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Inside the front cover was scribbled a name, illegible. The book, or so my dad told me, had been given to him as a gift from a patient, but he had never even opened it. Instead it had been reconciled to a life on the shelf, watching the world but not participating in it. A sad fate for such an important book. From the moment I opened The Book Thief , it remained glued to my fingers. It is, above all, a story of humanity: how humans fight, struggle, fail and succeed, and ultimately define ourselves through our stubborn tenacity to cling to our values.

In retrospect I can only wonder why I felt the need to hold the book so close, so as to not lose sight of it even as I slept. Perhaps it served as a surrogate teddy bear, comforting in the familiarity of its hard spine pressed hard against my cheek underneath my pillow should I awaken from a nightmare. The Book Thief changed my life. It changed my perceptions of myself and of the world around me. With every rereading, more is revealed. More pieces of the puzzle left by my forbearers, both Jewish and German, fall into place.

As though the two cannot coexist, as if they are fundamentally different. The Book Thief refuses to flee from this ambiguity. Instead, the characters within its pages are mixtures of everything and its opposite. This is clearly not so. However, people are not magnets. Even as a child, I found this idea captivating. Ambiguity is poetry. Ambiguity is what makes us human. The one absolute truth to our existence is the divide between life and death—and, some may argue that death is the only cessation of our humanity. In my prior schooling, we were taught to accept only one truth as the absolute truth.

Right and wrong, good and evil, yes and no. As simple as a coin toss. The Book Thief offered my first insight into a world painted in shades of grey, my first introduction to what would become my quest for understanding—of humanity, of the world around me, of myself. On weekends I struggled to carry twenty books at a time, stacked way up high as I left my local library.

At home, I stayed up late with a little light under my sheets trying to finish the last chapter of The Prisoner of Azkaban. I lived my life through books, some were void of meaning, just a way to pass the time, while others crept up on my subconscious and wove their way into my life, forever intertwined with me. The most special books are the ones that like a kaleidoscope give a new view upon another reading. One of these books is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I came across Pride and Prejudice at a cheap bookstore, it was all weathered and yellowed and had the dusty scent of a book that was well worn in.

I judged the book by its pretty, lavender cover and just had to buy it. At first read, I was enamoured with Mr. Darcy, yearning for a love story as deep and profound as in the novel. Little, fifth grade me just hoped that maybe the next day in class the boy sitting next to me might profess that he loved me all along. When I finished Pride and Prejudice , I thought it would quickly be replaced by another book and my love for it left behind snug in the worn out pages of my copy.

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By the time I was in middle school, reading turned into a barren desert where every once in a while a teen fiction novel might roll in like a tumbleweed. I could no longer hide in the pages of books and I had to face reality as daunting as it seemed. At the end of my eighth grade year we moved to Texas and as I was packing, I stumbled upon my copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was all bent and worn and it looked longingly at me as if it had been waiting for me. I picked up the book and read it in a single sitting, almost five consecutive hours enraptured by it.

On second look it was more than just a love story. It became a holy scripture I would follow for the next few years. Austen had written Elizabeth as a woman with dimension, not an object of perfection but a woman who had her faults as well as some of the most virtuous qualities. She was outspoken but not rude, intelligent but prideful, but most of all she was dynamic—she was what a woman should be. I had nothing but admiration for the complex lead that Austen had created as well as the role model who also helped me unfold some great universal truths. The move to Texas was one of the hardest transitions in my life as I was greeted with a culture shock and had to reinvent myself.

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In California my peers and I had shared the same views. We were all so liberal which at the time felt like a blessing, but when I got to Texas it seemed as though everywhere I went my ideas were challenged. Did I mess up? Was I wrong about all republicans being bad? That night my heart was palpitating with fear that I had been wrong. Perhaps I had been too quick to judge as Elizabeth had and perhaps I should reexamine my preconceived notions of political parties. This sense of clarity I received, was due in part to Pride and Prejudice because even though it did not provide me with the answers to my questions, it had given me a sense of self awareness.

After that I became obsessed with reading, falling into my old habits of staying up late to read the last chapter, staying in to read at lunch, and going to the library every weekend. I am forever grateful to Pride and Prejudice for reigniting the passion for reading I had lost in middle school. I should have thrived in high school but with the exception of a few classes, I rarely felt like I was learning; the only place to do that for me were in pages and pages of literature.

