Oh, Penelope recognised him alright, through the beggar's guise. It was his ever so overcoded way of leaning forward in that chair Eurynome had brought up for him, for a start. And it was his way of wanting his old body to seem humble enough to deny the comfort of the seat's fleece cover. Oh, and the misty teared eyed taking in of the glow of the megaron hearth. This all showed her the great cunning mind of Odysseus at work. True, the scabbed knees, the black grimy ragged loincloth, the sunken chest with uncurled, white hairs, and the matted white beard, uncombed and as patchy as a vagrant's diet, spoke of twenty years of hardships fighting in Troy and making some unconscionable trail back here to his palace. But she wasn't stupid. The waste of his limbs, the gutwrenching sickness in his breath, and his untouchable fingernails were all the neat poetic authorship of Athena scripting the glorious return in hiding of the beggar king.
It wasn't his looks now that rankled. It was the deep echo of the touch of Antinoos that she knew now in the whisperless chambers of the palace. It was the sight of her golden weave in near completion beneath her cloister window. That beggar's prodigal narrative of nostos could be nipped in the bud. Was there a way of making this not inevitable, while escaping the fate of Clytemnaistra, her tactless cousin, murderer of Agamemnon?
Oh, but then she heard the stranger speak, head down, broken but with his uncanny voice, sonorous, twenty times the breadth of his ragged breast: "Lady, your fame goes up to heaven". The syllables exploded into dream memories of showered hibiscus and lotus petals reflected one June morning in her sunshine skin and golden hair that he said he would love, would love, would love forever and that surged in her heart to return that yes, oh she would love, she would love: Oh, no, would she renew her vow, now? Oh, a voice, a mouth of flowers, and I am undone, undone.
Here's an exercise I've set. Anyone like to try it?
I'd like you to attempt a short piece of prose narrative featuring a character called Penny who is in a dilemma. The nature of her difficulty, you can choose entirely for yourself. What I'm really interested in here is to ask you to explore the possibilities of representing Penny's consciousness. However, your main constraint is that Penny must always be referred to in the third person. She is not the narrator even though it is her thought being represented.
I'd like you to take note of the following:
When a third-person, "omniscient" narrator plunges into the consciousness of a character and represents their thoughts but still in the third-person, this technique is called focalization.
And there are different levels of focalization. Used to great effect, the narrator can display a particular level of empathy with a character, for a different effect. Let me demonstrate how this works.
A character's quoted monologue, "Have I wasted my time in this job all these years?" would, in focalization, be converted to the third person and the past tense, using for example the following three techniques:
1 She wondered if she had wasted her time in her job, all those years. This sentence is an example of what is called psycho-narration. The narrator is reporting indirectly the character's thought, changing the pronoun and tense, and substituting the demonstrative adjective "those" for "these".
2 Had she squandered her time by remaining in that occupation for all those years?: This sentence is an example of narrated monologue. Note that there's no phrase such as "She wondered" in this example to identify the prominence of an obtrusive authorial narrator here, which means we have greater emphasis on the character's thoughts, without any additional narratorial reportage. However, the language used is more writerly than in the character's own quoted monologue, so we say that here is an example of narrated monologue of the dissonant kind.
3 Had she wasted her time in his job, all those years? This is narrated monologue of the consonant kind, because though it phrases the character's thought in the third person and switches tense, it is the closest kind of focalization we have seen to the original example of quoted monologue quoted above.
Example 3, and, to an extent, example 2, are known in linguistics as free indirect discourse. Such discourse is 'free' because it's not preceded by phrases such as "She said" to make it reported speech that emphasises the narrator's standpoint; it's indirect because it's not a first person utterance.
So, I'd like you to produce a piece of work which shows all three kinds of focalization mentioned above, in operation.
And please do make sure to have good fun at attempting this exercise. I hope it will benefit you!
