Fifteen: 'Overcoat' by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol

~Overcoat~

The text of the story is given here:

http://www.classicreader.com/book/2026/1/

Fourteen: 'The Falling Girl' by Dino Buzzati

Dino Buzzati

Dino Buzzati was a master fantasist of the twentieth century who is famous in Italian Literature. His specialty is that he combines realism with fantasy.

~The Falling Girl~

The text of the story is given below:

https://docs.google.com/document/edit?id=1tb7kGoJ3mhP0NLlMeWj7ugYJGpJt1Ly3C5o2uHCQj4k&hl=en&pli=1

NOTES

http://wwwrizafallinggirl.blogspot.com/2010/04/critic-on-buzzatis-falling-girl.html

http://cafeirreal.alicewhittenburg.com/review2c.htm

Thirteen: 'The Revolver' by Emilia Pardo Bazan

Emilia Pardo Bazan

(1857-1921)

Spain

Although not widely known in the United States, Emilia Pardo Bazan is a central and influential figure in nineteenth-century Spanish literature, the author of more than twenty novels as well as a number of short stories and critical essays on literary and other subjects. The only child of titled Spanish royalty, Pardo Bazan inherited the title of Countess. Yet despite her aristocratic background, her political views were scarcely traditional. An early feminist, she expressed in a variety of writings her profound objections to the oppressive conditions for women in Spanish society. Her fiction is in the tradition of the naturalism practiced by her French counterparts, Emile Zola and Gustave Flaubert, although Pardo Bazan distinguished Spanish naturalism as less deterministic than that of her French contemporaries.

'The Revolver' first appeared in a Spanish newspaper.

~The Revolver~

In a burst of confidence, one of those provoked by the familiarity and companionship of bathing resorts, the woman suffering from heart trouble told me about her illness, with all the details of chokings, violent palpitations, dizziness, fainting spells, and collapses, in which one sees the final hour approach... As she spoke, I looked her over carefully. She was a woman of about thirty-five or thirty-six, maimed by suffering at least I thought so, but, on close scrutiny, I began to suspect that there was something more than the physical in her ruin. As a matter of fact, she spoke and expressed herself like someone who had suffered a good deal, and I know that the ills of the body, when not of imminent gravity, are usually not enough to produce such a wasting away, such extreme dejection. And, noting how the broad leaves of the plane tree, touched with carmine by the artistic hand of autumn, fell to the ground majestically and lay stretched out like severed hands, I remarked, in order to gain her confidence, on the passing of all life, the melancholy of the transitoriness of everything...

“Nothing is anything,” she answered, understanding at once that not curiosity but compassion was beckoning at the gates of her spirit. “Nothing is anything... unless we ourselves convert that nothing into something. Would to God we could see everything, always, with the slight but sad emotion produced in us by the fall of this foliage on the sand.”

The sickly flush of her cheeks depened, and then I realized that she had probably been very beautiful, although her beauty was effaced and gone, like the colors of a fine picture over which is passed cotton saturated with alcohol. Her blond, silky hair showed traces of ash, premature gray hair. Her features had withered away; her complexion especially revealed those disturbances of the blood which are slow poisonings, decompositions of the organism. Her soft blue eyes, veined with black, must have once been attractive, but now they were disfigured by something worse than age, a kind of aberration, which at certain moments lent them the glitter of blindness.

We grew silent, but my way of contemplating her expressed my pity so plainly that she, sighing for a chance to unburden her heavy heart, made up her mind, and stopping from time to time to breathe and regain her strength, she told me the strange story.

“When I was married, I was very much in love... My husband was, compared to me, advanced in years; he was bordering on forty, and I was only nineteen. My temperament was gay and lively; I retained a childlike disposition, and when he was not home I would devote my time to singing, playing the piano, chatting and laughing with girl-friends who came to see me and envied me my happiness, my brilliant marriage, my devoted husband, and my brilliant social position.

“This lasted a year- the wonderful year of the honeymoon. The following spring, on our wedding anniversary, I began to notice that Reinaldo's disposition was changing. He was often in a gloomy mood, and, without my knowing the cause, he spoke to me harshly, and had outbursts of anger. But It was not long before I understood the origins of his transformation. Reinaldo had conceived a violent, irrational jealousy, a jealousy without objection or cause, which, for that very reason, was doubly cruel and difficult to cure.

“If we went out together, he was watchful lest people stare at me or tell me, in passing, one of those silly things people say to young women; if he went out alone, he was suspicious of what I was doing in the house, and of the people who came to see me; if I went out alone, his suspicions and suppositions were even more defamatory...

“If I proposed, pleadingly, that we stay home together, he was watchful of my saddened expression, of my supposed boredom, of my work, of an instant when, passing in front of the window, I happened to look outside... He was watchful, above all, when he noticed that my birdlike disposition, my good, childlike humor, had disappeared, and that on many afternoons, when I turned on the lights, he found my skin shining with the damp, ardent traces of tears. Deprived of my innocent amusement, now separated from my friends and relatives, and from my own family, because Reinaldo interpreted as treacherous artifices the desire to communicate and look at faces other than his, I often wept, and did not respond to Reinaldo's transports of passion with the sweet abandonment of earlier times.

“One day, after one of the usual bitter scenes, my husband said:

“ 'Flora, I may be a madman, but I am not a fool. I have alienated your love, and although perhaps you would not have thought of deceiving me, in the future, without being able to remedy it, you would. Now I shall never again be your beloved. The swallows that have left do not return. But because, unfortunately, I love you more each day, and love you without peace, with eagerness and fever, I wish to point out that I have thought of a way which will prevent questions, quarrels, or tears between us-- and once and for all you will know what our future will be.'

