Description
Compare a single aspect of Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” to some aspect of Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” (tone, sentence structure, theme, perspective, etc…) Use one quote from each story (use our textbook), and include in-text citations. Do NOT use any outside sources. This is not an essay; this is just a quick response of at least 150 words to demonstrate that you know how to think for yourself and how to cite stories from the textbook. You will find below the 2 poems. Please use simple and straight forward grammar words and sentences. N.B: Let’s compare the theme of both
ESSAY 3 INSTRUCTION
Compare a single aspect of Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” to some aspect of Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” (tone, sentence structure, theme, perspective, etc…) Use one quote from each story (use our textbook), and include in-text citations. Do NOT use any outside sources. This is not an essay; this is just a quick response of at least 150 words to demonstrate that you know how to think for yourself and how to cite stories from the textbook. You will find below the 2 poems. Please use simple and straight forward grammar words and sentences.
N.B: Let’s compare the theme of both
This is the link to the eBook below. ALSO you can find below the poems. Please use the eBook to for your in text citation and for the reference page section.. Please highlight in red the lines you choose for the intext citation from the eBook.
https://drive.google.com/open?id=1kjF4ucnOjfqQizyWPw3Drqf75rhGkgb6
The Poems
(1st Poem) Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily”
When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: themen through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, thewomen mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no onesave an old manservant— a combined gardener and cook— had seen in atleast ten years.It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decoratedwith cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome styleof the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garagesand cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names ofthat neighborhood; only Miss Emily’s house was left, lifting its stubborn andcoquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps— an eyesoreamong eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representativesof those august names where they lay in the cedar- bemused cemeteryamong the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldierswho fell at the battle of Jefferson.Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditaryobligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when ColonelSartoris, the mayor— he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman shouldappear on the streets without an apron— remitted her taxes, the dispensationdating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emilywould have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale tothe effect that Miss Emily’s father had loaned money to the town, which thetown, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man ofColonel Sartoris’ generation and thought could have invented it, and only awoman could have believed it.When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors andaldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first ofthe year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply.They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff’s office at herconvenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or tosend his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape,in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer wentout at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputationwaited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passedsince she ceased giving china- painting lessons eight or ten years earlier.They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairwaymounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse— a close,dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy,leather- covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window,they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down,a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes inthe single sunray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the replace stood acrayon portrait of Miss Emily’s father.They rose when she entered— a small, fat woman in black, with a thingold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with atarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare;perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in anotherwas obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged inmotionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges ofher face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough asthey moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietlyuntil the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear theinvisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.Her voice was dry and cold. “I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartorisexplained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city recordsand satisfy yourselves.”“But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn’t you get anotice from the sheriff, signed by him?”“I received a paper, yes,” Miss Emily said. “Perhaps he considers himselfthe sheriff . . . . . . I have no taxes in Jefferson.”“But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see. We must go bythe—”“See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson.”“But, Miss Emily—”“See Colonel Sartoris.” (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost tenyears.) “I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!” The Negro appeared. “Showthese gentlemen out.”
II
So she vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished theirfathers thirty years before about the smell. That was two years after herfather’s death and a short time after her sweetheart— the one we believedwould marry her— had deserted her. After her father’s death she went outvery little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. Afew of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and theonly sign of life about the place was the Negro man— a young man then—going in and out with a market basket.“Just as if a man— any man— could keep a kitchen properly,” the ladiessaid; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was anotherlink between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eightyyears old.“But what will you have me do about it, madam?” he said.“Why, send her word to stop it,” the woman said. “Isn’t there a law?”“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Judge Stevens said. “It’s probably just asnake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I’ll speak to him about it.”The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who camein diffident deprecation. “We really must do something about it, Judge. I’dbe the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we’ve got to do something.”That night the Board of Aldermen met— three gray- beards and oneyounger man, a member of the rising generation.“It’s simple enough,” he said. “Send her word to have her place cleanedup. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don’t . . . . . .” Dammit, sir,” Judge Stevens said,“will you accuse a lady to her face ofsmelling bad?”
