THE PETRARCHAN SONNET
The Italian sonnet form is commony called the Petrarchan sonnet, because Petrarch’s “Canzonieri,” a sequence of poems including 317 sonnets, established the sonnet as a major form in European poetry. The Petrarchan sonnet consists of an octave (an eight-line stanza), rhyming abbaabba, and a sestet (a six-line stanza), rhyming cdcdcd, or cdecde–or using some other variation of the cd or cde patterns, but without a final rhymed couplet.

The octave usually presents an idea, raises an argument, makes a proposition, or poses a problem. A turning point (”volta”) occurs between the octave and the sestet, and the sestet develops out of the octave by illustrating the idea in the octave, varying it, responding to it, or solving the problem it poses.

THE SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET
Shakespeare did not invent the English sonnet form, but he is recognized as its greatest practitioner; therefore, the English sonnet is commonly called the Shakespearean sonnet.

The Shakespearean sonnet consists of three quatrains (four-line stanzas), rhyming abab cdcd efef, and a couplet (a two-line stanza), rhyming gg. Because each new stanza introduces a new set of rhyming sounds, the Shakespearean sonnet is well-suited to English, which is less richly endowed than Italian with rhyming words.

As with the structure of the Petrarchan sonnet, that of the Shakespearean sonnet influences the kinds of ideas that will be developed in it. For example, the three quatrains may be used to present three parallel images, with the couplet used to tie them together or to interpret their significance. Or the quatrains can offer three points in an argument, with the couplet serving to drive home the conclusion.

THE SPENSERIAN SONNET
In his “Amoretti” Edmund Spenser used the sonnet form named after him. The Spenserian sonnet has three quatrains, rhyming abab bcbc cdcd, followed by a couplet, rhyming ee. The linked rhymes of his quatrains suggest the linked rhymes of such Italian forms as terza rima.

ORIGINS
The sonnet probably originated among the Sicilian court poets of the thirteenth century, who were influenced by the love peotry of the Provencal troubadours. It then spread to Tuscany, where it reached its highest expression in Petrarch’s “Canzonieri,” a sequence of love poems addressed to “Laura,” his idealized beloved.

THE SONNET IN ENGLISH POETRY
The sonnet, along with other Italian forms, was introduced to England in the sixteenth century by Sir Thomas Wyatt and his younger contemporary Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. Both poets translated several of Petrarch’s sonnets–often the same ones–as well as composing their own.

The new poetic form seems to have inspired the flowering of English lyric poetry in subsequent decades, reaching its peak during the reign of Elizabeth I. During the Elizabethan period the sonnet often appeared as part of a sequence of love poems, in the manner of Petrarch’s “Canzonieri.” The Elizabethans were particularly attractee to the complexity of a sequence in which each sonnet was both an independent poem and part of an ongoing narrative development. Many poets employed conventional images and patterns of thought in their sonnets, but the most skilled mangaed to create tension and complexity by playing against the conventions even as they made use of them.

Among notable Elizabethan sonnet sequences (Sir Philip Sidney’s “Astrophel and Stella”; Samuel Daniel’s “Delia”; Edmund Spenser’s Amoretti”) Shakespeare’s sequence of one hundred twenty sonnets addressed to a “dark lady” and a “fair young man” is considered to be the greatest.

In the seventeenth century John Donne’s “Holy Sonnets” used the sonnet sequence as a vehicle for religious themes. John Milton wrote sonnets on religious and political themes, as well as on such personal subjects as his own blindness.

In the nineteenth century the love sonnet sequence was revived in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese” (1850) and in Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s “The House of Life” (1876).

Even after five centuries the sonnet still attracts the attention of serious poets, partly because of the challenge provided by the rigorous constraints of its fixed form, and partly because of its long tradition of use by most of the important poets in the English language.

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

Firstly, read the book. Well, that wasn’t completely a joke. Sometimes one tends to just skim over the pages, or even simply read the back cover and work from there, especially when one is pressed for time. Read the book properly once so you will know what you’re talking about…unless you’re a master of bull excrement, you won’t be able to write a review that reads off impressively otherwise.

So you’ve read the book. The next hardest step is getting started. How does one introduce a book? If you have knowledge of the genre, it is a good idea to start off by comparing it with works you’ve found similar. � by Terry Goodkind is as compelling and as intricately woven as Tolkien…� , might be an example. This immediately gives the reader an idea of what standard the book is, at least in someone’s opinion, and also lets him know what to expect if he reads the book. In the event that you don’t know the genre, say, the case being that you’ve been asked to do a review on a book in a genre you don’t usually read, start off with an interesting �leading in� sentence about the book. �Of burning passion, deceit and suspense, does not lack.� Is an example of this. Whatever the case is, give an overall feeling of the book in your opening paragraph. Stylistic modifications are perfectly fine, and do in fact add to the interest a reader would have in your review, but that is the standard objective your first paragraph should aim to achieve. Elaborate on your opening sentence…give reasons Elaborate on your opening sentence…give reasons why you say the book is like this, but do not worry if you can’t say much. It’s an introduction.

Avoid re-telling the story, in the case of a novellistic, narrative work. A common mistake is to summarize the storyline immediately following the introduction. No. No. No. You are here to give your sentiments on the book, and to give a rough feel of it. Doing the above is like telling someone what happens in a movie. You’ll ruin it for them…and ruin your review in the process. Focus on elements. Aspects. Major players in the novel that you yourself found interesting. Say a bit about a character…that’s alright. Or give an overview of a fictional race of people in the book. Of a central thing…like Spice/Melange is in Frank Herbert’s . Intrigue without exposing. Tease the reader with details. Work the way a movie trailer does. This should be your focus for up to 5 paragraphs. Anything more is usually too much tantalizing.

