Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Me: Sir, I am interested in the contemporary writings so Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist”
and Elif Shafak’s “Forty Rules of Love” inspired me the most.
2. Chairman: Tell us the writers who are not English but they have written English
literature?
3. Chairman: Which novel of Arundhati Roy did you read?
4. Chairman: Name any short story writer who is not English?
5. Chairman: Did you study any Tony Morrison’s short story?
6. SS1: what is the difference between colonial and post-colonial literature?
7. SS1: How do you defend DEATH from Keats’ perspective?
8. SS1: is there only one poem in which Keats talks about the DEATH?
9. SS1: did you read any of Keats Letter?
10. SS1: what is difference between Keats’ letter and poems?
11. SS1: have you read his “Ode to Grecian Urn”?
12. SS1: what are those pictures?
13. SS1: “A thing of beauty is joy forever”, how do you explain it?
14. Then she asked about the American Romanticism which I explained by mentioning Walt
Whitman’s poetry and his major work, “The leaves of Grass”
15. SS1: What is the difference between Whitman’s theme of spirituality and physiology?
16. SS1: What are the difference between post-colonials South Americans, Africans, Asians,
and the Colonizer’s literature?
17. SS2: Did you read any Victorian writer?
18. SS2: What is the difference between fate and coincidence?
19. S2: Can you recall any coincidence in Tess of the D’Urbervilles?
20. SS2: Hardy was a pessimist or realist?
21. SS2: Do you remember the letter in which he mentioned the particular statement of not
being a pessimist?
22. SS2: What is a realist?
23. SS1: She asked, Tess is a pure woman, how do you defend it?
Emma
Austen’s next novel, Emma, might be thought of as harmonizing the two voices heard in Pride
and Prejudice and Mansfield Park. For this book, Austen claimed to be creating “a heroine
whom no one but myself will much like,” an “imaginist” whose circumstances and qualities of
mind make her the self-crowned queen of her country neighborhood. Austen was not entirely
serious or accurate: Emma certainly has her partisans. Even those readers who do not like her
tend to find her fascinating, for she is a spirited, imaginative, healthy young woman who, like
Mary Crawford, has potential to do considerable harm to the fabric of society but on whom, like
Elizabeth Bennet, her creator generously bestows life’s greatest blessing: union with a man
whose virtues, talents, and assets are the best complement for her own.
Emma’s eventual marriage to Mr. Knightley of Donwell Abbey is the ultimate expression of one
of Austen’s key assumptions, that marriage is a young woman’s supreme act of self-definition.
Unlike any other Austen heroine, Emma has no pressing need to marry. As the opening sentence
of the book implies, Emma’s situation makes her acceptance or rejection of a suitor an act of
unencumbered will: “Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home
and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived
nearly twentyone years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.”
Free though circumstance allows her to be, Emma has not been encouraged by her lot in life to
acquire the discipline and self-knowledge that, augmenting her innate intelligence and taste,
would help her to choose wisely. Brought up by a doting valetudinarian of a father and a
perceptive but permissive governess, Emma has been encouraged to think too highly of herself.
Far from vain about her beauty, Emma has—as Mr. Knightley, the only person who ventures to
criticize her, observes— complete yet unfounded faith in her ability to judge people’s characters
and arrange their lives. The course of Emma is Miss Woodhouse’s education in judgment, a
process achieved through repeated mistakes and humiliations.
As the novel opens, the young mistress of Hartfield is at loose ends. Her beloved governess has
just married Mr. Weston, of the neighboring property, Randalls. To fill the newly made gap in
her life, Emma takes notice of Harriet Smith, a pretty, dim “natural daughter of somebody,” and
a parlor-boarder at the local school. Determined to settle her protégé into the sort of life she
deems suitable, Emma detaches Harriet from Robert Martin, a young farmer who has proposed
to her, and embarks on a campaign to conquer for Harriet the heart of Mr. Elton, Highbury’s
unmarried clergyman. Elton’s attentiveness and excessive flattery convince Emma of her plan’s
success but at the same time show the reader what Emma is aghast to learn at the end of book 1:
that Elton scorns the nobody and has designs on the heiress herself.
With the arrival of three new personages in Highbury, book 2 widens Emma’s opportunities for
misconception. The first newcomer is Jane Fairfax, an elegant and accomplished connection of
the Bates family and a girl whose prospective fate, the “governess trade,” shows how unreliable
the situations of well-bred young ladies without fortunes or husbands tend to be. Next to arrive is
the suave Mr. Frank Churchill, Mr. Weston’s grown son, who has been adopted by wealthy
relations of his mother and who has been long remiss in paying a visit to Highbury. Finally, Mr.