Throughout my high school career we were stuck on these desks, asked to raise our hands to speak, told what was right from wrong, all around a very uninspiring environment. I had no idea how a classroom could be thought-provoking and truly educational until I went to the Summer Academy at St. In the seminars I felt an energy of pure passion, every single person shared this love for learning that I had neverexperienced before. I had never been in a classroom where we were so freely allowed to ask questions. I realized that was what learning should be and that is how I want to learn. I am drawn to St.

I especially look forward to the different perspectives and the debates that will come from having an entire community bound together by the richness of the program. The novel raises questions, such as: What defines a person? How does society affect what a person becomes? This novel tries to answer these questions, thus giving it significance to me. The breadth of its scope, covering the history of Eastern Europe, morals, ideology, faith, and the relationship between society and the self, makes it great. The novel focuses on ways the Soviet regime exerted its power on its people.

Coming from a post-Soviet country still struggling with its past, where some adore past times while others despise them, I am interested in how the regime worked to indoctrinate people. Although the novel is not a history book, its presentation of characters helps to crystallize the essence of what the Soviet Union looked like. The fact of it being a literary work has made it easier for me to comprehend and visualize the historical period which was so devastating to my country. The novel helped me understand that the harder an ideology is pushed on people, the harder they will rebel in indirect ways.

For example, although the Soviet regime placed much focus on the formation of equality and the destruction of the bourgeoisie, the conditions which followed such acts made people more prone to seek inequality and personal benefit. The constant fear turned people into animals willing to do anything to survive. The book paints a gruesomely comical picture. For fear of being next to disappear or jealousy because someone lives a tiny bit better than you, espionage and treason become a normal part of life.

People in high-ranking positions lived Western lives, as seen by the image of Margarita and her mysterious husband who works for the government. My grandfather was a celebrated actor in the USSR. The description of art under the regime is one of my favorite aspects of the novel. Art is used as a propaganda tool, and the state controls art through bribery. It is ironic to see artists, whose independence is essential for the creative process, being manipulated by the state through petty materialistic entitlements.

Artists here worry more about the size of summer house they will receive for their vacation than their work. When the value of their work is questioned, they affirm their lack of talent; yet their social position is too valuable to give up, as reflected in the thoughts of the poet Riuchin. Yet he chooses to ignore the thought. He understands that the society needs artists like him. Mediocrity is appreciated since it does not question the status quo. Was my grandfather like Riuchin? I have understood that he did not belong to that mediocrity. He cared more about art than he did about his relative wealth or fame.

He chose art as a means to remain free when his environment sought to constrain him. My grandfather proved to be resilient against attempts to corrupt him. That is what I admire about him most. His persistent belief in art allowed him to remain free in an oppressive state. Moreover, he contributed much towards the achievement of Lithuanian independence in The characters Master and Margarita show this through their choice to leave Moscow society. The novel also addresses conformism and its effects on society. The quote from the introduction shows an even bigger tragedy.

And nobody wants to stand out. No questions are asked. This harsh reality that I saw in the novel impressed me. It has made me notice links between the story and my generation. The drive to conform to a standard so as to avoid standing out has become more and more apparent. The Master and Margarita displays such behavior. However, the society depicted in the novel accepts such conformism to urvive, whereas the young generation can take individual freedom for granted. Why is conformism a threat?

It impedes creativity and critical thinking, but these are essential in raising questions and seeing beyond the obvious. Instead, my peers choose to follow similar paths of education seeing a narrow degree as superior to a broader one and career only highly paid. At an early age they are asked to choose their path for life. I see no point in that. Avoiding conformism and pre-set structures lets people see the world in different colors and leads to self-discovery. This novel is a clear reminder that people have potential and must not choose an easy path in life. Each individual must pave their own way to achieve true happiness.

Prior to reading the novel, I viewed individualism as an act of rebellion with little to no effect on the development of personality. My father is a prime example of an individualist, and, for some time, I saw him as an outsider who found many ways to be critical of his environment. Moreover, our relationship has always been strained. Having read the novel I have learned to appreciate individualism as a philosophy.