So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily’s lawnand slunk about the house like burglars, snifXng along the base of the brickworkand at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular sowingmotion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They brokeopen the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. Asthey recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and MissEmily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as thatof an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of thelocusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away.That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People inour town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her great- aunt, had gone completelycrazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little toohigh for what they really were. None of the young men were quite goodenough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau;Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddledsilhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horse whip,the two of them framed by the back- flung front door. So when she got tobe thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated;even with insanity in the family she wouldn’t have turned down all of herchances if they had really materialized.When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left toher; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Beingleft alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too wouldnow the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house andoffer condolence and aid, as is our custom. Miss Emily met them at the door,dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them thather father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers callingon her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of thebody. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, andthey buried her father quickly.We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. Weremembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knewthat with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbedher, as people will.
III
She was sick for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cutshort, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angelsin colored church windows— sort of tragic and serene.The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in thesummer after her father’s death they began to work. The construction companycame with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman namedHomer Barron, a Yankee— a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyeslighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear himcuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks.Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere aboutthe square, Homer Barron would be in the center of thegroup. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoonsdriving in the yellow- wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from thelivery stable.
At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because theladies all said, “Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner,a day laborer.” But there were still others, older people, who said thateven grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige— withoutcalling it noblesse oblige. They just said, “Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk shouldcome to her.” She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father hadfallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman,and there was no communication between the two families. They had noteven been represented at the funeral.And as soon as the old people said, “Poor Emily,” the whispering began.“Do you suppose it’s really so?” they said to one another. “Of course it is.What else could . . . . . .” This behind their hands; rustling of craned silkand satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as thethin, swift clop- clop- clop of the matched team passed: “Poor Emily.”She carried her head high enough— even when we believed that she wasfallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignityas the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic.That was over a year after they had begun to say “Poor Emily,” and while thetwo female cousins were visiting her.“I want some poison,” she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then,still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty blackeyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and aboutthe eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse- keeper’s face ought to look. “Iwant some poison,” she said.“Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I’d recom—”“I want the best you have. I don’t care what kind.”The druggist named several. “They’ll kill anything up to an elephant. Butwhat you want is—”“Arsenic,” Miss Emily said. “Is that a good one?”“Is . . . . . . arsenic? Yes ma’am. But what you want—”“I want arsenic.”The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her facelike a strained flag. “Why, of course,” the druggist said. “If that’s what youwant. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for.”Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look himeye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrappedit up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn’tcome back. When she opened the package at home there was written on thebox, under the skull and bones: “For rats.”
IV
So the next day we all said, “She will kill herself”; and we said it would bethe best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, wehad said, “She will marry him.” Then we said, “She will persuade him yet anywhere about them square, Homer Barron would be in the center of thegroup. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoonsdriving in the yellow- wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from thelivery stable.
At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because theladies all said, “Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner,a day laborer.” But there were still others, older people, who said thateven grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige— withoutcalling it noblesse oblige. They just said, “Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk shouldcome to her.” She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father hadfallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman,and there was no communication between the two families. They had noteven been represented at the funeral.And as soon as the old people said, “Poor Emily,” the whispering began.“Do you suppose it’s really so?” they said to one another. “Of course it is.What else could . . . . . .” This behind their hands; rustling of craned silkand satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as thethin, swift clop- clop- clop of the matched team passed: “Poor Emily.”She carried her head high enough— even when we believed that she wasfallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignityas the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic.That was over a year after they had begun to say “Poor Emily,” and while thetwo female cousins were visiting her.“I want some poison,” she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then,still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty blackeyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and aboutthe eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse- keeper’s face ought to look. “Iwant some poison,” she said.“Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I’d recom—”“I want the best you have. I don’t care what kind.”The druggist named several. “They’ll kill anything up to an elephant. Butwhat you want is—”“Arsenic,” Miss Emily said. “Is that a good one?”“Is . . . . . . arsenic? Yes ma’am. But what you want—”“I want arsenic.”The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her facelike a strained flag. “Why, of course,” the druggist said. “If that’s what youwant. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for.”Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look himeye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrappedit up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn’tcome back. When she opened the package at home there was written on thebox, under the skull and bones: “For rats.”