Finsbury...I don't know if that is exactly what the exercise asked for but I gave it my best shot off the top of my head with my understanding of it. Tell me what you think though...nice idea though and I can't wait to read some others.
this is so exciting....I've got to read the instructions....I daresay jodphurs will be involved somehow and the Raj.....but I'm only guessing what I'll write.....everything's different here today.....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Spring came late that year. The endless cycle of the seasons marched on, but the lagging of Winter through late March left a feeling of restlessness in the village of Dorsal....(heheheheheeh). People talked of the cold and wondered if indeed they would see the daffodils at all, or if the frost and ice would be permanent, perhaps some payment for a slight to nature, forgotten and unrecorded. Penny was among those who wished for an hiatus from the unrelenting elements, and for this reason, she had planned an extraordinary holiday to India to try to reacquaint herself with sunshine, and to bathe in vistas of greenery and luscious colour.
Arriving in New Delhi on April 1st, her itinerary was self-dictated and, with only the constraint of a pleasurable detour on a barge in Kashmir for 3 days, it was distinctly ill-formed. She took the train to Jodphur and booked into a small hotel, which boasted pure whitewashed external walls with a pristinely aquaed pool (of modest proportions). During the day she visited the markets and at night partook of varied and sumptuous meals, (her treat to herself as part of the shucking off of Winter). She thought to go to an open-air concert on the 3rd day of her stay, but unfortunately, a sudden downpour forestalled this, and instead she made do with listening to an array of classical Indian musicians whose tapes she had purchased at a local shop. She was amazed by how little everything cost, but even more incredible was the beauty of the city.
Two days before her trip to Kashmir, she went to watch a polo match. Penny had only ridden a horse once or twice as a child, but during the match she fell under the spell of a fine horse who was hands above the others. At the break she approached the player to enquire about his ride. The man was affable and his genial nature became apparent to Penny as they talked. The horse's name was Shara, and she was a 3 year old mare. During the second half of the game, however, Penny noticed that the horse's performance had become markedly lower. She spoke to Raj after the game, and asked him what the reason was. His English was quite good, but he couldn't explain the problem to Penny. From what she could make out, something was under the saddle of the horse. Penny tried hard to think of the English word for what Raj produced from under the saddle, but all she could think of was burr.
That night she looked in her dictionary for the word burr but found no definition matching the item under the saddle. This anomaly plagued her day and night for the rest of her time in Jodhpur, and it was only after resting in Kashmir for a few days that her peace of mind returned. By the time she was back in Dorsal (heheheheheh), the little burr had stopped pricking her.
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Thanks ever so much. Still Here, you achieved something unusually good; you were able to adhere to the exercise and yet still do it in verse rather than prose which shows you've enough understanding of the task to do what you like with it.
ISN, you've begun something here. Carry it on. You got the Raj and the jodphurs in nicely; I look forward to reading more if you like.
ahh....thanks Finsbury.....(did I get it right? did I cover all three?)
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
The level of focalisation in the passage isn't too extensive, because you've written this piece in a clear realist mode, but there are certainly instances of the free indirect discourse I mentioned above.
"Penny was among those who wished for an hiatus from the unrelenting elements"
"She thought to go to an open-air concert on the 3rd day of her stay"
(Partly third person reportage, partly psycho narration).
"She was amazed by how little everything cost, but even more incredible was the beauty of the city"(Narrated monologue. Could either be dissonant or consonant because the narrative voice is consistent with the focalisers).
"The man was affable and his genial nature became apparent to Penny as they talked"
(Dissonant narrated monologue).
"Penny noticed that the horse's performance had become markedly lower"
(Partly third person reportage, psycho narration).
"His English was quite good, but he couldn't explain the problem to Penny"
"From what she could make out, something was under the saddle of the horse"
(Consonant narrated monologue).
"Penny tried hard to think of the English word for what Raj produced from under the saddle, but all she could think of was burr"
(Psycho narration).
"This anomaly plagued her day and night for the rest of her time in Jodhpur, and it was only after resting in Kashmir for a few days that her peace of mind returned"
(Part third person reportage, partly psycho narration).
"the little burr had stopped pricking her"
(Consonant narrated monologue).
A politician seeking re-election on a principle
is like a barroom drunk networking the other drunks
frantically rushing from table to table keeping them apart
making sure they don't get together and compare notes
to find out that he didn't really get to go out with the pretty girl
that she's never heard of him
and that he's been making it all up
these four long years
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Here's an exercise I've set. Anyone like to try it?