For a non-fictional book, the idea is much the same. This time, comment on the ideas brought up in the book, and how it does it. Quote interesting examples, like � delightfully illustrates the idea of with what he calls �. The concept is the same. Here, however, you are welcome to put in your own opinions. In fact, as philosophically-inclined books are usually meant for academic discussion, you should bring in your own views. Bring in one idea of the author’s, then contrast it with your own. State how much you agree/disagree and why. Argue merits. Point out flaws. Apply the same technique of elementing the book. Break it down into points you want to cover. You don’t actually have to comb it from tip to toe…just the issues you feel are important should suffice, as long as you have something to say about it.

After the elementing, you have to tie it up neatly. Under no circumstance leave the review as done after the last element you cover. Make a coherent, graceful exit. It is always good to end off by saying how you felt about the book. �Overall, I enjoyed immensely. Drake’s characterization and plot-weaving are something that leaves you breathless.�, is a good example. Otherwise, tie it up in your own way, either with an impact or a subtle comment. Never leave loose threads. The review should have a sense of finality.

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

The purpose of this article is to explain how speechwriting taught me structure. Writing a speech is not very different from writing an article. When addressing a �live� audience, you practice vocal tone, grammar, body language and your appearance. Lucky for me no one sees me when I�m writing!

Structure is important when writing a speech or a piece that is going to be read by someone else. Ideas need to flow logically and naturally from one idea to the other. Sentences open your thoughts in a logical flow as thread in a sweater. A paragraph should contain one complete idea. One helpful suggestion is to read your article aloud after you�ve written it. Does it sound like it flows in a logical and interesting way? Would you be comfortable reading it to an audience?

The basic outline of a speech is simple:

Introduction: Tell the people what you�re going to tell them.

Body: Tell them

Conclusion: Tell them what you just told them (in summary)

The body can be broken down into sub-headings: A, B, C… Tell your audience what your main points or sub-headings will be in your introduction. Then they�ll be able to follow you.

The structure of an article is not much different from that of a verbal address. With a talk or an article, you want to grab your reader�s interest right away. You can do that with a controversial statement or by asking a leading question. You might lead an article on mosquitoes by stating� �There are some things I love about mosquitoes!� Then you tell your readers what you will be driving at during your article. Give them your main points.

One of the most helpful exercises in preparing a speech is editing what you have to say into the allotted time. If you�re giving a timed speech, you have to make sure everything fits into that period. If you�re writing an article for on line publication, you want at least 300 words and not more than 2,000. Attention spans on the web are short. People want to surf over to something else and may be concerned with on line time expense.

The body needs to be organized in a logical fashion. Try to make those two or three points in your essay, and handle them sequentially. You might want to break the body down into the background and development of your topic.

For a conclusion, just sum up your main points again. If you asked a leading question, be sure to answer it: �And so, these are the things I love about mosquitoes…� If you want some good writing practice, a public speaking club will give it to you. All of those speeches have to be written first!

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

1. Don’t Be a Mimic
The first mistake that all new writers to children’s poetry fall into is writing like another writer. Publishers receive tons of Dr. Seuss-like poems from hopeful writers. If you are going to write children’s poems, you first have to develop a unique voice, one that no one can dispute or copy. Courses in this area are usually available at local colleges, and writer’s groups are invaluable for testing new work. This is the key to breaking into the poetry market.

2. Know your Market
You can’t get a feel for the market that will buy your poems unless you read into it. Spend some time at a local bookstore, and browse other sets of children’s poems in order to see the different types that are out there. Order children’s magazine, and take a look at what makes the cut.

3. Find Areas of Interest
There are some areas that will always be of interest to publishers for poetry. Some publishers prefer easy reading, other prefer non-fiction and teaching books, and so on. Read up on this.

4. Make your Work Challenging
Children are very intelligent. Many writers feel a need to make their work very simple. Allow children to think while they are reading. Also, provide text that will lend itself to rich illustration, because most children love pictures.

5. Be Original
Stories about “Hairy hare,” “tiny turtle” and “purple pig” will not go over well. Avoid moralizing, because everyone does not have the same beliefs. Cute and typical stories will not make it, whereas original, off-the-wall ideas will.

6. Hone your Advertising Skills
If you can write a good query letter, you can often get your poetry in the door. Read up on writing these letters, and sending them in a manner that will incline publishers favorably toward you. Read up on publishers before you send them a manuscript. Some specifically say that they do not accept children’s poems, while others may not be suited to your work.

7. Don’t Give Up
It is very easy to give up in the field of writing. But remember, if your style is truly original, you have a good shot at getting something in print eventually. Good luck!

8. Test your Work
Kids always love a good story. Find a class, family or preschool and ask if you can read your stories to their children. Feedback from kids is usually the best gauge you can have.

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

FOOT� the basic unit of meter; a group of syllables forming a metrical unit; a unit of (usually) two or three syllables that contains one strong stress. Metrical feet are marked by using symbols to represent stressed (/) and unstressed (x; or a flattened out “u” shape) syllables.

IAMB (IAMBIC FOOT)� a metrical foot consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable (x /).

PENTAMETER� a metrical pattern in which the poetic line consists of five iambic feet; thus, a ten-syllable line with the following pattern: x / x / x / x / x / .

RHYME (EXACT RHYME)� when two or more words or phrases contain an identical vowel sound, usually accented, and the subsequent consonant sounds (if any) are identical: free/see; hit/fit; prize/lies.

DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE� a poem in which a single (fictional) speaker addresses an implied audience at a critical moment in an ongoing series of events.

FREE VERSE� (”vers libre”; open form poetry); poetry with no identifiable metrical pattern or rhyme scheme.

STANZA� a group of lines of verse, usually marked by a rhyme scheme (a regular pattern of end rhymes) and a predominant metrical pattern.

VERSE PARAGRAPH� a group of lines of verse (often in blank verse) which forms a unit within a poem; especially common in long narrative poems.

“Blank verse” or unrhymed iambic pentameter, is one of the best known and most widely used metrical patterns in English poetry, probably because it is so close to the natural rhythms of English speech and so easy to adapt to different levels of language�as Shakespeare does, for example, by having characters from clowns to kings speak in blank verse, but still in distinctive and appropriate voices.