Self-confidence is something I have struggled very long and hard with. I used to worry that I would stand out—especially in school. The views of my society are rather one dimensional towards being different. It means being inferior. When reflecting that becoming part of this society would lead me to self-hatred, I have come to see Master as an example. The hardship he undergoes and the courage he portrays afterwards have inspired me to embrace who I am. This has also come from my father. He has always encouraged me to have my own personal outlook and opinion.

I think he believes that conformity undermines intellectual potential—an opinion I now strongly agree with. Moreover, he has taught me to stand my ground and be perceptive.


The critical viewpoint I have grown into has trained me not to take things for granted and to be inquisitive. So, in a way, The Master and Margarita has helped me to understand my father and appreciate him as an outsider, an individualist. I have also become an individualist who tries to defy the conformism around him. Not only do the literary devices make it a wonder to read, but the way it discusses eternal human problems makes it a great book.

It also addresses the relationship between individuals and their community and time. It embraces individualism and faith as compasses to accomplishment. The third aspect—that of conformism—connects the novel with today and calls on the reader to think and reflect more deeply, to search for a unique identity. The experience of reading the story has taught me that raising questions and finding answers should be an indefinite, life-long process.

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This epic is not only a great book—it is the great book of Poland, as important and symbolic as the Vistula River that flows from the Polish mountains to the Baltic sea. Where American students must study the U. Constitution, Poles are required to memorize sections of Pan Tadeusz, especially those which are thought to embody the core of what it means to be Polish.

Its author, Adam Mickiewicz, is considered something of a literary god, somewhere between Dante and Shakespeare. I first began reading Pan Tadeusz when I was thirteen. Because I am a homeschooler living in the United States, there was no set requirement to read it, so my decision to do so was entirely my own—although I admit that my Polish father may have egged me on just a little. And perhaps because it was my decision to read this epic, my reaction to it was stronger than it otherwise would have been.

Until then, being Polish meant little more to me than having a second passport, wearing a traditional dress on holidays, and having a passel of cousins across the ocean. Being Polish was a part of me, but not something I paid much attention to. The poem nostalgically recalls a glorious time when Poland spanned from Lithuania to Hungary to western Russia.

Although war is the frame, the story does not dwell on the losses suffered, choosing instead to celebrate a beloved way of life left behind. The lyrical lines paint beautiful scenes of the landed gentry and their traditions: the careful brewing of coffee by the kawiarka, the servant whose job it was to prepare the coffee, the traditional ritual of picking mushrooms in the forest, and outings in the idyllic countryside.

But these details resonated with me, as well. For me, Pan Tadeusz redefined and cemented what it meant to be Polish. I think I can recite the opening more readily than I can the Pledge of Allegiance:. Litwo, Ojczyzno moja! My homeland! You are health alone. Today I see and tell anew Your lovely beauty, as I long for you. In reading Pan Tadeusz , I realized that this was my heritage. As gentry, they would have lived a life much like that described in Pan Tadeusz. As long as we have Pan Tadeusz , there will be a little bit of Poland on every shelf that has a copy.

Gazing at the world with wide-eyed wonderment, I would ask all the questions I had, not knowing the difference between what was supposedly pertinent or irrelevant. Myphilosophical ramblings would range from the extremely silly to the fiercely profound. By the time high school rolled around, that girl was nowhere to be found. I would uncomprehendingly coast through my classes, molding my knowledge to fit the next quiz and promptly forgetting it afterwards. The book explored the seemingly ludicrous claim that modern Western science had somehow l ead to the same conclusions as ancient Eastern mysticism.

As many other scientists undoubtedly had when the celebrated book was first published, I approached it with much skepticism. For years, scientists have conceived of atoms, or indeed, elementary particles as discrete pockets of matter. But modern science contradicts these ideas of classical mechanics: an electron is conceived of as a wave-particle duality, with a tendency to exist in certain areas.

Accordingly, physicist H. It is, in essence, a set of relationships that reach outward to other things. According to the Hindu concept of Maya, reality as the way we perceive it is an illusion, just as the idea of discrete particles is an illusion. In Buddhist koans , one is forced to realize the limitations of rational thought and language as a seemingly paradoxical riddle that reveals an absolute meaning unconveyed by words and unattainable by logic, just like the duality of the wave-particle electron.

