Literatura Norteamericana II: primer trimestre

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Título del test:
Literatura Norteamericana II: primer trimestre

Descripción:
author and title

Autor:
coral
(Otros tests del mismo autor)

Fecha de Creación:
10/07/2019

Categoría:
UNED
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Temario:
The author and the title: ´´UPON the half decayed veranda of a small frame house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of Winesburg, Ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously up and down. Across a long field that had been seeded for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the fields. The berry pickers, youths and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who screamed and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face of the departing sun. Over the long field came a thin girlish voice. “Oh, you Wing Biddlebaum, comb your hair, it’s falling into your eyes,” commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks.´´ S. Anderson’s, “Hands” W. Faulkner’s, “Barn Burning” E. Hemingway’s, “Hills like White Elephants” E. Wharton’s, “Roman Fever”.
The author and the title: ´´Wing Biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by a ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself as in any way a part of the life of the town where he had lived for twenty years. Among all the people of Winesburg but one had come close to him. With George Willard, son of Tom Willard, the proprietor of the New Willard House, he had formed something like a friendship. George Willard was the reporter on the Winesburg Eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked out along the highway to Wing Biddlebaum’s house. Now as the old man walked up and down on the veranda, his hands moving nervously about, he was hoping that George Willard would come and spend the evening with him. After the wagon containing the berry pickers had passed, he went across the field through the tall mustard weeds and climbing a rail fence peered anxiously along the road to the town. For a moment he stood thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, ran back to walk again upon the porch on his own house.´´ S. Anderson’s, “Hands” E. Wharton’s, “Roman Fever” W. Faulkner’s, “Barn Burning” F.S. Fitzgerald’s, `` The Great Gatsby'' .
The author and the title: ´´In the presence of George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum, who for twenty years had been the town mystery, lost something of his timidity, and his shadowy personality, submerged in a sea of doubts, came forth to look at the world. With the young reporter at his side, he ventured in the light of day into Main Street or strode up and down on the rickety front porch of his own house, talking excitedly. The voice that had been low and trembling became shrill and loud. The bent figure straightened. With a kind of wriggle, like a fish returned to the brook by the fisherman, Biddlebaum the silent began to talk, striving to put into words the ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long years of silence. Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. The slender expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression.´´ E. Wharton’s, “Roman Fever” E. Hemingway’s, “Hills like White Elephants” S. Anderson’s, “Hands” F.S. Fitzgerald’s, ´´The Great Gatsby´´ .
The author and the title: ´´The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. Some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads. When he talked to George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on the walls of his house. The action made him more comfortable. If the desire to talk came to him when the two were walking in the fields, he sought out a stump or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding busily talked with renewed ease.`` E. Hemingway’s, “Hills like White Elephants” S. Anderson’s, “Hands” W. Faulkner’s, “Barn Burning” F.S. Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby .
The author and the title: ´´The story of Wing Biddlebaum’s hands is worth a book in itself. Sympathetically set forth it would tap many strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. It is a job for a poet. In Winesburg the hands had attracted attention merely because of their activity. With them Wing Biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and forty quarts of strawberries in a day. They became his distinguishing feature, the source of his fame. Also they made more grotesque an already grotesque and elusive individuality. Winesburg was proud of the hands of Wing Biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was proud of Banker White’s new stone house and Wesley Moyer’s bay stallion, Tony Tip, that had won the two-fifteen trot at the fall races in Cleveland.´´ S. Anderson’s, “Hands” F.S. Fitzgerald’s, ´´The Great Gatsby´´ E. Hemingway’s, “Hills like White Elephants” W. Faulkner’s, “Barn Burning”.
The author and the title: ´´As for George Willard, he had many times wanted to ask about the hands. At times an almost overwhelming curiosity had taken hold of him. He felt that there must be a reason for their strange activity and their inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing respect for Wing Biddlebaum kept him from blurting out the questions that were often in his mind.´´ W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants” S. Anderson’s “Hands”.
The author and the title: ´´Once he had been on the point of asking. The two were walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. All afternoon Wing Biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. By a fence he had stopped and beating like a giant woodpecker upon the top board had shouted at George Willard, condemning his tendency to be too much influenced by the people about him. “You are destroying yourself,” he cried. “You have the inclination to be alone and to dream and you are afraid of dreams. You want to be like others in town here. You hear them talk and you try to imitate them.” S. Anderson’s, “Hands” W. Faulkner’s, “Barn Burning” E. Wharton’s, “Roman Fever” F.S. Fitzgerald’s, ´´The Great Gatsby´´ .
The author and the title: ´´On the grassy bank Wing Biddlebaum had tried again to drive his point home. His voice became soft and reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a dream. Out of the dream Wing Biddlebaum made a picture for George Willard. In the picture men lived again in a kind of pastoral golden age. Across a green open country came clean-limbed young men, some afoot, some mounted upon horses. In crowds the young men came to gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them.´´ E. Wharton’s, “Roman Fever” S. Anderson’s, “Hands” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants”.