Blank verse was introduced into English verse by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, who along with his older friend Sir Thomas Wyatt also introduced the sonnet and other Italian poetic forms into English poetry in the sixteenth century. Surrey used blank verse (which his publisher called “this strange meter”) in his translation of the fourth and second books of Virgil’s “Aeneid” (1554, 1557),perhaps modeling it on the “versi sciolti” (”freed verse”) of Molza’s Italian translation. Blank verse must not, however, be confused with English “free verse” (”vers libre”; “open form” poetry), which lacks both a rhyme scheme and an identifiable metrical pattern, whereas blank verse has a very specific metrical pattern.

The structure of blank verse differs from that of rhymed verse, which tends to break into stanzas. Poems written in blank verse are often divided into “verse paragraphs” of varying lengths, as distinct from stanzas, which usually have regular lengths and are defined by their rhyme scheme and metrical pattern.

The natural speech rhythm of the English language is iambic, and the typical length of an utterance is usually about ten syllables, since that is approximately how long most people can speak comfortably without pausing to take a breath. Thus it might well be said that English speech rhythms tend to fall naturally into a predominantly iambic pentametrical pattern. This closeness to the natural rhythms of speech accounts for the particular popularity of blank verse in drama, dramatic monologues, epic poems, narrative poems, and long introspective or meditative poems.

One might ask why a poet would bother to write in blank verse, when it sounds so much like everyday speech. The fact is that blank verse, despite that similarity, is not quite a “normal” speech rhythm. True, English speech follows a rough iambic pentametrical pattern, but it frequently varies that pattern as well, and also interrupts it with pauses and widely varied inflections. Put simply, the rhythm of blank verse is far more formal, more intensely regular, than the looser rhythmic pattern of normal speech. The formality of such regular meter creates an incantatory effect, and like all strong rhythms it tends to capture and modify the listener’s heartbeat and to induce a slightly altered state of consciousness. Formal language patterns also establish a sort of “frame” around experience, thus marking the experience of the poem as separate and somehow distinguished from mundane reality. Just as the darkened auditorium at a concert creates a state of psychological receptiveness in the audience, so too does the insistent regularity of blank verse prepare the listener for a heightened response to the effects of language and image in the poem.

Soon after Surrey introduced blank verse, it became the standard meter for Elizabethan and Jacobean poetic drama. Probably it was first used in drama in “Gorboduc” (1561), by Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton. Christopher Marlowe’s “Tamburlaine” and “The Tragical History of Dr, Faustus” (c. 1588-93) are written in blank verse, but his lines are predominantly end-stopped (i.e., the sense of the lines coincides with the ends of the lines), and thus they lack the suppleness and variation that we find in William Shakespeare’s use of blank verse. Shakespeare is the most notable practitioner of blank verse as a dramatic form, and his plays are, in fact, written predominantly, though not entirely, in blank verse. Even in the twentieth century T. S. Eliot and Maxwell Anderson used blank verse as a vehicle for staged drama, though by that time their efforts were self-consciously anachronistic.

Blank verse has also been a favored form for reflective and narrative poems. The stately, majestic cadences of John Milton’s religious epic “Paradise Lost” demonstrate the extraordinary incantatory power of that pattern maintained over long stretches of poetry. Take, for example, the single long sentence that constitutes the first sixteen lines of the “Invocation” to Book I of “Paradise Lost”:

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us and regain the blissful seat, Sing, Heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed In the beginning how the Heavens and Earth Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God, I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above th’ Aonian mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

Milton himself likened blank verse to the unrhymed verse of “Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin” and called it “English heroic verse without rhyme.” He considered rhyme “no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse, in longer works especially, but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame meter. . . .” Milton defended his choice of blank verse for his epic as no defect, “though it may seem so perhaps to vulgar readers,” but rather an “[esteemed] example set, the first in English, of an ancient liberty recovered to heroic poem from the troublesome modern bondage of rhyming” (John Milton, “The Verse,” preface to “Paradise Lost).

During the late seventeenth century and the first half of the eighteenth century, blank verse, though still used, was less popular, primarily because the most prominent poets of that period favored the heroic couplet.

In the nineteenth century, blank verse was frequently used by both the Romantic and the Victorian poets. William Wordsworth’s autobiographical epic “The Prelude” was written in blank verse, as was Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s meditative “Frost at Midnight.” The declamatory rhythms and rhetorical flourishes of Milton’s blank verse were replaced in Romantic poetry by a more personal and colloquial manner.

Robert Browning used blank verse in many of his dramatic monologues (e.g., “Fra Lippo Lippi,” “Andrea del Sarto,” “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church”), as did Alfred, LordTennyson (”Ulysses,” “Tithonus”). Although neither poet can be credited with technical innovations in the form, their use of it is highly skilled and flexible, employing both colloquial rhythms and a more declamatory style, as the occasion warrants.

Around the time of World War I, during the “modernist” period, long poems in blank verse fell out of fashion, but blank verse continued to be used by some twentieth-century poets. It was especially favored by Robert Frost (”Birches,” “Mending Wall,” “Out, Out�”). Frost often said that his aim in much of his poetry was to capture the “sound of sense,” that rhythmic pattern we notice in spoken language even when we are unable to make out the words being spoken. His poems written in blank verse demonstrate how conversational blank verse can sound while still retaining the formal effects of good poetry. Here are the first eleven lines of his well-known poem “Mending Wall”:

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there.

Browning, too, writing many decades earlier, during the Victorian period, used blank verse to capture the sound of normal speech, but without its banality. In the opening lines of “Andrea del Sarto,” the painter addresses his young wife in language that one might almost expect to overhear in a restaurant:

But do not let us quarrel anymore, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?

