When her grandmother’s health began to deteriorate in the
fall of 1994, Mary would make the drive from Washington, DC to Winchester every
few days.
She hated highway driving, finding it ugly and monotonous. She
preferred to take meandering back roads to her grandmother’s hospital. When she
drove through the rocky town of Harpers Ferry, the beauty of the rough waters
churning at the intersection of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers always
captivated her.
Toward the end of her journey, Mary had to get on highway
81. It was here that she discovered a surprising bit of beauty during one of
her trips. Along the median of the highway, there was a long stretch of
wildflowers. They were thin and delicate and purple, and swayed in the wind as
if whispering poems to each other.
The first time she saw the flowers, Mary was seized by an uncontrollable
urge to pull over on the highway and yank a bunch from the soil. She carried
them into her grandmother’s room when she arrived at the hospital and placed
them in a water pitcher by her bed. For a moment her grandmother seemed more
lucid than usual. She thanked Mary for the flowers, commented on their beauty
and asked where she had gotten them. Mary was overjoyed by the ability of the
flowers to wake something up inside her ailing grandmother.
Afterwards, Mary began carrying scissors in the car during
her trips to visit her grandmother. She would quickly glide onto the shoulder,
jump out of the car, and clip a bunch of flowers. Each time Mary placed the
flowers in the pitcher, her grandmother’s eyes would light up and they would
have a splendid conversation.
One morning in late October, Mary got a call that her
grandmother had taken a turn for the worse. Mary was in such a hurry to get to
her grandmother that she sped past her flower spot. She decided to turn around
head several miles back, and cut a bunch. Mary arrived at the hospital to find her
grandmother very weak and unresponsive. She placed flowers in the pitcher and
sat down. She felt a squeeze on her fingers. It was the last conversation they
had.
As used in the beginning of the story, which is the best
definition for ‘captivated’?
Educational planning should aim at meeting the educational needs
of the entire population of all age group. While the traditional structure of
education as a three layer hierarchy from the primary stage to the university
represents the core, we should not overlook the periphery which is equally
important. Under modern conditions, workers need to rewind, or renew their
enthusiasm, or strike out in a new direction, or improve their skills as much
as any university professor. The retired and the age have their needs as well.
Educational planning, in their words, should take care of the needs of
everyone.
Our structures of education have been built up on the
assumption that there is a terminal point to education. This basic defect has
become all the more harmful today. A UNESCO report entitled ‘learning to Be’
prepared by Edgar Faure and others in 1973 asserts that the education of
children must prepare the future adult for various forms of self – learning. A
viable education system of the future should consist of modules with different
kinds of functions serving a diversity of constituents. And performance, not
the period of study, should be the basis for credentials. The writing is
already on the wall.
In view of the fact that the significance of a commitment of
lifelong learning and lifetime education is being discussed only in recent years
even in educationally advanced countries, the possibility of the idea becoming
an integral part of educational thinking seems to be a far cry. For, to move in
that direction means such more than some simple rearrangement of the present
organization of education. But a good beginning can be made by developing Open
University programs for older learners of different categories and introducing
extension services in the conventional colleges and schools. Also these
institutions should learn to cooperate with the numerous community
organizations such as libraries. Museums, municipal recreational programs,
health services etc.
What is the main thrust of the author?
At the time Jane Austen’s novels
were published – between 1811 and 1818 – English literature was not part of any
academic curriculum. In addition, fiction was under strenuous attack. Certain
religious and political groups felt novels had the power to make so-called
immoral characters so interesting that young readers would identify with them;
these groups also considered novels to be of little practical use. Even
Coleridge, certainly no literary reactionary, spoke for many when the asserted
that “novel-reading occasions the destruction of the mind’s powers.”
These attitudes towards novels help
explain why Austen received little attention from early nineteenth-century
literary cities. (In any case a novelist published anonymously, as Austen was,
would not be likely to receive much critical attention.) The literary response
that was accorded to her, however, was often as incisive as twentieth-century
criticism. In his attack in 1816 on novelistic portrayals “outside of ordinary experience,”
for example. Scott made an insightful remark about the merits of Austen’s
fiction.
Her novels, wrote Scott, “present to
the reader an accurate and exact picture of ordinary everyday people and
places, reminiscent of seventeenth-century Flemish painting.” Scott did not use
the word ‘realism’, but he undoubtedly used a standard of realistic probability
in judging novels. The critic Whately did not use the word ‘realism’, either,
but he expressed agreement with Scott’s evaluation, and went on to suggest the possibilities
for moral instruction in what we have called Austen’s ‘realistic method’ her
characters, wrote Whately, are persuasive agents for moral truth since they are
ordinary persons “so clearly evoked that we feel an interest in their fate as
if it were our own.” Moral instruction, explained Whately, is more likely to be
effective when conveyed through recongnizably human and interesting characters
than when imparted by a sermonizing narrator. Whitely especially praised Austen’s
ability to create character who “mingle goodness and villainy, weakness and
virtue, as in life they are always mingled. “Whitely concluded his remarks by
comparing Austen’s art of characterization to Dickens’, starting his preference
for Austen’s.
Yet, the response of
nineteenth-century literary critics to Austen was not always so laudatory, and
often anticipated the reservations of twentieth-century literary critics. An
example of such a response was Lewes complaint in 1859 that Austen’s range of
subject and characters was too narrow. Praising her verisimilitude, Lewes added
that, nonetheless her focus was too often only upon the unlofty and the
commonplace. (Twentieth-century Marxists, on the other hand, were to complain
about what they saw as her exclusive emphasis on a lofty upper middle class.)
In any case having being rescued by literary critics from neglect and indeed
gradually lionized by them, Austen steadily reached, by the mid-nineteenth
century, the enviable pinnacle of being considered controversial.
The author would most likely agree
to which of the following as the best measure of a writer’s literary success?
Paul’s wife knows Paul loves to read cookbooks. She decides to
get him one for his birthday. Paul tells her he will try to make a new recipe
for three days in a row. On Monday, Paul makes blueberry pancakes for
breakfast. He gets the blueberries from the farmers’ market. On Tuesday, Paul
makes beef soup for dinner. He puts in cubes of beef, carrots, and onions. The
recipe calls for cream, but Paul does not cream. He uses water instead. On Wednesday,
Paul makes a tomato salad with cucumbers and onions. He picks the cucumbers and
tomatoes from his garden. He likes this dish best. It was also the easiest for
him to make.
Why doesn’t Paul use cream?
