In class: Your graphic organizers for "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" are due NOW. Give them to Ms. DiPerna.
Please take out your notebooks and copy the chart below on Romanticism, Realism and Modernism. You will need to reference this material later in the week!
PART 2:
After you have completed the chart, on a new page write an MLA heading. LOOK at the painting below, which is entitled The Song of Love; the artist is Giorgio de Chirico, his painting having been completed in 1914. What do you see within the painting and how do you think these images might connect? Start by making yourself a list; then yet your mind wander over these possibilities. In a well-written paragraph of no fewer than 100 words, discuss the societal, emotional and psychological possibilites. (proof read for language conventions: spelling, grammar and punctuation.)
This is due at the close of class. Thank you.
Giorgio de Chirico (Italian, born Greece. 1888–1978)
The Song of Love
- Date:
- Paris, June-July 1914
- Medium:
- Oil on canvas
This painting brings together incongruous and unrelated objects: the head of a Classical Greek statue, an oversized rubber glove, a green ball, and a train shrouded in darkness, silhouetted against a bright blue sky. By subverting the logical presence of objects, de Chirico created what he termed "metaphysical" paintings, representations of what lies "beyond the physical" world. Cloaked in an atmosphere of anxiety and melancholy, de Chirico's humanoid forms, vacuous architecture, shadowy passages, and eerily elongated streets evoke the profound absurdity of a universe torn apart by World War I.
Learning target: I can determine the meaning of words and phrases as they are used in the text, including figurative and connotative meanings.
Romanticism
|
Realism
|
Modernism
|
looks at the world
optimistically
|
precise details
|
loneliness,
alienation
|
reverence for Nature
|
character more
important than plot
|
no absolute truths
|
faith in imagination
|
events are plausible
|
concern with the
subconscious
|
interest in the bizarre and supernatural
|
strong reaction against
traditional religious, political and social views
| |
diction is natural, not poetic
|
abandoning traditional rhyme schemes and writing free verse
| |
characters usually lower and middle class
|
complex ethical choices
|
Introductory material
Narration
Told in third-person point of view by a narrator who frequently reveals the thoughts of Granny Weatherall in language that Granny would use if she were speaking. Because Granny is disoriented, these thoughts focus on present perceptions one moment and on old memories the next. Her perceptions and recollections favor her positive view of herself.
Setting
The action takes place in a bedroom in the home of Granny Weatherall’s daughter Cornelia. Granny, about eighty, is lying face up in the bed. She is dying of an undisclosed illness. The time is probably the late 1920s. Flashbacks, however, date as far back as the late 1860s.
Major characters
Ellen Weatherall: Feisty woman of about eighty who ruminates about events in her life as she lies dying in the home of her daughter Cornelia.
Cornelia: Daughter of Granny. While her mother is on her deathbed, Cornelia takes care of her.
George: Man who abandoned Granny on the day he was to marry her.
John: Deceased husband of Granny.
The Jilting of Granny Weatherall
By Katherine Anne Porter
(1930)
She
flicked her wrist neatly out of Doctor Harry’s pudgy careful fingers and pulled
the sheet up to her chin. The brat ought to be in knee breeches. Doctoring
around the country with spectacles on his nose! “Get along now. Take your
schoolbooks and go. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Doctor
Harry spread a warm paw like a cushion on her forehead where the forked green
vein danced and made her eyelids twitch. “Now, now, be a good girl, and we’ll
have you up in no time.”
“That’s
no way to speak to a woman nearly eighty years old just because she’s down. I’d
have you respect your elders, young man.”
“Well,
Missy, excuse me.” Doctor Harry patted her cheek. “But I’ve got to warn you,
haven’t I? You’re a marvel, but you must be careful or you’re going to be good
and sorry.”
“Don’t
tell me what I’m going to be. I’m on my feet now, morally speaking. It’s
Cornelia. I had to go to bed to get rid of her.”
Her
bones felt loose, and floated around in her skin, and Doctor Harry floated like
a balloon around the foot of the bed. He floated and pulled down his waistcoat,
and swung his glasses on a cord. “Well, stay where you are, it certainly can’t
hurt you.”
“Get
along and doctor your sick,” said Granny Weatherall. “Leave a well woman alone.
I’ll call for you when I want you…Where were you forty years ago when I pulled
through milk-leg and double pneumonia? You weren’t even born. Don’t let
Cornelia lead you on,” she shouted, because Doctor Harry appeared to float up
to the ceiling and out. “I pay my own bills, and I don’t throw my money away on
nonsense!”