Yet carried over the 267 lines of this dramatic monologue, the poem’s superficially colloquial rhythms produce an effect that normal speech could never produce. We are transported to another world, as it were, and mere reality fades, just as it does in a darkened theater. Skillfully handled, blank verse is not likely ever to be mistaken for prose, despite the erroneous belief of what Milton would call “vulgar readers” that unrhymed lines do not deserve the name of poetry.

DIDACTIC LITERATURE� literature used to teach a moral or a lesson. Most of the didactic literature in Europe was produced during the Middle Ages.

PSYCHOMACHIA� the battle within the individual�s mind or soul, often represented allegorically in literature as a conflict between virtues and vices for the possession of the soul.

APTRONYM� a name that fits the nature or character of an individual (a “label name”)>.

FABLE� a short narrative, often with animals as characters, that embodies a moral or a lesson.

EXEMPLUM� a short narrative used to illustrate a moral. Such stories were often used in sermons during the Middle Ages.

INTERLUDE� (literally, “between play”); a short entertainment put on between the courses of a feast or the acts of a longer play.

MORAL INTERLUDE� a type of interlude that was very similar to the morality play, though often shorter and more humorous. The dividing line between moral interludes and morality plays is not clear, and in many cases the two types of drama are indistinguishable. Several plays are classified both as moral interludes and as morality plays.

LITURGY� sacred rituals of the Church.

LITURGICAL DRAMA� plays performed in Latin by the clergy and the choir that sang the service, as part of the liturgy of the Church during the medieval period. As early as the fifth century, bible stories were represented in church by means of live tableaux accompanied by singing. From such simple beginnings, liturgical dramas developed gradually over several centuries as parts of the liturgy were embellished by “tropes” and then elaborated into dialogues and reenactments of scenes from the Easter story and the Nativity. Eventually the laity began to participate and vernacular elements were included.

TROPE� from the Greek, meaning “turn,” a phrase or verse added as an embellishment or interpolation to the sung parts of the mass. In general, a trope is any rhetorical or figurative device, but a special development in the use of tropes occurred during the Middle Ages, when the term was applied to a verbal embellishment of the liturgical text. Some time before the tenth century, parts of the liturgy at Easter and Christmas were embellished by such tropes as the Nativity antiphonies and the “Quem Quaeritis” before the Easter Introit. Over time these tropes were expanded to include very rudimentary representations of the Nativity scene and the Three Marys at the sepulcher, mimed by the priests and the choir that sang the antiphonies

“QUEM QUAERITIS”� Latin for “Whom do you seek?” This was spoken to the three Marys by the angel at the sepulcher, who told them that Christ was not to be found in the tomb, for He had risen. This phrase was used as a trope during the Easter liturgy, and was adapted and elaborated into a dialogue that became the source of liturgical drama. Eventually it developed into a dramatized representation of the scene at the tomb and then became detached from the sacred liturgy. The “Quem Quaeritis” trope is considered to be the primary seed from which nonliturgical religious drama, and subsequently mainstream drama, grew.

ANTIPHON� a psalm, anthem or verse sung responsively (Webster�s Dictionary, ninth ed.).

ANTIPHONY� a responsive alternation between two groups, especially of singers (Webster�s Dictionary, ninth ed.). Antiphonies lent themselves readily to development into dialogue.

FARCE� an exaggerated, comic performance with no purpose other than to amuse the audience. Farce often contains ribald elements, but because of its playfulness, it usually is not considered offensive.

English drama developed out of early nonliturgical vernacular religious dramas, which had themselves probably developed out of the liturgical drama of the medieval church. Though secularized, these early dramatic forms�the mystery, miracle, and morality plays�still focused on the religious and moral themes that dominated the Christian imagination during the Middle Ages. The mystery plays dramatized sacred history, representing events from Creation to Judgment Day. Miracle plays presented the lives and miracles of the saints, or episodes of divine intervention in human affairs, often through the agency of the Virgin Mary.

Unlike the perspective of the mystery and miracle plays, that of the morality play was individual rather than collective. The morality play (usually called simply a “morality”) presented religious and ethical concerns from the point of view of the individual Christian, whose main concern was to effect the salvation of his soul.

The mystery and miracle plays developed first, around 1100 a.d. Late in the fourteenth century, morality plays on such subjects as the seven deadly sins became popular in France, England and the Netherlands. In the first decades of the fifteenth century, secular allegorical plays concerning the conflict between good and evil in the individual soul began to be performed in France by law clerks and students, and this type of play soon became popular all over Europe, including England.

A morality play is essentially an allegory in dramatic form. It shares the key features of allegorical prose and verse narratives: it is intended to be understood on two or more levels, its main purpose is didactic, and the characters are personified abstractions with aptronyms (”label names”). The nondramatic didactic and allegorical precursors to the morality play are to be found in medieval sermon literature, homilies, exempla, fables, parables, and other works of moral or spiritual edification, as well as in the popular romances of medieval Europe.

Another dramatic form that has much in common with the morality play is the interlude, particularly that subset of interludes called “moral interludes.” There is no clear dividing line between the moral interlude and the morality play, and in fact many works are classified under both headings: “The Pride of Life (c. 1300), “The Castell of Perseverance” (c. 1400), “Wisdom” (c. 1460), “Mankind” (c. 1465), “Hyckescorner” (1512), “Lusty Juventus” (1550), and “Like Will to Like” (1568). Moral interludes were usually about 1000 lines long and written in rough verse�often mere doggerel. Interludes generally, including moral interludes, were often written to be performed as entertainments at court, in the houses of nobility, at University colleges, and at the Inns of Court.

Typically, the morality play is a psychomachia, an externalized dramatization of a psychological and spiritual conflict: the battle between the forces of good and evil in the human soul. This interior struggle involves the Christian�s attempt to achieve salvation, despite the obstacles and temptations that he encounters as he travels through life, toward death.