“Speaking thus, he took me by the arm and led me toward the bedroom.

“I went trembling; cruel presentiments froze me. Reinaldo opened the drawer of the small inlaid cabinet where he kept tobacco, a watch, and handkerchiefs and showed me a large revolver, a sinister weapon.

“ 'Here,' he said, 'is your guarantee that in the future your life will be peaceful and pleasant. I shall never again demand an accounting of how you spend your time, or of your friends, or of your amusements. You are free, free as the air. But the day I see something that wounds me to the quick... that day, I swear by my mother! Without complaints or scenes, or the slightest sign that I am displeased, oh no, not that! I will get up quietly at night, take the weapon, put it to your temple and you will wake up in eternity. Now you have been warned...'

“As for me, I was in a daze, unconscious. It was necessary to send for the doctor, in as much as the fainting spell lasted. When I recovered consciousness and remembered, the convulsion took place. I must point out that I have a mortal fear of firearms; a young brother of mine died of an accidental shot. My eyes, staring wildly, would not leave the drawer of the cabinet that held the revolver.

“I could not doubt, from Reinaldo's tone and the look on his face, that he was prepared to carry out his threat, and knowing also how easily his imagination grew confused, I began to consider myself as dead. As a matter of fact, Reinaldo kept his promise, and left me complete mistress of myself, without directing the slightest censure my way, or showing, even by a look, that he was opposed to anything of my wishes or disapproved of my actions; but that itself frightened me, because it indicated the strength and tyranny of a resolute will... and, victim of a terror which everyday grew more profound, I remained motionless, not daring to take a step I would always see the steely reflection of the gun barrel.

“At night, insomnia kept my eyes open, and I imagined I felt the metallic cold of a steel circle on my temple; or if I got to sleep, I woke up startled with palpitations that made my heart seem to leap from my breast, because I dreamed that an awful report was ripping apart the bones of my skull and blowing my brains out, dashing them against the wall... and this lasted four years, four years without a single peaceful moment, when I never took a step without fearing that that step might give rise to tragedy.”

“And how did that horrible situation end?” I asked, in odrer to bring her story to a close, because I saw her gasping for breath.

“It ended... with Reinaldo, who was thrown by a horse, and had some internal injury, being killed on the spot.

“Then, and only then, I knew that I still loved him, and I mourned him quite sincerely, although he was my executioner, and a systematic one at that!”

“And did you pick up the revolver to throw it out the window?”

“You'll see,” she murmured. “Something rather extraordinary happened. I sent Reinaldo's manservant to remove the revolver from my room, because in my dreams I continued to see the shot and feel the chill on my temple... and after he carried out the order, the manservant came to tell me: 'Senora, there was no cause for alarm... this revolver wasn't loaded.'

“ 'No, Senora, and it looks to me as though it never was... As a matter of fact, the poor master never got around to buying the cartridges. Why, I would even ask him at times if he wanted me to go to the gunsmith's and get them, but he didn't answer, and then he never spoke of the matter again.'”

“And so,” added the sufferer from heart disease, “an unloaded revolver shot me, not in the head, but in the center of my heart, and believe me when I tell you that, in spite of digitalis and baths and all the remedies, the bullet is unsparing...”

[1895]

Translated by

ANGEL FLORES

NOTES

Few Important Lines:

1. “Nothing is anything,” she answered. “Nothing is anything... unless we ourselves convert that nothing into something.”
2. I began to suspect that there was something more than the physical in her ruin. As a matter of fact, she spoke and expressed herself like someone who had suffered a good deal, and I know that the ills of the body, when not of imminent gravity, are usually not enough to produce such a wasting away, such extreme dejection.
3. “an unloaded revolver shot me, not in the head, but in the center of my heart, and believe me when I tell you that, in spite of digitalis and baths and all the remedies, the bullet is unsparing...”

Some Important Points:

The story is written from first person point of view but the narrator is the listener and Flora is the one telling her story.

The lines 'Nothing is anything' suggest that perhaps Flora exaggerated her situation with her husband and mistook his actions for the worst. Perhaps her husband was not overly possessive and just a little concerned and her own imagination led her to believe the worst. Nothing is the way it seems and we ourselves turn it into something. Flora's own perceptions are important here.

After reading the story the readers realize there was a lack of communication between the couple. Flora loved her husband very much and her husband loved her back but they never tried to solve their differences through dialogue and understanding. Flora never seemed to complain or talk to her husband about his change of behaviour and Reinaldo too, perhaps never voiced his concerns or doubts about her. In this way both of them did not get a chance to explain their actions to the other.

People are not born bad, but certain situations and their reactions turn them into bad people. Perhaps Reinaldo was not a cruel and ruthless possessive lover, but we are unable to be sure because the story is one-sided. We do not get to hear it from Reinaldo's point of view. We only understand Flora's doubts, fears and imaginations. There is a possibility that Flora must have done something to pique Reinaldo's doubts about her actions. Perhaps she was too liberal and carefree which was intolerable for a man of Reinaldo's age and disposition. Therefore, it is not correct to label the two characters on the basis of this one-sided story.

Trust is very important in relationships and lack of trust leads to downfall of even the most sacred bond of marriage.

Nothing is good if it is in excess. Reinaldo's excess of love for his wife lead to possessiveness and jealousy. According to Flora, Reinaldo wished she would look at only his face and alienate herself from everyone else.