She
meant to wave good-by, but it was too much trouble. Her eyes closed of
themselves, it was like a dark curtain drawn around the bed. The pillow rose and
floated under her, pleasant as a hammock in a light wind. She listened to the
leaves rustling outside the window. No, somebody was swishing newspapers: no,
Cornelia and Doctor Harry were whispering together. She leaped broad awake,
thinking they whispered in her ear.
“She
was never like this, never like this!” “Well, what can we expect?” “Yes,
eighty years old…”
Well,
and what if she was? She still had ears. It was like Cornelia to whisper around
doors. She always kept things secret in such a public way. She was always being
tactful and kind. Cornelia was dutiful; that was the trouble with her. Dutiful
and good: “So good and dutiful,” said Granny, “that I’d like to spank her.” She
saw herself spanking Cornelia and making a fine job of it.
“What’d
you say, mother?”
Granny
felt her face tying up in hard knots.
“Can’t
a body think, I’d like to know?”
“I
thought you might like something.”
“I
do. I want a lot of things. First off, go away and don’t whisper.”
She
lay and drowsed, hoping in her sleep that the children would keep out and let
her rest a minute. It had been a long day. Not that she was tired. It was
always pleasant to snatch a minute now and then. There was always so much to be
done, let me see: tomorrow.
Tomorrow
was far away and there was nothing to trouble about. Things were finished
somehow when the time came; thank God there was always a little margin over for
peace: then a person could spread out the plan of life and tuck in the edges
orderly. It was good to have everything clean and folded away, with the hair
brushes and tonic bottles sitting straight on the white, embroidered linen: the
day started without fuss and the pantry shelves laid out with rows of jelly
glasses and brown jugs and white stone-china jars with blue whirligigs and
words painted on them: coffee, tea, sugar, ginger, cinnamon, allspice: and the
bronze clock with the lion on top nicely dusted off. The dust that lion could
collect in twenty-four hours! The box in the attic with all those letters tied
up, well, she’d have to go through that tomorrow. All those letters – George’s
letters and John’s letters and her letters to them both – lying around for the
children to find afterwards made her uneasy. Yes, that would be tomorrow’s
business. No use to let them know how silly she had been once.
While
she was rummaging around she found death in her mind and it felt clammy and
unfamiliar. She had spent so much time preparing for death there was no need
for bringing it up again. Let it take care of itself for now. When she was
sixty she had felt very old, finished, and went around making farewell trips to
see her children and grandchildren, with a secret in her mind: This was the
very last of your mother, children! Then she made her will and came down with a
long fever. That was all just a notion like a lot of other things, but it was
lucky too, for she had once and for all got over the idea of dying for a long
time. Now she couldn’t be worried. She hoped she had better sense now. Her
father had lived to be one hundred and two years old and had drunk a noggin of
strong hot toddy on his last birthday. He told the reporters it was his daily
habit, and he owed his long life to that. He had made quite a scandal and was
very pleased about it. She believed she’d just plague Cornelia a little.
“Cornelia!
Cornelia!” No footsteps, but a sudden hand on her cheek. “Bless you, where have
you been?”
“Here,
Mother.”
“Well,
Cornelia, I want a noggin of hot toddy.”
“Are
you cold, darling?”
“I’m
chilly, Cornelia.” Lying in bed stops the circulation. I must have told you a
thousand times.”
Well,
she could just hear Cornelia telling her husband that Mother was getting a
little childish and they’d have to humor her. The thing that most annoyed her
was that Cornelia thought she was deaf, dumb, and blind. Little hasty glances
and tiny gestures tossed around here and over her head saying, “Don’t cross
her, let her have her way, she’s eighty years old,” and she sitting there as if
she lived in a thin glass cage. Sometimes granny almost made up her mind to
pack up and move back to her own house where nobody could remind her every
minute that she was old. Wait, wait, Cornelia, till your own children whisper
behind your back!
In
her day she had kept a better house and had got more work done. She wasn’t too
old yet for Lydia to be driving eighty miles for advice when one of the
children jumped the track, and Jimmy still dropped in and talked things over:
“Now, Mammy, you’ve a good business head, I want to know what you think of
this?…” Old. Cornelia couldn’t change the furniture around without asking .
Little things, little things! They had been so sweet when they were little.
Granny wished the old days were back again with the children young and
everything to be done over. It had been a hard pull, but not too much for her.