Originally, because of their roots in religious drama and their didactic purpose, moralities were serious in tone and style, but the increasing secularization of the plays led to the incorporation of elements derived from popular farce, a process encouraged by the presentation of the Devil and his servant the Vice as boisterous mischief-makers. These characters soon became figures of amusement rather than of moral edification. Even more disturbing for the Church was the way that actors would improvise humorous�and often ribald�scenes to increase the crowd�s hilarity. By about 1500 the Church no longer officially approved of the mystery and miracle plays or the morality plays, and in England they were suppressed after the Reformation in the sixteenth century, though they continued to be performed well into the seventeenth century in the Catholic countries of Europe.

In England the moralities dramatized the progress of the Christian�s life from innocence to sin, and from sin to repentance and salvation. Among the most widely known of the fifteenth-century moralities are “The Castell of Perseverance,” which features a battle between Virtues and Vices; “Mankind,” which incorporates topical farce; and perhaps the most famous of all the English morality plays, “Everyman” (c. 1495), which concerns the Christian�s experience of mortality and Judgment.

The main characters in “Everyman” are God, a Messenger, Death, Everyman, Fellowship, Kindred, Cousin, Goods, Knowledge, Beauty, Strength, and Good Deeds. Everyman is immersed in worldly pleasures when Death summons unexpectedly him. He soon finds that none of his supposedly loyal companions (Fellowship, Kindred, Cousin) will go with him. His treasured Goods also desert him, and at the grave the qualities of the flesh (Beauty, Strength) also fade away. Only Good Deeds stays with him to help him get into Paradise, which is accomplished with the help and guidance of Knowledge, by means of Confession and Priesthood.

In other moralities, various manifestations of the forces of Evil (the Seven Deadly Sins, the World, the Flesh, the Devil, Vice) are arrayed against the Christian, who turns for help to the forces of Good (God, His angels, Virtue). The quality of writing in the moralities is uneven, and in many cases the author is unknown. Characterization is also crude and na�ve, and there is little attempt to portray psychological depth.

But over time, the moralities began to show signs of increasingly sophisticated analysis of character. This increasing subtlety and depth of characterization point directly to the development of mainstream Elizabethan and Jacobean drama. Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton�s play “Gorboduc,” the first of the Elizabethan tragedies, is a kind of political morality play on the proper government of a kingdom. And at least one of drama�s most memorable characters, Shakespeare�s Falstaff, is a direct descendant of the medieval Vice. Falstaff functions as a Vice not only in his character, but also in the way he tempts Prince Hal in “Henry IV” (Parts I and II) to neglect his duties as heir apparent to the English throne in order to pursue a life of drunkenness, wantonness, and crime. When Hal becomes king, he must repudiate Falstaff altogether, just as the Christian must repudiate Vice in the medieval morality play.

By the sixteenth century, morality plays were addressing not only religious themes, but also social and political analysis and satire. For example, “Magnificence: (1516) satirizes extravagance, and “Satyre of the Three Estaitis” (1540) is a political morality play.

From about the mid-sixteenth century, under increasing pressure from religious authorities, the popularity of the moralities began to wane, but they continued to be a major influence on mainstream drama. Besides Sackville and Norton�s “Gorboduc,” Nathaniel Wood�s “The Conflict of Conscience” (1568) and Christopher Marlowe�s “The Tragical History Of Dr. Faustus” (1588) also owe much to the morality play, and even as late as 1625, Ben Jonson�s “The Staple of News” showed the influence of the moralities, especially in Lady Pecunia, an allegorical character representing Riches. The allegorical use of aptronyms for characters in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century comedies, and also in novels and short stories all through he nineteenth and twentieth centuries, suggests the ongoing significance of the tradition established by the morality play.

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

First of all, an archetype is a pattern from which copies can be made. That is, it is a universal theme that manifests itself differently on an individual basis. Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung believed that these archetypes were the result of a collective unconscious. This collective unconscious was not directly knowable and is a product of the shared experiences of our ancestors. Jung believed it was:

Primordial: That is, we, as individuals, have these archetypal images ingrained in our understanding even before we are born.

Universal: These archetypes can be found all over the world and throughout history. The manifestation of the idea may be different, but the idea itself is the same.

Archetypes fall into two major categories: characters, situations/symbols. It is easiest to understand them with the help of examples. Listed below are some of the most common archetypes in each category.

Characters:

1. The hero – The courageous figure, the one who’s always running in and saving the day. Example: Dartagnon from Alexandre Dumas’s “The Three Musketeers”

2. The outcast – The outcast is just that. He or she has been cast out of society or has left it on a voluntary basis. The outcast figure can oftentimes also be considered as a Christ figure. Example: Simon from William Golding’s “The Lord of the Flies”

3. The scapegoat – The scapegoat figure is the one who gets blamed for everything, regardless of whether he or she is actually at fault. Example: Snowball from George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”

4. The star-crossed lovers – This is the young couple joined by love but unexpectedly parted by fate. Example: Romeo and Juliet from William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet”

5. The shrew – This is that nagging, bothersome wife always battering her husband with verbal abuse. Example: Zeena from Edith Wharton’s “Ethan Frome”

Situations/symbols:

• The task – A situation in which a character, or group of characters, is driven to complete some duty of monstrous proportion. Example: Frodo’s task to keep the ring safe in J. R. R. Tolkein’s “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy

• The quest – Here, the character(s) are searching for something, whether consciously or unconsciously. Their actions, thoughts, and feelings center around the goal fo completing this quest. Example: Christian’s quest for salvation in John Bunyan’s “The Pilgrim’s Progress”

• The loss of innocence – This is, as the name implies, a loss of innocence through sexual experience, violence, or any other means. Example: Val’s loss of innocence after settling down at the mercantile store in Tennessee William’s “Orpheus Descending”

• The initiation – This is the process by which a character is brought into another sphere of influence, usually (in literature) into adulthood. Example: Ayla’s initiation both into the Clan and into adulthood in Jean Auel’s “The Clan of the Cave Bear”

• Water – Water is a symbol of life, cleansing, and rebirth. It is a strong life force, and is often depicted as a living, reasoning force. Example: Edna learns to swim in Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening”

Hopefully, you will now be able to recognize and understand archetypes as you come across them in your readings. They help to add depth and underlying significance to some of the world’s best literature.