When something is lost only then one realizes the worth of that thing. Flora realized how much she was in love with her husband only when he died. She should have valued his love and taken him into confidence through her love and trust. It is the characteristic of a good wife that she considers the likes and dislikes of her husband and tries not to upset him through her actions. Flora should have considered Reinaldo's tastes and molded herself accordingly for a harmonious living. Reinaldo too, should have trusted his wife and tried to tolerate things which make her happy.

Your perceptions matter the most in any situation. Both thought that they were not loved by the other, but in the end it is made clear that they both loved each other very much. But they did not share their assumptions. It was very explicit that Reinaldo's threat was an empty threat, Flora should have realized that if he had not made a move to harm her in four years he never really meant to hurt her at all. She should have approached him and talked to him reasonably through sensible dialogue about their situation. She should have expressed her mortal fear of firearms and tried to reduce the distance between them.

Age could be taken as a factor for the differences between the couple. Being a teenager Flora's activities and interests were contrary to those of a forty year old man who has lived his life and gathered enough experiences to make him a sober individual. Reinaldo should have known that a woman of Flora's age is bound to have social habits and he should have given her enough time to mold herself into the woman he wanted her to be. Flora was too busy carrying on with her lifestyle to realize that perhaps some of her habits were disliked by Reinaldo. The lack of understanding and high expectations on both sides can be attributed to an age barrier.

The 'revolver' is a symbol of fear, danger and killing. From the first sight of the revolver Flora's inner carefree and birdlike personality died and fear took its place. The revolver also represents loss; loss of confidence on part of Flora, loss of love, trust and loss of desires and dreams. For Flora it was a symbol of death and fear of death, considering her past experience about the weapon. It was also the symbol of death of their marriage when Reinaldo died. In the end it represented an empty threat from Reinaldo as an empty weapon. Flora lost her health after she was exposed to the weapon by Reinaldo. She lost her fairness, her youth, her liveliness, her charm and her beauty. Everything withered away and she slowly became an ailing woman.

Main Themes:

• Different facets of love.
• Age Barrier.
• People and their responses to different situations.
• Psychological Analysis of married couples.
• Lack of communication.
• Jealousy and possessiveness.

Questions:

1. What is the exact nature of Flora's illness? Why does she continue to suffer?
2. How would you describe the relationship between Flora and Reinaldo?
3. What is the theme of the story?
4. What does the Revolver symbolize in the story?
5. How do the images of the story contribute to its tone and theme?
   
   
   Credit-Muneeza Rafiq

Twelve: 'The Gold-Legged Frog' by Khamsing Srinawk

Khamsing Srinawk

(b. 1930)

THAILAND

Khamsing Srinawk was born in 1930 in a small village in northeastern Thailand. Although his family was poor and uneducated, he was encouraged by an uncle who was a monk to pursue his intellectual interests. Before pursuing his literary career in earnest, he served as a forest ranger in northern Thailand and as an assistant to a group of anthropological researchers in a village near Bangkok. His first collection of short stories No Barriers, was published in 1958; The Politician and Other Stories appeared in 1972.

~The Gold-legged Frog~

The sun blazed as if determined to crisp every living thing in the broad fields. Now and again the tall, straight, isolated sabang and payom trees let go some of their dirty yellow leaves. He sank exhausted against a tree trunk with his dark blue shirt wet with sweat. The expanse around him expressed total dryness. He stared at the tufts of dull grass and bits of straw spun in a column to the sky. The brown earth sucked up into the air cast a dark pall over everything. A whirlwind. He recalled the old people had told him this was the portent of drought, want, disaster and death, and he was afraid. He was now anxious to get home; he could see the tips of bamboo thickets surrounding the house far ahead looking like blades of grass. Bur he hesitated. A moment before reaching the shade of the tree he felt his ears buzz and his eyes blur and knew it meant giddiness and sunstroke. He looked at the soles of his feet blistered from the burning sandy ground and became indescribably angry – angry with the weather capable of such endless torture. In the morning the cold had pierced his bones, but now it was so hot he felt his head would break into bits and pieces. As he remembered the biting cold of the morning, he thought again of his little son.

That same morning he and two of his small children went out into the dry paddy fields near the house to look for frogs for the morning meal. The air was so chilly the two children on either side of him shivered as they stopped to look for frogs hiding in the cracks of the parched earth. Each time they saw two bright eyes in a deep crack, they would shout, “Pa, here's another one. Pa, this crack has two. Gold-legged ones! Hurry, Pa.”

He dashed from place to place as the voices called him, prying up the dry clods with his hoe. He caught some of the frogs immediately, but a few jumped away as soon as he began digging. It was the children's job to chase and pounce on them. Many got away. Some jumped into different fissures obliging him to pry up a new cake of earth. If his luck was good, besides the frog, he would find a land snail or a razor clam buried waiting for the rains. He would take these as well.

The air was warming and already he had enough frogs to eat with the morning rice. The sound of drumming, the village chief's call for a meeting, sounded faintly from the village. Vauge anger again spilled over as his thoughts returned to that moment. If only he had gone home then the poor child would be all right now. It was really the last crack. As soon as he poked it, the ground broke apart. A fully grown gold-legged frog as big as a thumb leaped past the bigger child. The younger raced after it for about twelve yards when it dodged into the deep hoofprint of a water buffalo. The child groped after it. And then he was shocked almost senseless by the trembling cry of his boy, “Pa, a snake, a snake bit my hand.”

