<p>I got all the same answers as you did, starburst! Hope we're right.XD</p>
<p>btw, here's the poem if you want to look at it
But I do think it is their husbands' faults
If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties,
And pour our treasures into foreign laps,
Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,
Or scant our former having in despite;
Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,
Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell
And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think it is: and doth affection breed it?
I think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs?
It is so too: and have not we affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well: else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.</p>
<p>Standing there knocking on Flannery O’Connor’s door, I do not think of her illness, her magnificent work in spite of it; I think: it all comes back to houses. To how people live. There are rich people who own houses to live in and poor people who do not. And this is wrong. Literary separatism, fashionable now among blacks as it has always been among whites, is easier to practice than to change a fact like this. I think: I would level this country with the sweep of my hand, if I could.
“Nobody can change the past,” says my mother.
“Which is why revolutions exist,” I reply.
My bitterness comes from a deeper source than my knowledge of the difference, historically, race has made in the lives of white and black artists. The fact that in Mississippi no one even remembers where Richard Wright lived, while Faulkner’s house is maintained by a black caretaker is painful, but not unbearable. What comes close to being unbearable is that I know how damaging to my own psyche such injustice is. In an unjust society the soul of the sensitive person is in danger of deformity from just such weights as this. For a long time I will feel Faulkner’s house, O’Connor’s house, crushing me. To fight back will require a certain amount of energy, energy better used doing something else.
My mother has been busy reasoning that, since Flannery O’Connor died young of a lingering and painful illness, the hand of God has shown itself. Then she sighs. “Well, you know,” she says, “it is true, as they say, that the grass is always greener on the other side. That is, until you find yourself over there.”
In a just society, of course, clich</p>
<p>The Poems of Our Climate - definitely the hardest one</p>
<p>Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations — one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.</p>
<pre><code> II
</code></pre>
<p>Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one’s torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.</p>
<pre><code> III
</code></pre>
<p>There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.</p>
<p>(Wallace Stevens)</p>
<p>i put invention for that one about the muse</p>
<p>ohh i think i did too!! and what did the poet want to come back to?</p>
<p>this one?</p>
<p>Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear She might take some pleasure of my pain:
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:
Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
'Fool' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and write.'</p>
<p>did you just use google to find these?</p>
<p>o yea that was hard...i either omitted or put the evil or whatever because i think the "evil" quotation had something to do with imperfection and i thnk they wanted to return to imperfection..but im not sure at allll</p>
<p>i changed my mind so many times that i don't remember what i put anymore :/ what about the first passage? what was the purpose of listing all those "made by hand" references?</p>
<p>i there were two questions kind of like that...first time i put to emphasize their influence or something? im not evne sure. second time i put something about stifling...</p>
<p>o yeah...and what was the noun for the verb "lies" in the imperfection poem</p>
<p>YESS. i put those two. i hated that passage. it was easy to read, but hard to answer the questions</p>
<p>i put delight</p>
<p>aaaa i put bitterness</p>
<p>Yeah, I put delight also. </p>
<p>What about the question that asked about the significance of repeating "Senator, mother, child"</p>
<p>Oh, and I actually put "she" for the muse question. I was thinking maybe that was who he was addressing throughout the poem, and if that was the case, that answer would make the most sense. I don't know, I could be wrong.</p>
<p>does anyone remember any key terms from the passage about the girl lying in bed, and hating her parents and everything?</p>
<p>Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted regions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth, roads are made of round rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coated over in their pristine freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come to hand, and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straightway essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time, the rains wash off all the turf and grass aforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in picturesque positions, up, down and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts of black mud intervening. </p>
<p>Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along, making moral reflections as continuously as under the circumstances could be expected,--the carriage proceeding along much as follows,--bump! bump! bump! slush! down in the mud!--the senator, woman and child, reversing their positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side. Carriage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making a great muster among the horses. After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce,--two front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, and child, all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat,--senator's hat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished;--child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated addresses to the horses, who are kicking, and floundering, and straining under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage springs up, with another bounce,--down go the hind wheels,--senator, woman, and child, fly over on to the back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both her feet being jammed into his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After a few moments the "slough" is passed, and the horses stop, panting;--the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet and hushes her child, and they brace themselves for what is yet to come. </p>
<p>For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled, just by way of variety, with divers side plunges and compound shakes; and they begin to flatter themselves that they are not so badly off, after all. At last, with a square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops,--and, after much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door. </p>
<p>"Please, sir, it's powerful bad spot, this' yer. I don't know how we's to get clar out. I'm a thinkin' we'll have to be a gettin' rails." </p>
<p>The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth,--he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe. </p>
<p>But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones. Western travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in the interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry their carriages out of mud holes, will have a respectful and mournful sympathy with our unfortunate hero. We beg them to drop a silent tear, and pass on.</p>
<p>I remember she used the term "hypocrisy" when talking about her mother, and she said that her father was (I think) thirty five years older than her mother</p>
<p>for the repeated senator mother child i put to to objectify the characters</p>
<p>and for this passage...what was not iroic..i put pulling down</p>
<p>o yea and for that passage...how would teh girl describe her father? one of the choices was shrewd...others were infirm something</p>
<p>and for the ones about how that women poem about adultery..the last two lines what was the tone or soemthign..i think i was debating between chauvinistic adn something else? admonitoring?</p>
<p>and for teh one about the husband and wife on the honeymoon...how did the wife feel. i combonination of something...and then i chose despair. and for the guy i put self-pity. </p>
<p>yea, tough test.</p>