As Capra notices in the preface to the 30th edition of his book, his realization plays a fundamental role in ecology: we are all part of an interconnected system, inseparable from our surroundings and each other. Capra chose a line of inquiry that was highly unconventional, but from his work resulted a revolutionary new lens with which to view both religion and science. The brilliance of this book lies in its unabashed pursuit of an idea, no matter what other leading figures of science may have had to say about it. Capra had the courage to question the ideas we dismiss everyday, and out of this fearless inquiry, he fundamentally changed our understanding of science.

For me, the book lead to another profound realization: if I was inseparable from my surroundings, it followed that I had an impact on my environment. I was powerful, and my actions mattered. The Tao of Physics woke me up. I began to question the ideas behind my everyday actions regardless of whether other people thought this was a relevant line of inquiry or not. When I advocated for a climate resolution in my school and in my city, I questioned the ideal of open-mindedness, a term that my AP Environmental Science teacher seemed to take for granted until I compelled him to think about what it means and what it entails.

Out of this confusion and curiosity, my AP Research paper on the nature of open-mindedness as an intellectual virtue in epistemology emerged. So, how did The Tao of Physics change how I perceive the world? It gave me the courage to pursue my questions, think deeply about all the ideas we take for granted, and act to change the world. I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. As I look at it now, the paint has flaked away, leaving ominous black splotches along the spine. I hope this book, in all its fairy-tale grotesquery, reforms your view and experience of literature in the way it did for me.

I spent three days doing nothing but reading. It was late December and the snow was gently falling outside. I sat in an armchair in front of a wood fire with a cup of tea and read. I read for hours until my skin stung, my neck stiffened and my head ached. At night, I would draw myself a bath and lay in it until the water went cold and read.

I would fall asleep while I read. Most distinctly I remember running to the bathroom, chapter after chapter, to throw up. I read Lolita obsessively. It was all at once a beautiful and harrowing experience. To clarify, my response was not a result of any past trauma. My life has been exceptionally pleasant.

My visceral reaction to Lolita remains a mystery to me. The words manifested in my body, and remain there today. Whenever I pick up the book, I shake. If you flip through the book now, you can see the pages I gripped so tightly that they tore. After reading Lolita , my brother and I spent the following days dissecting every minute detail, trying to find some kind of understanding of Lolita.

We searched together for insight, sat up late after dinner arguing about whether or not Humbert loved Dolores, and what the final meeting between Humbert and Dolores meant. My experience of Lolita is intrinsically connected to the discussions I had with my brother. Lolita inspired in me a fervent hunger for discussion of truth. My initial impression was that the truth of Lolita , its ugliness, was hidden behind its beautiful prose.

It uses flowery words of love and affection to trick the reader into believing in some kind of horrid love story. I wanted to brush off the proselike dust off an old book. I had thought that the truth was beneath this, like a mystery waiting to be solved. So, I though, it must have been possible for me. However, this is not at all true. Lolita is not a tale of horror in spite of its beauty, it is a tale of horror because of its beauty.

We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country, that, by then, in retrospect, was no more than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires and her sobs in the night—every night, every night—the moment I feigned sleep.

I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own.

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So, must all beauty be false and can truth only come ugly? Or is there even truer beauty in truth? But does that validate the beauty of a lie? Then, how does one interpret morality in relation to beauty? Is there any meaning to one without the other? They weigh so heavily on each other that it is impossible for them to existence independently.

It is impossible to finish reading Lolita. It is a book of perpetual discussion, conversation, and questioning. Lolita is not a book to be solved. A book will occupy my thoughts and conversation for a period of time but Lolita awakened a violent response- this is what I have to do, for the rest of my life. I have to analyze great literature and live in its questioning. My experience with Lolita informed my entire way of thinking. It taught me that there is no ending to a conversation, and no meaning without conversation. They are gasps of continually renewed surprise.

I expect to read the novel many more times. And I am running out of clean white space. It is that surprise that I can see in the community at St. I imagine life there will be four years of running out of clean white space. Growing up, I spent hours on end in the attic of our little house—It held hundreds of books, saved by my family for generations. I read it all. I was in kindergarten. I literally judged this book by its cover. Red, leather bound, gold embossed. After I had returned the book to the public library, I was still reciting The Raven by memory.

Even then, I deeply appreciated that an emotion could be found in a strange combination of words. I understood that books, like people, carry complex emotions.