When she thought of all the food she had cooked, and all the clothes she had
cut and sewed, and all the gardens she had made – well, the children showed it.
There they were, made out of her, and they couldn’t get away from that.
Sometimes she wanted to see John again and point to them and say, Well, I
didn’t do so badly, did I? But that would have to wait. That was for tomorrow.
She used to think of him as a man, but now all the children were older than
their father, and he would be a child beside her if she saw him now. It seemed
strange and there was something wrong in the idea. Why, he couldn’t possibly
recognize her. She had fenced in a hundred acres once, digging the post holes
herself and clamping the wires with just a negro boy to help. That changed a
woman. John would be looking for a young woman with a peaked Spanish comb in
her hair and the painted fan. Digging post holes changed a woman. Riding
country roads in the winter when women had their babies was another thing:
sitting up nights with sick horses and sick negroes and sick children and
hardly ever losing one. John, I hardly ever lost one of them! John would see
that in a minute, that would be something he could understand, she wouldn’t
have to explain anything!
It
made her feel like rolling up her sleeves and putting the whole place to rights
again. No matter if Cornelia was determined to be everywhere at once, there
were a great many things left undone on this place. She would start tomorrow
and do them. It was good to be strong enough for everything, even if all you
made melted and changed and slipped under your hands, so that by the time you
finished you almost forgot what you were working for. What was it I set out to
do? She asked herself intently, but she could not remember. A fog rose over the
valley, she saw it marching across the creek swallowing the trees and moving up
the hill like an army of ghosts. Soon it would be at the near edge of the
orchard, and then it was time to go in and light the lamps. Come in, children,
don’t stay out in the night air.
Lighting
the lamps had been beautiful. The children huddled up to her and breathed like
little calves waiting at the bars in the twilight. Their eyes followed the
match and watched the flame rise and settle in a blue curve, then they moved
away from her. The lamp was lit, they didn’t have to be scared and hang on to
mother any more. Never, never, never more. God, for all my life, I thank Thee.
Without Thee, my God, I could never have done it. Hail, Mary, full of grace.
I
want you to pick all the fruit this year and see nothing is wasted. There’s
always someone who can use it. Don’t let good things rot for want of using. You
waste life when you waste good food. Don’t let things get lost. It’s bitter to
lose things. Now, don’t let me get to thinking, not when I’m tired and taking a
little nap before supper….
The
pillow rose about her shoulders and pressed against her heart and the memory
was being squeezed out of it: oh, push down the pillow, somebody: it would
smother her if she tried to hold it. Such a fresh breeze blowing and such a
green day with no threats in it. But he had not come, just the same. What does
a woman do when she has put on the white veil and set out the white cake for a
man and he doesn’t come? She tried to remember. No, I swear he never harmed me
but in that. He never harmed me but in that…and what if he did? There was the
day, the day, but a whirl of dark smoke rose and covered it, crept up and over
into the bright field where everything was planted so carefully in orderly rows.
That was hell, she knew hell when she saw it. For sixty years she had prayed
against remembering him and against losing her soul in the deep pit of hell,
and now the two things were mingled in one and the thought of him was a smoky
cloud from hell that moved and crept in her head when she had just got rid of
Doctor Harry and was trying to rest a minute. Wounded vanity, Ellen, said a
sharp voice in the top of her mind. Don’t let your wounded vanity get the upper
hand of you. Plenty of girls get jilted. You were kilted, weren’t you? Then
stand up to it. Her eyelids wavered and let in streamers of blue-gray light
like tissue paper over her eyes. She must get up and pull the shades down or
she’d never sleep. She was in bed again and the shades were not down. How could
that happen? Better turn over, hide from the light, sleeping in the light gave
you nightmares. “Mother, how do you feel now?” and a stinging wetness on her
forehead. But I don’t like having my face washed in cold water!
Hapsy?
George? Lydia? Jimmy? No, Cornelia and her features were swollen and full of
little puddles. “They’re coming, darling, they’ll all be here soon.” Go wash
your face, child, you look funny.
Instead
of obeying, Cornelia knelt down and put her head on the pillow. She seemed to
be talking but there was no sound. “Well, are you tongue-tied? Whose birthday
is it? Are you going to give a party?”
Cornelia’s
mouth moved urgently in strange shapes. “Don’t do that, you bother me,
daughter.”
“Oh
no, Mother. Oh, no…”
Nonsense.
It was strange about children. They disputed your every word. “No what,
Cornelia?”