A cobra spread its hood, hissing. When finally able to act, the father with all his strenght brought the handle of his hoe three times down on the back of the serpent leaving its tail twitching. He carried his child and the basket of frogs home without forgetting to tell the other to drag the snake along as well.

On the way back his son cried softly and moaned, beating his chest with his fists and complaining he could not breathe. At home, the father summoned all the faith-healers and herbalists whose names he could think of and the turmoil began.

“Chop up a frog, roast it, and put it on the wound,” a neighbour called out.

When another shouted, “Give him the toasted liver of the snake to eat,” he hurriedly slit open the snake to look for the liver while his wife sat by crying.

The later it got, the bigger the crowd. On hearing the news, all the neighbours attending the village chief's meeting joined the others. One of them told him he had to go to the District Office in town that day because the village chief told them it was the day the government was going to hand out money to those with five or more children, and he was one who had just five. It was a new shock.

“Can't you see my boy's gasping out his life? How can I go?”

“What difference will it make? You've called in a lot of doctors, all of them expert.”

“Go, you fool. It's two hundret baht they're giving. You've never had that much in your life-time. Two hundred!”

“Leave this for a bit,” another added. “If the boy dies, you'll be out, that's all.”

“I won't go,” he yelled. “My child can't breathe and you tell me to go. Why can't they give it out some other day? It's true I've never had two hundred baht since I was born, but I'm not going. I'm not going.”

“Jail,” another interjected. “If you don't go, you simply go to jail. Whoever disobeyed the authorities? If they decided to give, you have to take, if not, jail.”

The word “jail” repeated like that affected him, but still, he resisted.

“Whatever it is, I said I'm not going. I don't want it. How can I leave him when he's dying?” He raised his voice. “I'm not going.”

“You go. Don't go against the government. We're subjects.” He turned to find the village chief standing grimly at his side. His voice dried up immediately.

“If I don't go, will it really be jail?” he asked.

“For sure,” the village chief replied sternly. “Maybe for life.”

That was all there was to it. Dazed, he asked the faith-healers and neighbours to take care of his son and left the house.

He reached the District Office almost at eleven and he found a group of his neighbours who had also come for the money sitting in a group. They told him to address the old deputy district officer which he did.

“I am Mr. Nark Na-ngarm, sir, I have come for money, the many children money.”

The deputy district officer raised his fat face to stare at him for a moment then spoke heavily. “Idiot, don't you have eyes to see people are working. Get out! Get out and wait outside.”

“Bur sir, my child is dying.” But he cut himself short when he thought perhaps if the official suspected that his child had died there would be trouble. The deputy officer looked down at his paper and went on scribbling. Nark dejectedly joined the group outside. “All one does is suffer, born a rice farmer and a subject,” he thought. “Poor and helpless, one's mouth stained from eating roots when the rice has run out, at the end of one's tether, you turn to the authorities only to be put down.” The official continued to write as if there were no groups of peasants waiting anxiously. A few minutes after twelve, he strode from the office but had the kindness to say a few words.

“It's noon already. Time for a break. Come back at one o'clock for it.”

Nark and his neighbours sat there waiting till one o'clock. The taciturn deputy on returning called them all to sit on the floor near him. He began by asking each of them why they had so many children. The awkward replies of the peasant brought guffaws from the other officials who turned to listen to the embarrassing answers. At last it had to be his turn.

“Who is Mr. Nark Na-ngarm?”

“I am, sir,” he responded with humility.

“And now why do we have such a lot of children?”

Several people tittered.

“Oh, when you're poor, sir...,” he burst out, his exasperation uncontrollable.

“What the hell's it got to do with being poor?” the deputy officer questioned in a voice that showed disappointment with the answer.

“So poor and no money to buy a blanket. The kids just keep coming.”

Instead of laughter, dead silence, finally broken by the dry voice of the blank-faced deputy, “Bah! This joker uses his wife for a blanket.”

The wind gusted again. The sabang and payom trees threw off a lot of leaves. The spears of sunlight still dazzled him. The whirlwind still hummed in the middle of the empty ricefield ahead. Nark left the shade of the tall tree and went through the flaming afternoon sunshine heading for his village.

“Hey, Nark...” The voice came from a group of villagers still some distance away. It was topped by another.

“You sure are lucky.” The words raised his spirits. He smiled a little before repeating expectantly, “How was I lucky, how?”

“The two hundred baht. You got it, didn't you?”

“I got it. It's right here.” He patted his pocket.

“What luck! You sure have good luck, Nark. One more day and you'd have been out by two hundred baht.”

[1958]

Translated by

DOMNERN GARDEN

NOTES

Meanings of Difficult Words:

1. Expanse: a wide, continuous area.
2. Portent: a sign of warning that a momentous or calamitous even is likely to happen.
3. Want: lack or be short of something essential.
4. Thickets: a dense group of bushes or trees.
5. Pry: enquire.
6. Fissure: a long narrow crack.
7. Hoe: a long-handled gardening tool with a thin metal blade, used mainly for weeding.
8. Baht: monetary unit of Thailand.
9. Dejected: sad or dispirited.
10. Taciturn: reserved or uncommunicative in speech, saying little.
11. Guffaw: a loud and hearty laugh.

Few Important Lines:

1. Whoever disobeyed the authorities? If they decide to give, you have to take, if not, jail.
2. “All one does is suffer, born a rice farmer and a subject,” he thought, “Poor and helpless, one's mouth stained from eating roots when the rice has run out, at the end of one's tether, you turn to the authorities only to be put down.”
3. “What luck! You sure have good luck, Nark. One more day and you'd have been out by two hundred baht.”