The author and the title: ´´Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For once he forgot the hands. Slowly they stole forth and lay upon George Willard’s shoulders. Something new and bold came into the voice that talked. “You must try to forget all you have learned,” said the old man. “You must begin to dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices.” Pausing in his speech, Wing Biddlebaum looked long and earnestly at George Willard. His eyes glowed. Again he raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of horror swept over his face. With a convulsive movement of his body, Wing Biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets. Tears came to his eyes. “I must be getting along home. I can talk no more with you,” he said nervously.´´ E. Hemingway’s, “Hills like White Elephants” S. Anderson’s, “Hands” E. Wharton’s, “Roman Fever” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning”.
The author and the title: ´´Without looking back, the old man had hurried down the hillside and across a meadow, leaving George Willard perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. With a shiver of dread the boy arose and went along the road toward town. “I’ll not ask him about his hands,” he thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had seen in the man’s eyes. “There’s something wrong, but I don’t want to know what it is. His hands have something to do with his fear of me and of everyone.” And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly into the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder story of the influence for which the hands were but fluttering pennants of promise.´´ W. Faulkner’s, “Barn Burning” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” F.S. Fitzgerald’s ´´The Great Gatsby´´ S. Anderson’s “Hands”.
The author and the title: ´´And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly into the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder story of the influence for which the hands were but fluttering pennants of promise. In his youth Wing Biddlebaum had been a school teacher in a town in Pennsylvania. He was not then known as Wing Biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of Adolph Myers. As Adolph Myers he was much loved by the boys of his school. Adolph Myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of youth. He was one of those rare, little-understood men who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a lovable weakness. In their feeling for the boys under their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of women in their love of men.´´ S. Anderson’s “Hands” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants” F.S. Fitzgerald’s ¨The Great Gatsby¨.
The author and the title: ´´And yet that is but crudely stated. It needs the poet there. With the boys of his school, Adolph Myers had walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream. Here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. As he talked his voice became soft and musical. There was a caress in that also. In a way the voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the hair were a part of the schoolmaster’s effort to carry a dream into the young minds. By the caress that was in his fingers he expressed himself. He was one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralized. Under the caress of his hands doubt and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and they began also to dream.´´ F.S. Fitzgerald’s ´´The Great Gatsby ´´ W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” S. Anderson’s “Hands” E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants”.
The author and the title: ´´And then the tragedy. A half-witted boy of the school became enamored of the young master. In his bed at night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning went forth to tell his dreams as facts. Strange, hideous accusations fell from his loose-hung lips. Through the Pennsylvania town went a shiver. Hidden, shadowy doubts that had been in men’s minds concerning Adolph Myers were galvanized into beliefs. The tragedy did not linger. Trembling lads were jerked out of bed and questioned. “He put his arms about me,” said one. “His fingers were always playing in my hair,” said another. ´´ E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” S. Anderson’s “Hands”.
The author and the title: ´´One afternoon a man of the town, Henry Bradford, who kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. Calling Adolph Myers into the school yard he began to beat him with his fists. As his hard knuckles beat down into the frightened face of the schoolmaster, his wrath became more and more terrible. Screaming with dismay, the children ran here and there like disturbed insects. “I’ll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you beast,” roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating the master, had begun to kick him about the yard.´´ S. Anderson’s “Hands” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants”.
The author and the title: ´´Adolph Myers was driven from the Pennsylvania town in the night. With lanterns in their hands a dozen men came to the door of the house where he lived alone and commanded that he dress and come forth. It was raining and one of the men had a rope in his hands. They had intended to hang the schoolmaster, but something in his figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him escape. As he ran away into the darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster into the darkness.´´ E. Hemingway’s “Hills like White Elephants” S. Anderson’s “Hands” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning”.
The author and the title: ´´For twenty years Adolph Myers had lived alone in Winesburg. He was but forty but looked sixty-five. The name of Biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a freight station as he hurried through an eastern Ohio town. He had an aunt in Winesburg, a black-toothed old woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until she died. He had been ill for a year after the experience in Pennsylvania, and after his recovery worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly about and striving to conceal his hands. Although he did not understand what had happened he felt that the hands must be to blame. Again and again the fathers of the boys had talked of the hands. “Keep your hands to yourself,” the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with fury in the schoolhouse yard.´´ W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” S. Anderson’s “Hands” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” Z.N. Hurston’s “Sweat.