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

The Primacy of the Unconscious
Freud believed that every individual has a conscious and an unconscious mind. Moreover, he believed that it was the unconscious mind that plays the largest role in shaping someone’s personality. He maintained that the vast differences between real and apparent motives are a result of this delineation between the two aspects of the soul.

The Iceberg Theory of the Psyche
Freud believed that the psyche, or “soul”, of an individual was shaped like an iceberg. The small part that remained above the surface for all to see was the ego, the individual’s self image that he projected to the world. Below the surface, much larger, the pleasure-principle, the id, remained away from public view. Lining this iceberg was the superego, representing parental influences. Between the conscious mind (the ego) and the unconscious mind (the id), at the “waterline” of the iceberg, was a line separating the two parts of the individual. Occasionally, the id would poke through that line, but, in most psychologically well-adjusted people, this barrier was a strong one.

Dreams are an expression of our unconscious mind
One of Freud’s best-known theories states that the conflict between the ego and the id is continued while we sleep. He believed that these two aspects of our psyche expressed themselves while we sleep, using a language of symbolism and hidden meanings. He believed that id-driven dreams were outbursts of instinct and repression and that realistic dreams were an example of our ego’s iron control over our soul even while we sleep.

Infantile behavior is essentially sexual
Freud believed that during an individual’s formative years, he or she was entirely governed by his developing id. This developing unconscious often takes sexual and/or hostile mannerisms, as in the case of the Oedipus complex, in which a young boy falls in love with his mother and is jealous of and hateful toward his father for the attentions he receives from her. Freud also believed that any repression or neurosis formed during this time period would later surface as damaging outbursts in the mature adult.

The relationship between neurosis and creativity
Freud’s last theory applies more to the author than the characters in his works. Freud believed that those who create (artists, poets, etc.) are using their creativity as a sort of therapy. He believed that an individual relieved his or her own neurotic tension through their creative work. In addition, these individuals give us insights into the nature of reality and the people who inhabit it. Thus, psychoanalyzing a work of literature can give us great insight into the unconscious of the author.

These five concepts can be employed in the study of characters and their actions in a literary forum, as well as giving us insight into the nature of man in general.

Source: http://www.readprint.com/

But, alas, there are other factors–factors of a decidedly practical aspect–that insist on being taken into consideration. First, there is that most obtrusive time factor. Do you have the time to invest into a literature course? Courses vary, yet it is safe to say that literature will always take whatever time you can give to it, and teachers often demand that you give to it more time than you are inclined or believe that you are capable of giving. Therefore, expect to read even beyond your inclination and supposed capability. Such a conclusion may seem too vague to be helpful, but it is meant to suggest an attitude that may be of benefit when you find that all of your courses have assignments due during the same week. Of course, only you can decide what your schedule will permit, but if you have doubts, allow yourself the liberty of examining the course requirements before you commit yourself.

Second, there is the factor of your reading speed and comprehension. If you know that you lack the reading skills necessary to keep up with the course schedule, you may want to make that self-knowledge the basis of your commitment to the course. If you engage only in those activities in which you know that you can succeed, you’re not likely ever to break through to any new success. John Stuart Mill said it best in his Autobiography: “A pupil from whom nothing is ever demanded which he cannot do, never does all he can.” Not all excellence is measured by an academic grade. If you have a weakness in reading, either in speed or comprehension, a literature course may not be the course to take for an assured “A,” and yet it may provide you with the incentive to excell in self-improvement. Therefore, expect to improve as a reader.

What might you expect regarding the class and the way that the course is taught? Well, if you already have expectations, then expect also to be surprised. Some literature courses require considerable writing, others do not. Some emphasize the lecture as a mode of teaching, others favor class discussion, perhaps even allowing for student presentations. No single approach works best for all teachers or, for that matter, all classes. Therefore, aside from the expectation of being required to read, it is best not to have set expectations regarding the way that the course is structured or taught. In fact, whether a particular pedagogical approach works depends as much or more upon each student’s willingness to accept that approach as it does upon the instructor’s ability to use it. Teachers with any experience at all know this, and they will appreciate your support.

II: The Course Syllabus and Schedule
What textbooks are you going to need to purchase? By what date will you need them? Will there be any writing assignments? If so, what sort of writing assignments, how long must they be, and when will they be due? What about exams? What mode of examination should you expect–essay, short answer, multiple choice, or some other? Over what subjects will you be tested? How will the teacher determine your grades? All of these questions and more should be answered by the course syllabus and schedule.

Think of the course syllabus as a legal contract between you and your instructor. Don’t be misled by the fact that there’s no dotted line requiring your signature. Your enrollment in the course is a tacit agreement to all the conditions set forth in the syllabus. Therefore, read the small print! Ask for an explanation of any details that are unclear to you. If there are important details missing from the syllabus, politely ask your teacher to make those details available to you. Perhaps, they could be written on the chalkboard during a class session for the benefit of all or, even better, printed as an addendum to the syllabus, so that copies can be distributed to the class. Although you’ll want to leave it to your instructor to determine how she or he will make additions to the syllabus, don’t be shy about asserting your right to know what to expect from the course and what conditions you are agreeing to by remaining in the class. Remember, though, to be courteous and respectful!

Know the syllabus! Study it as if you were to be tested on it. I’ve known instructors that have, in fact, formally tested their students on the syllabus. I too have tried that approach. Admittedly, we may have gone a bit too far. Even so, we instructors want and expect our students to know our policies and the requirements of course. At least, study the syllabus so that you know exactly what information it contains and will know, for future reference, when you need to consult it. If you miss an exam, a crucial deadline, or fail to bring the needed materials to class one day, you may want to check the syllabus to see what, if any, excuses may be valid; but, bear this one truth in mind–despite the fact that it is a cliche–that ignorance is no excuse. In fact, ignorance of the syllabus is worse than having no excuse, since it suggests to the instructor a lack of appropriate concern regarding the course. So, if your aim is to excel, don’t sabotage your performance by failing to know the syllabus.

