gartner Group Customer relationship management is the broad category of concepts, tools, and processes that allows an organization to understand and serve everyone with whom it comes into contact. It is a broad term that covers concepts used by companies to manage their relationships with customers, including the capture, storage and analysis of customer information. CRM aims for: SRM is about to manage relationship with suppliers more effectively at the same time cutting down the costs and increasing the viability of product and services received. Below are some functions/ activities are discussed. SRM is a new emerging concept, which can be seen opposite to CRM. Recent developments in information technology have required and enabled manufacturing companies to rethink and restructure their supply chain strategies. A simple supply chain system includes suppliers, a company, and customers. SRM involves

None Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 500 words - 17

None - Essay Example This is the only reason why the US has increased the use of sonar in the West Coast. The environmental groups have been very disturbed by the use of sonar and they want the US to stop disturbing the marine life and especially the Whales. The sound waves emitted during a sonar operation disturbs almost all the marine creatures, this has serious repercussions on dolphins and Whales. The dwindling of dolphins and whales is primarily because of such sonar operations carried by the US time and time again. It is high time to stop this as there are clear evidences that prove that the dwindling is all because of such sonar operations carried out by the US. The harmful noise emitted by the sonar directly affects the eardrums of the marine mammals and this in turn alters their diving habits resulting in their premature death. There are several other proofs that show that sonar operations harm the marine mammals and therefore it is high time to stop all such operations that harm marine mammals. The rapid depletion of Whales is a major cause of worry for all the people across the globe. It is our responsibility to safeguard the interest of every living organism and we have certainly failed in doing so time and time again. The Whale stock is being over exploited time and time again and the same is leading to dwindling of Whales. In the year 1931 as many as 22 nations signed the Geneva Convention to bring Whaling under control but this has not been done even to date. This treaty was modified with new protocols in the year 1938 and 1945 and the same served as a platform for International Convention for the Regulation of Whaling signed in the US in the year 1946. An International Whaling commission was established in order to safeguard the Whales. The dwindling of Whales could not have been solved with a better way than establishing a separate entity to safeguard

Introduction to Statistics Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1500 words

Introduction to Statistics - Essay Example a) Proportion of affected patients was with the 95% confidence interval for the proportion of stroke patients who become clinically depressed given by . The confidence interval indicates with a confidence coefficient of 0.95 that the true proportion of stroke patients who become clinically depressed lies within this interval. b) To evaluate the claim of the health magazine, we check whether the confidence interval contains 60% of stroke sufferers. Since 0.60 is within the confidence interval, we conclude that the claim by the health magazine is consistent with the observed data (Mendenhall en Sinchich). c) The assumptions for the confidence interval to be valid include large sample size to ensure the validity of the normal approximation. The sample size of 79 is large enough to guarantee the validity of the normal approximation. d) Sample size to be used to achieve a 99% level of confidence that the sample proportion of stroke patients suffering from depression is within 0.025 of the true proportion is computed from the following formula. b) The main assumption for the validity of the confidence interval computed is that the sample should be drawn from a normal distribution or asymptotically, it should tend to a normal distribution. This assumption is violated since from the boxplot, the distribution of the temperature is right skewed. This is evident from the unequal length of whiskers of the boxplot, with a longer whisker for data to the right of the