Important Points:

This story has a third-person perspective. The main character of the story is Nark, a rice farmer with five children and a poor economic status. He is a man who is helpless not because he is poor but because he does not have any authority and no representation. Poor people struggle very hard, just as Nark is shown working hard to get breakfast in the paddy fields. For them, survival is important. There are many ideas of superstitous belief and faiths in the village where Nark lives. It is a backward society, where ignorance about health, law and value of life is conspicuous.

It is a very hard life for the rice farmers, as an agricultural job requires dependence upon water, environment, seasons and proper growth of plantations. If there is a drought then there is nothing the farmers can do, and they become helpless. They run out of food and money.

Nark is maltreated by the authorities. The rich seem to have the authority to exploit, ridicule and mock the poor people. There writer is trying to highlight how the poor are manipulated, insulted and mentally tortured by those in power.

If the authorities have decided to help the poor then they are doing it in the worst possible way, they are making the poor lose their dignity and respect in order to get what they deserve. It is an act of cruelty and sadism.

The word “luck” used in the end of the story is ironic and paradoxical because it is luck that Nark got the money, but it was not actually good luck for him that he lost his son whom he loved very much.

For a poor rice farmer, suffering is not merely lack of money and lack of food in a hot season, it is the way they are treated by the people that adds to this misery.

“Money is not required to buy one necessity, of the soul.” - Thoreau.

The value of human life is shown in the story, when one is poor one is reduced to prioritizing money over life.

The gold-legged frog turned out to be a symbol of bad luck instead of good luck for Nark because it led to the death of his son.

Life is unpredictable, you can never judge what will happen next. Nark was not petty or shallow like the District Officer, he was the one who had a broad vision and who had more patience and tolerance, he was humbler and more respectful, therefore, one can say that Nark was metaphorically rich, and the Officer was poor.

Nark’s good luck:

He found a fully grown gold-legged frog.

Sometimes he found a land snail or a razor clam.

He had a snake to eat.

He had five children, so he was entitled to the 200 baht.

He got the money before his son died.

Nark’s bad luck:

His son was bitten by a snake when he chased the frog.

He had many children, because he was poor.

He lost his son.

Links are given for further analysis:

http://www.123helpme.com/view.asp?id=98783

http://openingworldshortstories.wikispaces.com/The+Gold-Legged+Frog

Main Themes:

• Suffering
• Poverty
• Corrupt Leadership
• Father/Son Relationship
• Luck and Misfortune
• Abuse of Power
• Conflict of Wealthy and Poor
• Role of Parents
• Limited Choices

Questions:

1. What is the conflict in the story? How does it reveal Nark's economic position and the limits of his choices?
2. In what way is the ending of the story ironic? How is “luck” defined?
3. How does the detailed descriptions of the setting contribute to your understanding of the exigencies of poverty faced by Nark's family and their neighbours?

Credit-Muneeza Rafiq

Eleven: 'The Street-Sweeping Show' by Feng Jicai

Feng Jicai

(b. 1942)

CHINA

Feng Jicai, born in Tianjin, China, began his first career as a painter but shifted to fiction when his “counter-revolutionary” art was unwelcome during China's Revolution of the 1960's and 1970's. For the same reasons, he could not publish his fiction until after the death of Mao Zedong in 1976. Now a prolific writer (though not yet widely translated), he currently resides in Tianjin with his wife and son and holds major positions in Chinese writers' professional organizations.

Feng still precipitates controversy with his writing, however. His translator, Susan Wilff Chen has noted that 'The Street-Sweeping Show', originally published in 1982, is not reprinted in any of Feng's collections of short stories, because it resembled a real-life incident so closely that it caused objections when it first appeared.

~The Street-Sweeping Show~

“National Cleanup Week starts today,” said Secretary Zhao, “and officials everywhere are going out to join in the street sweeping. Here's our list of participants-- all top city administrators and public figures. We've just had it mimeographed over at the office for your approval.”

He looked like a typical upper-echelon secretary; the collar of his well-worn, neatly pressed Mao suit was buttoned up military style; his complexion was pale; his glasses utilitarian. His gentle, deferential manner and pleasantly modulated voice concealed a shrewd, hard-driving personality.

The mayor pored over the list, as if the eighty names on it were those of people selected to go abroad. From time to time he glanced thoughtfully at the high white ceiling.

“Why isn't there anyone from the Women's Federation?” he asked.

Secretary Zhao thought for a moment. “Oh, you're right-- there isn't! We've got the heads of every office in the city-- the Athletic Committee, the Youth League Committee, the Federation of Trade Unions, the Federation of Literary and Art Circles-- even some famous university professors. The only group we forgot is the Women's Federation.”

“Women are the pillars of society. How can we leave out the women's representatives?” The mayor sounded smug rather than reproachful. Only a leader could think of everything. This was where true leadership ability came into play.

Secretary Zhao was reminded of the time when the mayor had pointed out that the fish course was missing from the menu of a banquet in honor of some foreign guests.

“Add two names from the Women's Federation, and make sure you get people in the positions of authority or who are proper representatives of the organization. 'International Working Women's Red Banner Pacesetters', 'Families of Martyrs' or 'Model Workers' could be fine.” Like an elementary school teacher returning a poor homework paper to his student, the mayor handed the incomplete list back to his secretary.

“Yes, your honor, I'll do it right away. A complete list will be useful the next time something like this comes up. And I must contact everyone at once. The street sweeping is scheduled for two this afternoon in Central Square. Will you be able to go?”