Elton brings home a bride, the former Augusta Hawkins of Bristol, a pretentious and impertinent
creature possessed of an independent fortune, a well-married sister, and a boundless fund of self-
congratulation. Emma mistakenly flatters herself that the dashing Frank Churchill is in love with
her and then settles on him as a husband for Harriet; she suspects the reserved Miss Fairfax,
whose cultivation she rightly perceives as a reproach to her own untrained talents, of a
clandestine relationship with a married man. She despises Mrs. Elton, as would any person of
sense, but fails to see that the vulgar woman’s offensiveness is an exaggerated version of her
own officiousness and snobbery.
Thus the potential consequences of Emma’s misplaced faith in her judgment intensify, and the
evidence of her fallibility mounts. Thoroughly embarrassed to learn that Frank Churchill, with
whom she has shared all her hypotheses regarding Jane Fairfax, has long been secretly engaged
to that woman, Emma suffers the deathblow to her smug self-esteem when Harriet announces
that the gentleman whose feelings she hopes to have aroused is not, as Emma supposes,
Churchill but the squire of Donwell. Emma’s moment of truth is devastating and complete, its
importance marked by one of Jane Austen’s rare uses of figurative language: “It darted through
her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!” Perhaps the
greatest evidence of Emma’s being a favorite of fortune is that Mr. Knightley feels the same as
she does on this matter. Chastened by her series of bad judgments, paired with a gentleman who
for years has loved and respected her enough to correct her and whom she can love and respect
in return, Emma participates in the minuet of marriage with which Austen concludes the book,
the other couples so united being Miss Fairfax and Mr. Churchill and Harriet Smith (ductile
enough to form four attachments in a year) and Robert Martin (stalwart enough to persist in his
original feeling).
Emma Woodhouse’s gradual education, which parallels the reader’s growing awareness of what
a menace to the social order her circumstances, abilities, and weaknesses combine to make her, is
one of Austen’s finest pieces of plotting. The depiction of character is likewise superb. Among a
gallery of memorable and distinctive characters are Mr. Woodhouse; Miss Bates, the streamof-
consciousness talker who inadvertently provokes Emma’s famous rudeness on Box Hill; and the
wonderfully detestable Mrs. Elton, with her self-contradictions and her fractured Italian, her
endless allusions to Selina, Mr. Suckling, Maple Grove, and the barouche landau. Life at
Hartfield, Donwell, and Highbury is portrayed with complexity and economy. Every word,
expression, opinion, and activity—whether sketching a portrait, selecting a dancing partner, or
planning a strawberrypicking party—becomes a gesture of self-revelation. Emma demonstrates
how, in Austen’s hands, the novel of manners can become a statement of moral philosophy.
Northanger Abbey
Northanger Abbey was published in a four-volume unit with Persuasion in 1818, after Austen’s
death, but the manuscript had been completed much earlier, in 1803. Austen wrote a preface
for Northanger Abbey but did not do the sort of revising that had transformed “Elinor and
Marianne” and “First Impressions” into Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. The
published form of Northanger Abbey can therefore be seen as the earliest of the six novels. It is
also, with the possible exception of Sense and Sensibility, the most “literary.” Northanger Abbey,
like some of Austen’s juvenile burlesques, confronts the conventions of the gothic novel or tale
of terror. The incidents of her novel have been shown to parallel, with ironic difference, the
principal lines of gothic romance, particularly as practiced by Ann Radcliffe, whose most famous
works, The Romance of the Forest (1791) and The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), had appeared
several years before Austen began work on her burlesque.
Like Emma, Northanger Abbey is centrally concerned with tracing the growth of a young
woman’s mind and the cultivation of her judgment. In this less sophisticated work, however, the
author accomplishes her goal through a rather schematic contrast. As an enthusiastic reader of
tales of terror, Catherine Morland has gothic expectations of life despite a background most
unsuitable for a heroine. Like the gothic heroines she admires, Catherine commences
adventuring early in the novel. She is not, however, shipped to Venice or Dalmatia; rather, she is
taken to Bath for a six-week stay. Her hosts are serenely amiable English folk, her pastimes the
ordinary round of spa pleasures; the young man whose acquaintance she makes, Henry Tilney, is
a witty clergyman rather than a misanthropic monk or dissolute rake. Toward this delightful, if
far from gothic, young man, Catherine’s feelings are early inclined. In turn, he, his sister, and
even his father, the haughty, imperious General Tilney, are favorably disposed toward her. With
the highest expectations, Catherine sets out to accompany them to their seat, the Abbey of the
novel’s title (which, like that of Persuasion, was selected not by the author but by Henry Austen,
who handled the posthumous publication).