“Here’s
Doctor Harry.”
“I
won’t see that boy again. He left just five minutes ago.”
“That
was this morning, Mother. It’s night now. Here’s the nurse.”
“This
is Doctor Harry, Mrs. Weatherall. I never saw you look so young and happy!”
“Ah,
I’ll never be young again – but I’d be happy if they’d let me lie in peace and
get rested.”
She
thought she spoke up loudly, but no one answered. A warm weight on her
forehead, a warm bracelet on her wrist, and a breeze went on whispering, trying
to tell her something. A shuffle of leaves in the everlasting hand of God, He
blew on them and they danced and rattled. “Mother, don’t mind, we’re going to
give you a little hypodermic.” “Look here, daughter, how do ants get in this
bed? I saw sugar ants yesterday.” Did you send for Hapsy too?
It
was Hapsy she really wanted. She had to go a long way back through a great many
rooms to find Hapsy standing with a baby on her arm. She seemed to herself to
be Hapsy also, and the baby on Hapsy’s arm was Hapsy and himself and herself,
all at once, and there was no surprise in the meeting. Then Hapsy melted from
within and turned flimsy as gray gauze and the baby was a gauzy shadow, and
Hapsy came up close and said, “I thought you’d never come,” and looked at her
very searchingly and said, “You haven’t changed a bit!” They leaned forward to
kiss, when Cornelia began whispering from a long way off, “Oh, is there
anything you want to tell me? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Yes,
she had changed her mind after sixty years and she would like to see George. I
want you to find George. Find him and be sure to tell him I forgot him. I want
him to know I had my husband just the same and my children and my house like
any other woman. A good house too and a good husband that I loved and fine
children out of him. Better than I had hoped for even. Tell him I was given
back everything he took away and more. Oh, no, oh, God, no, there was something
else besides the house and the man and the children. Oh, surely they were not
all? What was it? Something not given back… Her breath crowded down under her
ribs and grew into a monstrous frightening shape with cutting edges; it bored
up into her head, and the agony was unbelievable: Yes, John, get the Doctor
now, no more talk, the time has come.
When
this one was born it should be the last. The last. It should have been born
first, for it was the one she had truly wanted. Everything came in good time.
Nothing left out, left over. She was strong, in three days she would be as well
as ever. Better. A woman needed milk in her to have her full health.
“Mother,
do you hear me?”
“I’ve
been telling you – “
“Mother,
Father Connolly’s here.”
“I
went to Holy Communion only last week. Tell him I’m not so sinful as all that.”
“Father
just wants to speak with you.”
He
could speak as much as he pleased. It was like him to drop in and inquire about
her soul as if it were a teething baby, and then stay on for a cup of tea and a
round of cards and gossip. He always had a funny story of some sort, usually
about an Irishman who made his little mistakes and confessed them, and the
point lay in some absurd thing he would blurt out in the confessional showing
his struggles between native piety and original sin. Granny felt easy about her
soul. Cornelia, where are your manners? Give Father Connolly a chair. She had
her secret comfortable understanding with a few favorite saints who cleared a
straight road to God for her. All as surely signed and sealed as the papers for
the new forty acres. Forever…heirs and assigns forever. Since the day the
wedding cake was not cut, but thrown out and wasted. The whole bottom of the
world dropped out, and there she was blind and sweating with nothing under her
feet and the walls falling away. His hand had caught her under the breast, she
had not fallen, there was the freshly polished floor with the green rug on it,
just as before. He had cursed like a sailor’s parrot and said, “I’ll kill him
for you.” Don’t lay a hand on him, for my sake leave something to God. “Now,
Ellen, you must believe what I tell you….”
So
there was nothing, nothing to worry about anymore, except sometimes in the
night one of the children screamed in a nightmare, and they both hustled out
and hunting for the matches and calling, “There, wait a minute, here we are!”
John, get the doctor now, Hapsy’s time has come. But there was Hapsy standing
by the bed in a white cap. “Cornelia, tell Hapsy to take off her cap. I can’t
see her plain.”
Her
eyes opened very wide and the room stood out like a picture she had seen
somewhere. Dark colors with the shadows rising towards the ceiling in long
angles. The tall black dresser gleamed with nothing on it but John’s picture,
enlarged from a little one, with John’s eyes very black when they should have
been blue. You never saw him, so how do you know how he looked? But the man
insisted the copy was perfect, it was very rich and handsome. For a picture,
yes, but it’s not my husband. The table by the bed had a linen cover and a
candle and a crucifix. The light was blue from Cornelia’s silk lampshades. No
sort of light at all, just frippery. You had to live forty years with kerosene
lamps to appreciate honest electricity. She felt very strong and she saw Doctor
Harry with a rosy nimbus around him.