“Of course. As mayor of the city, I have to set an example.”

“The car will be at the gate for you at one-thirty. I'll go with you.”

“All right,” the mayor answered absentmindedly, scratching his forehead and looking away.

Secretary Zhao hurried out.

At one-thirty that afternoon the mayor was whisked to the square in his limousine. All office workers, shop clerks, students, housewives, and retirees were out sweeping the streets, and the air was thick with dust. Secretary Zhao hastily rolled up the window. Inside the car there was only a faint, pleasant smell of gasoline and leather.

At the square they pulled up beside a colorful assortment of limousines. In front of them a group of top city administrators had gathered to wait for the mayor's arrival. Someone had arranged for uniformed policemen to stand guard on all sides.

Secretary Zhao sprang out of the limousine and opened the door for his boss. The officials in the waiting crowd stepped forward with smiling faces to greet the mayor. Everyone knew him and hoped to be the first to shake his hand.

“Good afternoon-- oh, nice to see you--- good afternoon---” the mayor repeated as he shook hands with each of them.

An old policeman approached, followed by two younger ones pushing wheel-barrows full of big bamboo brooms. The old policeman selected one of the smaller, neater brooms and presented it respectfully to the mayor. When the other dignitaries had gotten their brooms, a marshal with a red armband led them all to the center of the square. Naturally the mayor walked at the head.

Groups of people had come from their workplaces to sweep the huge square. At the sight of this majestic, broom-carrying procession, with its marshal, police escort, and retinue of shutter-clicking photographers, they realized that they were in the presence of no ordinary mortals and gathered closer for a look. How extraordinary for a mayor to be sweeping the streets, thought Secretary Zhao, swelling with unconscious pride as he strutted along beside the mayor with his broom on his shoulder.

“Here we are,” the marshal said when they had reached the designated spot.

All eighty-two dignitaries began to sweep.

The swelling crowd of onlookers, which was kept back by a police cordon, was buzzing with excitement:

“Look, he's the one over there.”

“Which one? The one in black?”

“No. The bald fat one in blue.”

“Cut the chitchat!” barked a policeman,

The square was so huge that no one knew where to sweep. The concrete pavement was clean to begin with; they pushed what little grit there was back and forth with their big brooms. The most conspicuous piece of litter was a solitary popsicle wrapper, which they all pursued like children chasing a dragonfly.

The photographers surrounded the mayor. Some got down on one knee to shoot from below, while others ran from side to side trying to get a profile. Like a cloud in a thunderstorm, the mayor was constantly illuminated by silvery flashes. Then a man in a visored cap, with a video camera, approached Secretary Zhao.

“I'm from the TV station,” he said. “Would you please ask them to line up single file so they'll look neat on camera?”

Secretary Zhao consulted with the mayor, who agreed with this request. The dignitaries formed a long line and began to wield their brooms for the camera, regardless of whether there was any dirt on the ground.

The cameraman was about to start shooting, when he stopped and ran over to the mayor.

“I'm sorry, your honor,” he said, “but you're all going to have to face the other way because you've got your backs to the sun. And I'd also like the entire line to be reversed so that you're at the head.”

“All right,” the mayor agreed graciously, and he led his entourage, like a line of dragon dancers, in a clumsy turn-around. Once in place, everyone began sweeping again.

Pleased, the cameraman ran to the head of the line, pushed his cap up, and aimed at the mayor. “All right,” he said as the camera started to whir, “swing those brooms, all together now-- put your hearts into it-- that's it! Chin up please, your honor. Hold it-- that's fine-- all right!”

He stopped the camera, shook the mayor's hand, and thanked him for helping an ordinary reporter carry out his assignment.

“Let's call it a day,” the marshal said to secretary Zhao. Then he returned to the mayor. “You have victoriously accomplished your mission,” he said.

“Very good-- thank you for your trouble,” the mayor replied routinely, smiling and shaking hands again.

Some reporters came running up to the mayor. “Do you have any instructions, your honor?” asked a tall, thin, aggressive one.

“Nothing in particular.” The mayor paused for a moment. “Everyone should pitch in to clean up our city.”

The reporters scribbled his precious words in their notebooks.

The policeman brought the wheel-barrows back, and everyone returned their brooms. Secretary Zhao replaced the mayor's for him.

It was time to go. The mayor shook hands with everyone again.

“Good-bye-- good-bye-- good-bye--”

The others waited until the mayor had gotten into his limousine before getting into theirs.

The mayor's limousine delivered him to his house, where his servant had drawn his bathwater and set out scented soap and fresh towels. He enjoyed a leisurely bath and emerged from the bathroom with rosy skin and clean clothes, leaving his grime and exhaustion behind him in the tub.

As he descended the stairs to eat dinner, his grandson hurriedly led him into the living room.

“Look, Granddad, you're on TV!”

There he was on the television screen, like an actor, putting on a show of sweeping the street. He turned away and gave his grandson a casual pat on the shoulder.

“It's not worth watching. Let's go have dinner.”

[1982]

Translated by

SUSAN WILFF CHEN

NOTES

Meanings of Difficult Words:

1. Echelon: a level of rank in profession.
2. Utilitarian:
3. Deferential: respectful.
4. Reproachful: disapproval.
5. Mao: Mao ZeDong (also transliterated as Mao Tse-Tung) (1893-1976) Communist leader and chairman of the Communist party of the People's Republic of Chine from 1949 until his death. Mao led the cultural revolution, 1966 to 1976, including the institution of a uniform code of dress.