At Northanger, Catherine’s education in the difference between literature and life continues.
Despite its monastic origins, the Abbey proves a comfortable and well-maintained dwelling.
When Catherine, like one of Radcliffe’s protagonists, finds a mysterious document in a chest and
spends a restless night wondering what lurid tale it might chronicle, she is again disappointed: “If
the evidence of her sight might be trusted she held a washing- bill in her hand.” Although
Catherine’s experience does not confirm the truth of Radcliffe’s sensational horrors, it does not
prove the world a straightforward, safe, cozy place. Catherine has already seen something of
falseness and selfish vulgarity in the persons of Isabella Thorpe and her brother John,
acquaintances formed at Bath. At Northanger, she learns that, though the general may not be the
wife murderer she has fancied him, he is quite as cruel as she could imagine. On learning that
Catherine is not the great heiress he has mistakenly supposed her to be, the furious general packs
her off in disgrace and discomfort in a public coach.
With this proof that the world of fact can be as treacherous as that of fiction, Catherine returns,
sadder and wiser, to the bosom of her family. She has not long to droop, however, for Henry
Tilney, on hearing of his father’s bad behavior, hurries after her and makes Catherine the
proposal that he has long felt inclined to offer and that his father has until recently promoted. The
approval of Catherine’s parents is immediate, and the general is not overlong in coming to
countenance the match. “To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and
eighteen is to do pretty well,” observes the facetious narrator, striking a literary pose even in the
novel’s last sentence, “and . . . I leave it to be settled by whomsoever it may concern, whether the
tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial
disobedience.”
Persuasion
Persuasion, many readers believe, signals Austen’s literary move out of the eighteenth century
and into the nineteenth. This novel, quite different from those that preceded it, draws not on the
tradition of the novelists of the 1790’s but on that of the lionized poets of the new century’s
second decade, Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron. For the first time, Austen clearly seems the
child of her time, susceptible to the charms of natural rather than improved landscapes, fields,
and sea cliffs rather than gardens and shrubberies. The wistful, melancholy beauty of autumn that
pervades the book is likewise romantic. The gaiety, vitality, and sparkling wit of Pride and
Prejudice and Emma are muted. The stable social order represented by the great estate in
Mansfield Park has become fluid in Persuasion: Here the principal country house, Kellynch
Hall, must be let because the indigenous family cannot afford to inhabit it.
Most important, Persuasion’s heroine is unique in Jane Austen’s gallery. Anne Elliott, uprooted
from her ancestral home, spiritually isolated from her selfish and small-minded father and sisters,
separated from the man she loves by a long-standing estrangement, is every bit as “alienated” as
such later nineteenth century heroines as Esther Summerson, Jane Eyre, and Becky Sharp.
Anne’s story is very much the product of Austen’s middle age. At twenty-seven, Anne is the
only Austen heroine to be past her first youth. Furthermore, she is in no need of education. Her
one great mistake—overriding the impulse of her heart and yielding to the persuasion of her
friend Lady Russell in rejecting the proposal of Frederick Wentworth, a sanguine young naval
officer with his fortune still to make and his character to prove—is some eight years in the past,
and she clearly recognizes it for the error it was.
Persuasion is the story of how Anne and Frederick (now the eminent Captain) Wentworth
rekindle the embers of their love. Chance throws them together when the vain, foolish Sir Walter
Elliott, obliged to economize or rent his estate, resolves to move his household to Bath, where he
can cut a fine figure at less cost, and leases Kellynch to Admiral and Mrs. Croft, who turn out to
be the brother-in-law and sister of Captain Wentworth. Initially cool to his former love—or,
rather, able to see the diminution of her beauty because he is unable to forgive her rejection—the
captain flirts with the Musgrove girls; they are sisters to the husband of Anne’s younger sister
Mary and blooming belles with the youth and vigor Anne lacks. The captain’s old appreciation
of Anne’s merits—her clear insight, kindness, high-mindedness, and modesty—soon reasserts
itself, but not before fate and the captain’s impetuosity have all but forced another engagement
on him. Being “jumped down” from the Cobb at Lyme Regis, Louisa Musgrove misses his arms
and falls unconscious on the pavement. Obliged by honor to declare himself hers if she should
wish it, Wentworth is finally spared this self-sacrifice when the susceptible young lady and the
sensitive Captain Benwick fall in love. Having discovered the intensity of his devotion to Anne
by being on the point of having to abjure it, Wentworth hurries to Bath, there to declare his
attachment in what is surely the most powerful engagement scene in the Austen canon.