III: In the Classroom
Does your course syllabus note that part of your final grade is determined by class participation? If not, you might want to add it in the margin, for unless your grade is determined by a machine, you can be sure that–regardless of how objective your instructor may believe that she or he is–a definite personal impression is likely to have a definite, however small, effect on your grade. Many students make so little an impression on their instructor that their name, printed above the essays and exams they turn in, brings forward no favorable recollections to the instructor’s mind. Even if your instructor insists that personal considerations have no bearing upon his or her grading, make it your policy to act as though they do have a bearing. After all, your instructor may be more human than he or she believes. Of course, impressions work on people’s unconscious in differing ways, and it is always possible that the student who makes a positive impression in the classroom may create higher expectations in the mind of her or his instructor. This being the case, the surest and safest advice I can offer is this: first, realize that class participation does make a difference, and second, whenever possible, avoid making a negative impression.

More likely, however, your syllabus will state that a portion of your final grade will be determined by the quality of your class participation. What are the basic types of participation that your instructor will be evaluating? Usually, your syllabus will delineate these types. Look for any tasks that cannot be included in the other graded assignments. For example, if your syllabus notes that 40% of your grade will be based upon your exam scores, 40% upon your essays, and 20% upon class participation, then it is clear that anything required of you by the instructor that is not part of an exam or an essay will likely be considered as part of class participation.

Often, teachers will expect students to participate in class discussion, and usually that discussion will be about some aspects of the required reading. Unless both the reading and the discussion take place within the classroom during a single class period, you should allow time outside of class for whatever preparation is necessary for full participation during the class discussion. Occasionally, a teacher will give advance notice regarding the specific aspects of the literature to be discussed, but more often students are simply expected to be prepared for whatever discussion arises. So, come to class having carefully read the texts (see section iv below), and come to class with specific questions and observations that you are willing to share.

Set where you will be seen by your instructor. The more visible you are, the more likely you will be called upon to share your thoughts. At least, the instructor will note your interest in the discussion and your desire to participate. If the seats are arranged in rows and you are setting in the front row, when you participate in the discussion, speak to both the teacher and your fellow students. In other words, encourage a response by making the entire class your audience. Even if you want only the instructor to reply, let your question or remark be heard by the entire class, so that the instructor’s reply will be meaningful to all.

Be polite. Never interject while another is still speaking. Don’t engage in a discussion with your neighbor while another speaker has the floor. In fact, as a general rule, reserve all private discussion until after the class. Never, never, during class time, read a newspaper or notes or text for another class. Rather, always remain attentive, either to the lecture, discussion, or text under consideration, as the situation dictates.

When and how should you take notes during a class discussion or lecture? Very often students complain either that they can’t write fast enough to keep up with all that the teacher is saying, that they take too many notes that prove to be of no use in exams or essays, or that they can’t determine when something that is said during discussion should be noted for future use. These are serious complaints, but difficult to address in a general fashion. However, these two rules will always apply: if it’s written on the chalkboard, make a note of it, and if the teacher emphasizes it, either by repetition or by vocal inflection, make a note of it.

Of course, these simple rules may not be adequate. To gain further guide-lines, you’ll have to do a little research. You may try asking your instructor what relationship the discussions or lectures have to the exams and essays. Unless you know something about the exams and essays, you will have difficulty knowing how much of or what part of the discussions will be applicable. No doubt, much of what is said in class is merely intended to help you in your immediate understanding of an author, text, concept, literary form or theory. Ask your teacher to give you some guidelines in taking notes. You may even find that your teacher would prefer, at times, that you don’t take notes.

When you are taking notes, keep in mind, first, that they must be legible, and second, that they need to be legible only to you. I’ve heard many students and graduates complain that they had returned to their earlier classroom notes only to find them unreadable, not merely because of sloppy handwriting, but because many of the allusions or cryptic remarks were no longer meaningful. Some students, knowing that they want to preserve their notes for future years, will make the opposite mistake, carefully printing in complete sentences, but missing half of what the instructor is saying. Instead, think of your classroom notes as short-term jottings. Abbreviate, omit the use of articles (a, an, the) and any unessential words, and don’t worry about neatness. After class, convert your notes for long-term use. With a word processor you can organize them, filling in any words and additional notes that may be helpful to you. The process of typing your notes will not only provide you with a permanently usable record, but it will also reinforce what you have heard in class, and thus aid in your learning of the class material.

IV: Reading
Entire books have been written on the subject of reading, ranging from the predominantly practical (e.g., Mortimer Adler’s How To Read a Book) to the highly theoretical (e.g., Stanley Fish’s Is There a Text in This Class?). My purpose here is to offer a few simple guidelines to those uninitiated into the arcane discipline of English.

I once had a student who professed to have read every assigned text, yet he could never pass a quiz. He told me that he couldn’t ever recall the details of anything he had read the night before. Another student expressed her opinion that the whole idea of “discussing” a text is absurd, for the purpose of reading literature is to find pleasure. Either a work is enjoyable, or it is not–and that’s all there is to it! Well, I suspect that both of these students had the same problem, and it is the most common problem for undergraduate students of literature. They hadn’t learned to read. I don’t mean to say that they were illiterate. It’s not that they lacked the skills to read; they simply had never been placed into a situation in which they had to learn how to apply those skills to their full advantage.

Reading, like listening, is an art, the object of which is to comprehend so as to appropriately respond. We’ve probably all, at one time or another, been so engrossed in a television show that, when a person asked us a question or made some remark, we listened only enough to gather the tone of the voice, by which we could tell whether a question or a comment was being made. When the speaker paused, we probably responded by saying something like, “Uh-huh,” “Sure,” “Is that right?,” or “You don’t say?”–depending on whether we thought we heard a question or a statement. If we guessed mistakenly, we would then hear a more emphatic, “Are you listening to me?” Listening requires attention. Why? Because listening implies comprehending. Without comprehension, no communication takes place.