“You
look like a saint, Doctor Harry, and I vow that’s as near as you’ll ever come
to it.”
“She’s
saying something.”
“I
heard you Cornelia. What’s all this carrying on?”
“Father
Connolly’s saying – “
Cornelia’s
voice staggered and jumped like a cart in a bad road. It rounded corners and
turned back again and arrived nowhere. Granny stepped up in the cart very
lightly and reached for the reins, but a man sat beside her and she knew him by
his hands, driving the cart. She did not look in his face, for she knew without
seeing, but looked instead down the road where the trees leaned over and bowed
to each other and a thousand birds were singing a Mass. She felt like singing
too, but she put her hand in the bosom of her dress and pulled out a rosary,
and Father Connolly murmured Latin in a very solemn voice and tickled her feet.
My God, will you stop that nonsense? I’m a married woman. What if he did run
away and leave me to face the priest by myself? I found another a whole world
better. I wouldn’t have exchanged my husband for anybody except St. Michael
himself, and you may tell him that for me with a thank you in the bargain.
Light
flashed on her closed eyelids, and a deep roaring shook her. Cornelia, is that
lightning? I hear thunder. There’s going to be a storm. Close all the windows.
Call the children in… “Mother, here we are, all of us.” “Is that you Hapsy?”
“Oh, no, I’m Lydia We drove as fast as we could.” Their faces drifted above
her, drifted away. The rosary fell out of her hands and Lydia put it back.
Jimmy tried to help, their hands fumbled together, and granny closed two
fingers around Jimmy’s thumb. Beads wouldn’t do, it must be something alive.
She was so amazed her thoughts ran round and round. So, my dear Lord, this is
my death and I wasn’t even thinking about it. My children have come to see me die.
But I can’t, it’s not time. Oh, I always hated surprises. I wanted to give
Cornelia the amethyst set – Cornelia, you’re to have the amethyst set, but
Hapsy’s to wear it when she wants, and, Doctor Harry, do shut up. Nobody sent
for you. Oh, my dear Lord, do wait a minute. I meant to do something about the
Forty Acres, Jimmy doesn’t need it and Lydia will later on, with that worthless
husband of hers. I meant to finish the alter cloth and send six bottles of wine
to Sister Borgia for her dyspepsia. I want to send six bottles of wine to
Sister Borgia, Father Connolly, now don’t let me forget.
Cornelia’s
voice made short turns and tilted over and crashed. “Oh, mother, oh, mother,
oh, mother….”
“I’m
not going, Cornelia. I’m taken by surprise. I can’t go.”
You’ll
see Hapsy again. What bothered her? “I thought you’d never come.” Granny made a
long journey outward, looking for Hapsy. What if I don’t find her? What then?
Her heart sank down and down, there was no bottom to death, she couldn’t come
to the end of it. The blue light from Cornelia’s lampshade drew into a tiny
point in the center of her brain, it flickered and winked like an eye, quietly
it fluttered and dwindled. Granny laid curled down within herself, amazed and
watchful, staring at the point of light that was herself; her body was now only
a deeper mass of shadow in an endless darkness and this darkness would curl
around the light and swallow it up. God, give a sign!
For
a second time there was no sign. Again no bridegroom and the priest in the
house. She could not remember any other sorrow because this grief wiped them
all away. Oh, no, there’s nothing more cruel than this – I’ll never forgive it.
She stretched herself with a deep breath and blew out the light.
********************************************************
The Jilting of
Granny Weatherall” by Katherine Ann Porter vocabulary
1. tactful (adjective)- having or showing a sense of what is
fitting and considerate in dealing with others
2. rummage (verb or adjective)- to search haphazardly.
3. clammy (adjective)- unpleasantly cool and humid
4. vanity (noun)- feelings of excess pride
5. gauzy (adjective)- so thin as to transmit light
6. agony(noun)- intense feelings of suffering;
acute mental or physical pain
7. absurd (adjective)- inconsistent with reason or logic
or common sense
8. frippery
-(noun)- something of little value or significance (often having to do with
clothes)
9. to dwindle (verb)- become smaller or lose substance
10. nimbus -(noun)- an indication of radiant light drawn around
the head of a saint
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