Though the story of Persuasion belongs to Anne Elliott and Frederick Wentworth, Austen’s skill
at evoking characters is everywhere noticeable. As Elizabeth Jenkins observes, all of the
supporting characters present different facets of the love theme. The heartless marital
calculations of Mr. Elliott, Elizabeth Elliott, and Mrs. Clay, the domestic comforts of the senior
Musgroves and the Crofts, and the half-fractious, half-amiable ménage of Charles and Mary
Musgrove all permit the reader to discern more clearly how rare and true is the love Anne Elliott
and her captain have come so close to losing. The mature, deeply grateful commitment they are
able to make to each other is, if not the most charming, surely the most profound in the Austen
world.
2. The narrative voice
Any analysis of the narrative techniques of a novel necessarily has to begin with discerning what
type of narrator we are confronted with. In the case of Emma, this is easy to accomplish as we
have a narrator who holds a fairly large share of the narrative discourse, especially over the first
few pages of the novel, readily allowing us to gain a number of important impressions early on.
The narrative begins with the introduction and characterization of the eponymous heroine Emma
Woodhouse and gives background information on the family, as well as some of the major
characters to be, to an addressee:
‘Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy
disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-
one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her. […] he was very much disposed to
think Miss Taylor had done as sad thing for herself as for them, […].’ (pp 5-7)1
As we can see, the narrator purposefully communicates this information about the setting, the
protagonist and the other characters. Though, as the story unfolds, much of the plot is developed
through discourse between the characters, we find she2 never shies away from actually guiding
the addressee to a certain insight or making a humorous remark, which are addressed directly at
the reader, whenever this is necessary. Due to this distinct narrative voice, the narrator can be
characterized as overt (Jahn 2005). In consequence, we are aware of her presence throughout the
novel - though sometimes more, sometimes less, this undoubtedly adds to the development of a
relationship between narrator and reader. Furthermore, we can quickly ascertain that the narrator
is not present as a character in the narrative itself, but rather describes characters and relates
incidents which happen to them. As the incipit above shows, characters and actions are referred
to in the 3rd person pronoun singular or plural; at no point in the narrative does the narrator refer
to herself; she has no part in the action related, plot-promoting sentences. Following a distinction
proposed by Genette (1980), the narrator can, therefore, additionally be described
as heterodiegetic. As the narrator is not part of the story, she can, consequently, choose to
assume omniscience, which she displays in many instances - she moves in and out of characters’
minds, provides background information, as the quoted passage above, once more, shows, and, at
times, subtly foreshadows subsequent events. Yet, it is important to state that she does not
actually ever exercise these omniscient capabilities to the fullest.
Subsuming these traits of the narrator, we can consequently, though at a basic level, characterize
the narrative situation in Emma as an authorial narrative (Jahn 2005). Yet this definition by no
means suffices to account for the differentiated reading experience provided in Emma - it is
rather more complex. Therefore, we will now reflect upon how Austen employs this authorial
narrator.
3. Employing omniscience
As I determined above, the narrator in Emma can be characterized as heterodiegenetic so she can
choose to possess certain knowledge privileges. It is quite noticeable how the narrator chooses to
employ this omniscience to effectuate suspense. One manner, in which she exercises her
abilities, is shown in the delicate foreshadowing of events. The reader is confronted with this
omniscience, fairly early on. Once again, allow me to draw attention to the incipient sentence:
"Bye the bye, my dear Edward, I am quite concerned for the loss your Mother
mentions in her Letter: two Chapters & a half to be missing is monstrous! It is
well that I have not been at Steventon lately, & therefore cannot be suspected
of purloining them;—two strong twigs & a half towards a Nest of my own, would
have been something. —I do not think however than any theft of that sort
would be really useful to me. What should I do with your strong, manly, spirited
Sketches, full of Variety & Glow? —How could I possibly join them on to the
little bit (two Inches wide) of Ivory on which I work with so fine a Brush, as
produces little effect after much labour?"