Few Important Lines:

1. How extraordinary for a mayor to be sweeping the streets, thought Secretary Zhao, swelling with unconscious pride as he strutted along beside the mayor with his broom on his shoulder.
2. He stopped the camera, shook the mayor's hand, and thanked him for helping an ordinary reporter carry out his assignment.
3. “Everyone should pitch in to clean up our city.”
4. There he was on the television screen, like an actor, putting on a show of sweeping the street. There he was on the television screen, like an actor, putting on a show of sweeping the street.

Important Points:

“Nothing is politically right which is morally wrong.” - Daniel O' Connell.

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” - George Orwell.

There is a theme of 'class distinction' in the story. The government wanted to spread the message of cleanliness. The people in power have the authority to influence the society for better or for worse. So the readers start to admire the mayor for arranging this event and paying such attention to cleanliness of the city. However, as the readers continue to read further, they realize that it was just a mind game and a show to fool the public. The feelings the readers had about the mayor have now been reversed and his image has been shattered. Self-appraisal was the main purpose of the mayor. All that mattered was putting up a show and making people think you are different than other leaders.

We can compare the themes of “The Chief Guest” by Akhtar Jamal in this regard. The focus was on importance of beauty and power. The psychology of the powerful people is shown in this story. In “The Chief Guest” the ordinary people wished to be associated with the powerful people for their own gains. But here, the mayor is controlling the innocent people. The ideology is to control the masses so that they never challenge the authorities. We are deceived by the government. The mayor is exploiting his position and status to fool the people.

Irony of the story is that the place did not need any cleaning where the mayor and his dignitaries were sweeping. Another irony is the last line of the story said by the mayor, that it was not worth watching. The mayor himself knows that he is not worth watching, but the public is unaware.

We can associate with this story, we feel as if we are similar to the masses shown in the story. The purpose of the story is to make people realize what their response should be to such people and how they should act in such a scenario. The mayor simply wanted to create an image of himself of a leader who is like the common people, the civilians, that he is no different than them.

There is a tug-of-war between the powerful and the powerless. People who are in power have an agenda, they only want to dominate and remain on the top, and the powerless become united to overthrow the powerful and change the dominance status in their favor. This is what brings revolutions in great nations. Power is simply a tool in the hands of the powerful. It becomes a controlling factor. It is a phenomenon that changes people. But the masses always have the strength of number. We civilians are being exploited at every level, be it social, economic, political or emotional.

The story is coaxing the readers to think that what should be their response? Do they need to challenge such a leader, raise their voices against him? Or simply create awareness and realize what is happening around them to make a better and keen decision in the future?

This story has a universal appeal because it touches an issue that happens everywhere and is becoming commonplace every day. We need to understand why this is happening.

The Role of Media: The mayor was projected just the way he wanted it to be. Photographer was simply grinding his own axe. The media is a powerful tool that changes and shapes our ideas, it shows the agendas of the authorities. The whole show had been photographed for the public to see, media did not show the truth. They are supporting and projecting the same idea of power. Media can be compared to the people in “The Chief Guest” who wished to invite the former student.

A link is given for further analysis:

http://eng250summer2007.wikispaces.com/The+Street-Sweeping+Show

Questions:

1. What is the actual purpose of the street-sweeping ceremony?
2. What does the story suggest about the public rituals? About bureaucracy? About the media's role in such rituals? Compare this story with Isabel Allende's “And of Clay We Are Created.”
3. What is the significance of the title?
4. Why does the mayor refuse to watch the ceremony on television?

Credit-Muneeza Rafiq

Ten: 'Half a Day' by Naguib Mahfouz

~Half a Day~

Naguib Mahfouz

(b. 1911)

EGYPT

Naguib Mahfouz was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1988. He was the first Arab writer to win the prestigious award and only the second from the African continent. A prolific writer, by the time of the Nobel Prize Mahfouz had written nearly 25 novels and a dozen volumes of short stories, in addition to several plays and screenplays.

The text of the story is given here:

http://www.reginamarsal.com/naguib_mahfouz3.htm

NOTES

Meanings of Difficult Words:

1. Tarboosh: a tassled cap often worn by Muslim men and made from felt or cloth.
2. Unmarred: good, acceptable.
3. Fortress: stronghold, barrier.
4. Intricate: complicated, elaborate.
5. Vaulting: jumping over, springing.
6. Exertion: hard work, labour.
7. Perseverance: diligence, hard work.
8. Gallantly: bravely, courageously.

Few Important Lines:

1. Living beings were drawn to other living beings.
2. Dust-laden winds and unexpected accidents came about suddenly, so we had to be watchful, at the ready, and very patient.
3. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these vehicles invade it? And when did all these hordes of humanity come to rest upon its surface?
4. “Let the fire take its pleasure in what it consumes.”

Important Points:

The story has no proper plot layout, simply certain ideas are discussed and theme is given importance. Naguib Mahfouz is famous for these kinds of plots. The story is about the general life of a person, about good and evil, human biasness and weaknesses. Climax of the story occurs when the readers realize that the narrator is no longer a boy, but a grown man. There is a time shift in the story. Different stages of a man's life are shown, from innocence to maturity.