I also understood that this was not a story about a raven. I did not stop at The Raven. My peers neglected the reading, doing only what they had to do to maintain decent grades. I came to class having read the story and enjoyed it. Unlike my classmates, I see books as worlds I can get lost in. They saw a story about a cockroach. I saw a statement about our significance in the world. According to Kafka, we have none.

I can already see it—myself, sitting in classrooms where everyone wants to be there—where I am not being measured, rated, scored, and I can learn through communicating, not testing. Where Johnnies not only question my truths, but theirs too. My parents were always open about their intercultural moral beliefs and never censored discussions. I was raised bilingual. My father spoke only Arabic, and my mother only English. To this day, I imagine that my brain is made up of two halves. I learned a kind of diplomacy from having to interpret their different perspectives.

Having attended St. This unconventional mindset made me the scholar I am today. I am a reader because I am a writer, not the other way around. Index cards, store receipts, and any other paper I can find, covered in notes I took, stick out of the tops of my books. This is my way of enjoying books. I dream of a place where everyone enjoys books differently. There is greatness to be found in every book, but these are some of the writers that challenged what I thought to be true and opened the door to moral questions that will take more than my lifetime to answer.

I hope to start answering these questions at St. Stories of centuries ago would flit around us as her voice gave life to Orpheus, the musician, Prometheus, the maker of man, and Pan, the god of nature. In times of strife, I would often revisit these myths, using them to process and understand the stress of my young life. Although gods, the heroes of Olympus would make mistakes, get angry, and fall in love. This basic principle that even gods made mistakes allowed me to process my everyday life. Although divorce is not an issue of the gods, they fell in and out of love and this was synonymous with events in my own life, and with members of my own family.

While arguments with my brother could never be described as divine, our struggles often reminded me of the fights between Apollo and Artemis, siblings who squabbled but ultimately loved each other. The story of Orpheus, the musician who looked back at the last second to ensure his beloved was following him, remains a non-example in matters of perseverance. This book is foundational to me because of its portrayal of divine creatures and the exhibition of basic human desires and imperfections. As a small child, I did not fully grasp the implications of translation and the issues that arise from recitation.

Now, as a student of Latin, I understand the strain of translation.

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All myths have several different versions. No two translations are ever the same, usually due to the education and bias of the translator. This classical state of mind has remained with me throughout my public education, pushing me towards extracurricular resources focusing on Greco-Roman culture. I am desperate to understand not only the myths, but the politics and day-to-day lives of citizens.

This foundation of classical thought has allowed me to navigate modern literature. A small book of Greek myths is my moral base, and, because of it, I am now pursuing a more classical education. Catch by Joseph Heller, in addition to contributing to our modern language, is the most accurate depiction, I have encountered, of life in the Air Force. As absurd as the previous exchange was, it happened. Great literature forces the reader to identify with the characters. Yosarian, the protagonist, is a man who looks at the world around him and wonders if he is the only sane person in an insane world.

Clevenger is a motivated idealist who thinks that anything less than complete devotion to God, Country, and Duty is insane. It spends most of its pages describing the time between combat, the little absurdities that make up the majority of time in the military, with very short bursts of action. I share a cultural reference frame with Catch that enriches the experience. I have even read passages that seemed to have a tone suggesting a joke or allusion of some kind, but without explanation I am left wondering if it was a contemporary reference, word-play in the original Spanish, or nothing at all.

The goal of most of humanity is to not need a perspective on modern warfare, to perhaps even eliminate the stupidity that is war altogether. How do these lessons apply to those of us that wish to lead lives of peace and civility? Ultimately Catch is not a book about war and fighting as much as it is a book about people living their lives and trying to get from one day to another in whatever way they can. I can see aspects of both Yosarian and Clevenger in myself.

The aspect of Clevenger that I identify with is not the blind followership, but followership nonetheless.

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I may not agree with the goal we pursue or how we try to reach it, but if I am given a job to do I will do it thoroughly and with all my effort. Pashtuns are the ethnic group that make up a majority of the fighters in that country and they have a system of core beliefs that make one a Pashtun called Pashtunwali. One aspect of this is Badal, or retribution, essentially meaning that if someone harms or even insults a friend or family member it is your duty as a Pashtun to take revenge, generally by spilling blood.