The author and the title:´´ Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, Wing Biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost in the grey shadows. Going into his house he cut slices of bread and spread honey upon them. When the rumble of the evening train that took away the express cars loaded with the day’s harvest of berries had passed and restored the silence of the summer night, he went again to walk upon the veranda. In the darkness he could not see the hands and they became quiet. Although he still hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the medium through which he expressed his love of man, the hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the night. A few stray white bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest engaged in some service of his church. The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade after decade of his rosary.´´ Z.N. Hurston’s “Sweat S. Anderson’s “Hands” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” W. Faulkner’s “Barn Burning”.
The author and the title: ´´We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.´´ T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” L. Hughes’ “I, Too” R. Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” W. Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” .
The author and the title: ´´Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer— Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom´´ T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” E. Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” W. C. Williams’ “This is Just to Say” R. Frost’s “After Apple-Picking”.
The author and the title: ´´This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone.´´ R. Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” L. Hughes’ “I, Too” W. C. Williams’ “This is Just to Say” .
The author and the title: ´´The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.´´ W. C. Williams’ “This is Just to Say” T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” R. Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” W. Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” .
The author and the title: ´´Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.´´ T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” L. Hughes’ “I, Too” W. Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” E. Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” .
The author and the title: ´´I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold´´ William Carlos Williams’ “This is Just to Say” Wallace Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” Robert Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” .
The author and the title: ´´The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.´´ Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” Wallace Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” Robert Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” William Carlos Williams’ “This is Just to Say” .
The author and the title: ´´The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures. People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches Tigers In red weather.´´ William Carlos Williams’ “This is Just to Say” Wallace Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” Robert Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” .
Author and title: ´´My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break.´´ Robert Frost, “After Apple-Picking” William Carlos Williams, “This is Just to Say” Ezra Pound, “In a Station of the Metro” L. Hughes, “I, Too”.
Author and title: ´´But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.´´ L. Hughes, “I, Too” Robert Frost, “After Apple-Picking” T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men” Wallace Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock” .
Author and title: ´´For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.´´ Ezra Pound, “In a Station of the Metro” William Carlos Williams, “This is Just to Say” Robert Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” .
Author and title: ´´The store in which the justice of the Peace's court was sitting smelled of cheese. The boy, crouched on his nail keg at the back of the crowded room, knew he smelled cheese, and more: from where he sat he could see the ranked shelves close-packed with the solid, squat, dynamic shapes of tin cans whose labels his stomach read, not from the lettering which meant nothing to his mind but from the scarlet devils and the silver curve of fish - this, the cheese which he knew he smelled and the hermetic meat which his intestines believed he smelled coming in intermittent gusts momentary and brief between the other constant one, the smell and sense just a little of fear because mostly of despair and grief, the old fierce pull of blood. He could not see the table where the Justice sat and before which his father and his father's enemy (our enemy he thought in that despair; ourn! mine and hisn both! He's my father!) stood, but he could hear them, the two of them that is, because his father had said no word yet: "But what proof have you, Mr. Harris?" "I told you. The hog got into my corn. I caught it up and sent it back to him. He had no fence that would hold it. I told him so, warned him. The next time I put the hog in my pen. When he came to get it I gave him enough wire to patch up his pen. The next time I put the hog up and kept it. I rode down to his house and saw the wire I gave him still rolled on to the spool in his yard. I told him he could have the hog when he paid me a dollar pound fee. That evening a nigger came with the dollar and got the hog. He was a strange nigger. He said, 'He say to tell you wood and hay kin burn.' I said, 'What?' 'That whut he say to tell you,' the nigger said. 'Wood and hay kin burn.' That night my barn burned. I got the stock out but I lost the barn." William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” Ernest Hemingway, “Hills like White Elephants” E. Wharton’s “Roman Fever” Z.N. Hurston, ´´Sweat´´.
Author and title:´´ "Where is the nigger? Have you got him?" "He was a strange nigger, I tell you. I don't know what became of him." "But that's not proof. Don't you see that's not proof?" "Get that boy up here. He knows." For a moment the boy thought too that the man meant his older brother until Harris said, "Not him. The little one. The boy," and, crouching, small for his age, small and wiry like his father, in patched and faded jeans even too small for him, with straight, uncombed, brown hair and eyes gray and wild as storm scud, he saw the men between himself and the table part and become a lane of grim faces, at the end of which he saw the justice, a shabby, collarless, graying man in spectacles, beckoning him. He felt no floor under his bare feet; he seemed to walk beneath the palpable weight of the grim turning faces. His father, stiff in his black Sunday coat donned not for the trial but for the moving, did not even look at him. He aims for me to lie, he thought, again with that frantic grief and despair. And I will have to do hit´´ have to do hit. Z.N. Hurston, “Sweat´´ E. Wharton, “Roman Fever” William Faulkner, “Barn Burning” F.S. Fitzgerald, ´´The Great Gatsby´´.
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