The same is true with reading. We have not truly read until we attend and comprehend. However, unlike the person who interrupts our television show, a written text will not accuse us of inattention if we fail to respond appropriately. That task belongs to your teacher. Unfortunately, many students entering into college have never been made to attend to their reading. They have managed to get by with stock responses to what they thought they were reading–”Uh-huh,” “Sure,” “Is that right?,” “You don’t say.” Literature requires and deserves a thoughtful and intelligent response, and this can only be given by the student who has learned how to read.

It might be helpful to consider a text as you would a mathematical problem. In order to arrive at an intelligent response or sum, you must first rightly discern the parts. Of course, readers of literature discern the relationship of the parts differently, and each reader approaches a text with her or his own unique set of experiences and expectations. This is why any one work of literature can be meaningful to people for very different reasons. However, no work of literature has ever been meaningful that has not first been comprehended.

During the seventeenth century, books were often printed with brief marginalia intended to summarize the content or interpret the meaning. If you have a reprint of an old edition of the King James Version of the Bible or John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, you can see that someone, either the author or an editor, has attempted to do part of the work of reading for you. Fortunately, books printed today rarely include this sort of marginalia. Although they may include frequent footnotes, these notes usually add information rather than interpret or summarize what has been written. When I read, I add my own marginalia. I summarize the content of paragraphs and whole pages, and I make brief observations, usually comparing one thought with another. This practice forces me to slow down and think clearly about what I am reading, and I often recommend this practice to my students. Of course, if you have a borrowed book or a valuable edition, you’ll want to use a notepad instead of writing directly in the book.

If my earlier comparison of literature with mathematical equations suggests that the discipline of English is a dry science, then the analogy has been taken too far, for nothing could be further from the truth. Though the business of reading is often work, the rewards of understanding enrich our lives and add pleasure to our days. Allow me another metaphor: Reading is a journey. The pleasure of the journey is not to be found waiting for us at the very end, but is found along the way, within the journey itself. As Coleridge said, in his Bibliographia Literaria, “The reader should be carried forward, not merely or chiefly by the mechanical impulse of curiosity, or by a restless desire to arrive at the final solution; but by the pleasurable activity of the mind excited by the attractions of the journey itself.”

Academic success may be measured by the grade that you receive at the end of the semester, but could you honestly claim that the semester itself has been a success if it has not afforded you pleasure along the way? Although the paper you write on a book may earn you an “A,” if you found no pleasure in the reading of the book, then your experience in the course has not been altogether successful–in fact, it has largely been a failure. When you read, therefore, read with comprehension but�for pleasure. My experience in reading and grading student papers has often proved to me that the students who are truly stimulated by the texts, both intellectually and emotionally, are the ones who write the best papers on those texts.

V: Writing
Expect to write at least one essay. � You may be required to write, in addition to essays, a number of shorter papers, such as explications of text (usually for poetry readings), creative imitations of text, and responses to your readings or a reader’s journal.� Be sure to check the syllabus early in the semester, so you will know exactly what types of writing will be required of you.

Your instructor will expect you to adopt the conventions of writing.� These include the essay form, grammar, punctuation, and spelling, and–for all courses in the discipline of English–the style and documentation procedures of the Modern Language Association (MLA).� If you need assistance with any of these, speak with your instructor early in the semester.� He or she will be able to direct you to useful reference tools and, probably, give you directions toward acquiring individual tutorial assistance.� Writing is work; it is rarely easy.� However, there are some things that you can do to make it easier.� First, don’t wait until the last moment to determine your topic.� Think about possible subjects and theses as you read, but limit yourself to subjects that you find interesting.� When you have two or three alternatives, rank them, and speak to your instructor about them. You probably want to arrange for a meeting during her or his office hour or after class, or arrange for dialogue by way of e-mail or phone.� Your instructor will be able to inform you whether a topic is appropriate or very promising, and he or she will likely be more than willing to suggest possible ways of developing or researching the topic.

Second, take notes as you read.� Whenever you find a passage that might be pertinent to your topic, make a note of it on an index card. Don’t worry about using too many index cards.� Once you’ve determined your exact topic and have established a working thesis, you can weed out the cards that don’t appear to be relevant or needed.� After you’ve created an outline of your argument, you can arrange the cards in the order that will be most useful to you.� Furthermore, as you take notes, be sure to indicate direct quotations by using quotation marks, cite the page references, and keep a record of the full bibliographical information, so that you can document the sources that you cite.

Third, use a word processor and frequently save your writing on a disk.� Expect revision to be an ongoing part of the writing process. � A word processor facilitates revision to such a degree that it has rendered the typewriter obsolete.� Anticipate a power failure or your computer crashing.� If you have your writing on a disk, you can pick up your work where you left it off, at another time or with another computer.� While you’re at your computer, check the printer.� Make sure that it’s working and that you have enough ink and paper.

Finally, complete the first draft at least one full day before the essay is due.� Have a more experienced writer read through your paper, noting any errors and making suggestions for whatever improvements might be made. Many intelligently written essays have been marred by careless errors that could easily have been corrected, if only the writer had allowed time for a critical reading and revision.

VI: Afterthought
After all has been said, we find that the answer to the question “How do I excel?” is determined by how we define “excellence.” Until we know the meaning of “excellence,” we will not know to what degree of success we have attained in life or even in a single undergraduate literature course. And this is a task that is both highly personal and communal. While we must determine what is excellent for ourselves, we do so in the context of a community, and we do so through reading, observing, and reflecting. Perhaps, an undergraduate literature course is a good place–if not to begin–to continue the journey toward an answer to the question, “How do I excel?”

Source: http://www.readprint.com/