Because of this, for every fighter we kill, we create a whole family of new fighters. This never-ending cycle is the reason Afghans have been fighting almost constantly since Being given the Sisyphean task of killing our way out of an insurgency, the only response I can have is to work very hard to be sure that the warheads are landing on the right foreheads. However, I find this definition lacking, good satire should hold up a fun-house mirror to society to accentuate its problems and perhaps offer hope for the future. Any pessimist can simply expose and discredit vice and folly.

To make a reader care, an author must place an earnest heart within their satire and at least hint that we can do better. This would place satire in the realm of speculative fiction, the genre that includes science fiction and fantasy. The major difference between satire and other speculative fiction sub-genres is that while science fiction and fantasy generally use a different setting, be it the future or a different realm, to frame allegories about the world we live in, satire uses comedy to disarm the reader, sneaking its message in behind a wall of laughs.

When I was a freshman in high school, The Colbert Report debuted. Attending a religious school in rural Missouri, most of the faculty and students were rather conservative. We have put up walls around ourselves and entrenched our ideas, ready for war. Satire is an ideological Trojan Horse, and, when used well, a powerful sneak attack on ignorance. War Satire as a sub-genre is of particular importance.

The seriousness of war, literally life and death, makes it a subject people tend to develop core values around. Being overtly anti-war could cause you and your message to be immediately dismissed by those that view an anti-war stance as anti-troop or anti-patriotic. We see, even today, people that advocate for war when it is their own sons and daughters that will be sent to die, while any benefit will go to the people with enough money, power, and influence to keep their children safely at home.

The poor pay the price while the rich reap the benefit. We allow people to see past what the media and authority figures have trained them to believe and instead think for themselves in their own self-interest. These seditious thoughts that break the myth of glory, and prevent unnecessary sacrifice are of great value if we are to have a society comprised of critical thinkers.

Such a society is necessary if the poor are to overcome the effects of media and politicians made up of and owned by the wealthy. When I came for my visit, the mathematics program at St. The dry biting wit of these three leads me to think that there was something about the war that caused a group as diverse as an officer bombardier, a private who was on the ground and later a POW, and a corporal who worked from the states at the predecessor to the NSA to develop this same sense of humor.

I think it may be the moral certainty we now have about that war. Nazis are evil, we know that now, or at least many of us do, but at the time, the war raged for three years before the United States entered. Even when we finally joined we only declared war on the Nazis in response to their declaration of war on us. Clever minds like Lehrer, Vonnegut, and Heller looked at Americans patting themselves on the back after the war, as if we had won a moral victory.

Hypocrisy is like catnip for satirists. As pride swelled over the victory in World War II, these great artists who served in it responded by picking apart the narrative and showing war for what it is: a bunch of scared kids trying not to die. This was amplified by the world they found themselves in following the war. If you really care about ideas, explaining why one is important is almost impossible because every idea intersects with and plays off of other ideas.

For every book I read I find myself adding at least three more to my reading list, whether they inspired the author or were inspired by him. The most beautiful things in the world are ideas, constantly changing, altered by experience and learning. I am unable to say that any one book is important to me, all I can say is that Catch is important to me today and hope to discover the book that will be important to me tomorrow. I invite St. In a well-written book, life-altering challenges and mundane activities alike are transfigured into something of consequence, as if they are part of a grand, unperceivable pattern.

I am tempted to write about a more important book, something a little weightier and more historic, but I feel it would be most appropriate to write about Jane Eyre. I once heard art defined as anything that makes its audience feel and react. The story does not shy away from the dark and confusing. The characters struggle with death and injustice and poverty. Collections Year Title Prev 1 Next. Read poems by this poet. Read texts about this poet. Passerby, These are Words Passerby, these are words. Silence is a threshold Where, unfelt, a twig breaks in your hand As you try to disengage A name upon a stone: And so our absent names untangle your alarms.

Yves Bonnefoy Thomas Traherne Born in , Thomas Traherne is often considered as the last of the Metaphysical poets. Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Find Poets. Read Stanza. Jobs for Poets. Materials for Teachers. The Walt Whitman Award. James Laughlin Award. Write a review. Ask a question. Pricing policy About our prices. We're committed to providing low prices every day, on everything. So if you find a current lower price from an online retailer on an identical, in-stock product, tell us and we'll match it.

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