There are several symbols used in the story and it is important to explain them. The title of the story itself is ironic, it is meant to suggest half a day of school but the story does not simply cover 'half a day', it covers the whole lifetime of the narrator. Time is relative, it does not actually pass quickly, it only seems that way. A good comparison for the passing of time would be from Shakespeare's Sonnet 60. The Gate of the school building represents a barrier or a shift from the garden of paradise to hell, a shift from innocence of childhood to the practical life of an adult. The snake symbolizes fear, danger, deceit, disguise and guile. It is symbolic in the way that in the story of Adam and Eve ( from John Milton's epic Paradise Lost), Satan comes in the form of a snake hidden behind flowers to cunningly misguide Eve. The school symbolizes training, nurturing, education, knowledge, upbringing etc. Garden represents the circle of life, harmony, peace, colours of life, a paradise or the ideal state that everyone aspires for, a perfection of nature and beauty, dominance of nature. Buildings/Factory represents industrial revolution in today's world, man's struggle against machines, advance of technology over human life, it can signify order and discipline considering the way that the buildings are arranged in order, a pattern, but order and discipline should be in our lives. Globe of the earth signifies the passing time as it revolves. Crossroads represents unexpected happenings and a choice between different paths, just the way humans have chosen the path of destruction, nuclear weapons, technology and material gains over the path of morality and virtue. Fire represents evil, wrongdoings, danger, damage, hell, and all the bad deeds. It also represents jealousy, lust for power, money, selfishness, deceit, materialism and mass consumerism.

In the last paragraph the narrator is using the technique of rhetorical questions. The narrator is actually showing a picture of modern life, he is showing us the mirror. As opposed to the garden of life shown earlier, it has been now taken over by technology, increasing human population, materialism. Our life has become very fierce, demanding and dangerous. We are living in a deceptive world where people have forsaken their morality and humanity in order to leave others behind in the mad race for power and fame. People will do anything to get what they want, their eyes are filled with lust and greed. We are caught up in trivial issues such as moneymaking and hording wealth in our homes, we do not know what path we have chosen and where it will lead to, we do not know where we're heading. There is a lack of humanity and moral virtues. We have become very superficial and we expect others to be the same way. We are now drawn against human beings and our mind sees a potential threat in even our closest relatives, we feel everyone is trying to put us down and get ahead of us, or trick us into poverty. We can relate this idea to that In “The Chief Guest” by Akhtar Jamal. There is a severe deterioration of moral values in the society, a reversal or transition of values. The narrator has tried to show us the consequences of such destruction; what there was, what there is, and what will be if we do not mend our ways.

Life is passing in a split second, it is beyond our control, we are soon able to accept this and adjust ourselves according to the demands of the fast-paced world. Humans are resigned to destructive elements, similar to our acceptance of the constructive elements in life.

“Half a Day” by Naguib Mahfouz is an allegorical short story that reflects the journey of life and the speed in which it begins and ends. It also gives representation to stages and changes that occur within a person during their time on Earth.   “Half a Day”, can only be fully understood through its symbolism and is not intended to be interpreted literally.   In order to fully understand the reader must be able to comprehend that each part has a greater meaning then the words that appear on the paper and that each meaning is greater than the one before.   In addition, Mahfouz uses elaborate figurative and descriptive language, painting a vivid picture and allowing the reader to be present in the moment. 

Though there are not many characters in this story, their importance is of the utmost.   They are emblematic as well, each having additional meanings as well as their literal interpretation. His father holding his hand could also represent the hand of God leading him along a righteous path or ushering him in and out of life. The mother admires her son quietly and from afar, leaving the task of guiding a boy to manhood to her husband.   The teacher is the rule-maker, identified as a person.   She keeps order and punishes those who cannot or will not abide.   His classmates are all the people that he becomes acquainted with over time, females that he has had relationship with and loved.   However, not all are good people nor do they all have the same opportunities, prompting the decision making that all children must make on their road to adulthood. The most central character is the boy himself beginning his day as a young lad and progressing into teenager, young man, middle age and finally an old man looking for his final home.
This short story is deceitfully ironic because it is about a man that lives his entire life in the span of a day starting as a young boy and ending as an old man.   Mahfouz is comparing life to his first day of school.

Few links are given for further analysis:

https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&q=cache:o_yFG3HnLDEJ:dev.prenhall.com/divisions/hss/marketing/english_central/media/section_3/volume_1/book_1/82.pdf+&hl=en&gl=pk&pid=bl&srcid=ADGEESiiw1qLytXgqxgDSrvgAMTXjW0CtUDJwyt_6Qcs4x1q8J4KBgjfryyaBner98BDCpAne4Iwv3WL83hovqLl7ImSblqfnIH9Vt8eoJ1RD2mrPYoaVsvgEUkjrXJG2IA2mXXvdmnB&sig=AHIEtbTY4YYjLS31uq_EVR0YM1_6rTasTw&pli=1

https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&q=cache:j4GF2WtKpNYJ:worldlitstories.wikispaces.com/file/view/Half%2BA%2BDay.doc+&hl=en&gl=pk&pid=bl&srcid=ADGEESg7V1m3Yb1PKwFjXbRo2wzErfJz_lcQH7PJRzoGgU11jdxAxbUoK3KaN2CPxoFgooLNRhl37EtAJ03nDdRXXZLut6AR04Qwuqub9dMh4xB78Yg-4Q4d50v05MpJTRXcLqCjDGd4&sig=AHIEtbQKMpRCnXl_7LXtc3OvVBXxbfeTdQ

Questions:

1. What kind of person is the narrator's father?
2. At what point in the story does it become apparent that the story covers more than the narrator's first day in school? How does Mahfouz employ the journey motif in his narrative?
3. What is the theme of the story?
4. How is the fire at the end of the story significant? Why are the other activities recorded in the final paragraph important?
   
   
   Credit-Muneeza Rafiq