IV
So the next day we all said, “She will kill herself”; and we said it would bethe best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, wehad said, “She will marry him.” Then we said, “She will persuade him yet Then the newergeneration became the backbone and the spirit of thetown, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send theirchildren to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut fromthe ladies’ magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remainedclosed for good. When the town got free postal delivery Miss Emily alonerefused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach amailbox to it. She would not listen to them.
Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and morestooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December wesent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a weeklater, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairswindows— she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house— like thecarven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we couldnever tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation— dear,inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse.And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, withonly a doddering Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know shewas sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from theNegro. He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had brown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with acurtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and
lack of sunlight.
V
The Negro met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, withtheir hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then hedisappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and wasnot seen again.
The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the secondday, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bierand the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men— some in theirbrushed Confederate uniforms— on the porch and the lawn, talking of MissEmily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they haddanced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematicalprogression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road,but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided fromthem now by the narrow bottle- neck of the most recent de cade of years.Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs whichno one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. Theywaited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervadingdust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere uponthis room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains offaded rose color, upon the rose- shaded lights, upon the dressing table, uponthe delicate array of crystal and the man’s toilet things backed with tarnishedsilver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Amongthem lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface apale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit,carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks.The man himself lay in the bed.
For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust. Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron- gray hair.
(2nd Poem) Hills Like White Elephants
The hills across the valley of the Ebro2 were long and white. On this sidethere was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines ofrails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warmshadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads,hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American andhot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped
at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.
“What should we drink?” the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and
put it on the table.
“It’s pretty hot,” the man said.
“Let’s drink beer.”
“Dos cervezas,”3 the man said into the curtain.
“Big ones?” a woman asked from the doorway.
“Yes. Two big ones.”
The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt
pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl.
The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and
the country was brown and dry.
“They look like white elephants,” she said.
“I’ve never seen one,” the man drank his beer.
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“I might have,” the man said. “Just because you say I wouldn’t have
doesn’t prove anything.”
The girl looked at the bead curtain. “They’ve painted something on it,”
she said. “What does it say?”
“Anis del Toro.4 It’s a drink.”
“Could we try it?”
The man called “Listen” through the curtain. The woman came out from
the bar.
“Four reales.”5
“We want two Anis del Toro.”
“With water?”
“Do you want it with water?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Is it good with water?”
“It’s all right.”
“You want them with water?” asked the woman.
“Yes, with water.”
“It tastes like licorice,” the girl said and put the glass down.
“That’s the way with everything.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things
you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.”6
“Oh, cut it out.”
“You started it,” the girl said. “I was being amused. I was having a fine time.”
“Well, let’s try and have a fine time.”
“All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants.
Wasn’t that bright?”
“That was bright.”
“I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it— look at things
and try new drinks?”
“I guess so.”
across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.
“And we could have all this,” she said. “And we could have everything and
every day we make it more impossible.”
“What did you say?”
“I said we could have everything.”
“We can have everything.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We can have the whole world.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We can go everywhere.”
“No, we can’t. It isn’t ours anymore.”
“It’s ours.”
“No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.”
“But they haven’t taken it away.”
“We’ll wait and see.”
“Come on back in the shade,” he said. “You mustn’t feel that way.”
“I don’t feel any way,” the girl said. “I just know things.”
“I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do——”
“Nor that isn’t good for me,” she said. “I know. Could we have another beer?”
“All right. But you’ve got to realize——”
“I realize,” the girl said. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”
They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the
dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.
“You’ve got to realize,” he said, “that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t
want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.”
“Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want any one
else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.”
“Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.”
“It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.”
“Would you do something for me now?”
“I’d do anything for you.”
“Would you please pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease stop talking?”
He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station.
There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.
“But I don’t want you to,” he said, “I don’t care anything about it.”
“I’ll scream,” the girl said.
The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put
them down on the damp felt pads. “The train comes in five minutes,” she said.
“What did she say?” asked the girl.
“That the train is coming in five minutes.”
The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.
“I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,” the man
said. She smiled at him.
“All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.”
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to
the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming
back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the
train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the peopleThey were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the
bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“I feel fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”