I'd like you to attempt a short piece of prose narrative featuring a character called Penny who is in a dilemma. The nature of her difficulty, you can choose entirely for yourself. What I'm really interested in here is to ask you to explore the possibilities of representing Penny's consciousness. However, your main constraint is that Penny must always be referred to in the third person. She is not the narrator even though it is her thought being represented.
I'd like you to take note of the following:
When a third-person, "omniscient" narrator plunges into the consciousness of a character and represents their thoughts but still in the third-person, this technique is called focalization.
And there are different levels of focalization. Used to great effect, the narrator can display a particular level of empathy with a character, for a different effect. Let me demonstrate how this works.
A character's quoted monologue, "Have I wasted my time in this job all these years?" would, in focalization, be converted to the third person and the past tense, using for example the following three techniques:
1 She wondered if she had wasted her time in her job, all those years. This sentence is an example of what is called psycho-narration. The narrator is reporting indirectly the character's thought, changing the pronoun and tense, and substituting the demonstrative adjective "those" for "these".
2 Had she squandered her time by remaining in that occupation for all those years?: This sentence is an example of narrated monologue. Note that there's no phrase such as "She wondered" in this example to identify the prominence of an obtrusive authorial narrator here, which means we have greater emphasis on the character's thoughts, without any additional narratorial reportage. However, the language used is more writerly than in the character's own quoted monologue, so we say that here is an example of narrated monologue of the dissonant kind.
3 Had she wasted her time in his job, all those years? This is narrated monologue of the consonant kind, because though it phrases the character's thought in the third person and switches tense, it is the closest kind of focalization we have seen to the original example of quoted monologue quoted above.
Example 3, and, to an extent, example 2, are known in linguistics as free indirect discourse. Such discourse is 'free' because it's not preceded by phrases such as "She said" to make it reported speech that emphasises the narrator's standpoint; it's indirect because it's not a first person utterance.
So, I'd like you to produce a piece of work which shows all three kinds of focalization mentioned above, in operation.
And please do make sure to have good fun at attempting this exercise. I hope it will benefit you!
HA!! Fins this IS a challenge!
i will do it, however, i will work on it and return.. this will be fun!!
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
I'll just go with short sentences and try to get them right, because it's a little late:
1. Penny's initial reaction to the poney's kick was rather vulgar, but she knew the beast would come out of its spell. (Psycho-narration?)
2. Surely the poney's clamor was relieved by the swift crack of leather; if nothing else, it satisfied Penny's unquenchable desire to dominate earthly things. (narrated monologue of the dissonant kind)
3. Had she not recognized that the true problem was her loss of dignity, spanning those many lonely nights? (narrated monologue of the consonant kind)
Correct at will, professor! I need your guidance.
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
There is a woman named Penny. Her job is lost, along with her father. Both incidents happened around the same time. Loneliness shrouds her will and ambition. The rent is will be due soon, and with out a job, she may be evicted. She has decided to take a walk for while to unravel her frantic mind. Surely she must be thinking about her father, what would he say to her about losing her job?
As penny is walking, she notices a silver object with a sun shine glare around it. She notes the beauty of the object as she bends over to pick it up. She had found a coin, a quarter to exact, and how warm it was on her chilly hands. The coin warmed her right to her bones. For a moment, everything looks great, for Penny, and she gives herself permission to feel happy. It was just a quarter, but how she loves it so, it is sad to see such emotional attachment to earthly goods.
Continuing her journey to inner peace, she keeps her hand in her pocket, with the quarter in her palm. The sun warms her face, in turn, warming her heart. As carefree as she walks, she doesn’t take the time to notice her surroundings, how is that ever a good thing? She hears a diesel engine, follow by a very loud splash. This snaps her out of the light hypnotic trance she had put herself into. Fear come before her, as she sees a tidal wave of mud and water lurching for her. Penny can feel the horrible event before it even gets to her. It finally hits her, like a ton of bricks; she dropped to her knees in depression. As distant as she had now become from the world, she begins to feel “woe-is-me” once again.
Why do these things always gave to happen to poor penny? Why are there so many bad things happening to our sad Penny? She recalls her age, she is 26 years old. With this established, Penny begins to see everything come together. She feels the quarter in her pocket, and realizes her father had never left her at all, but had changed forms to be with his daughter. As she looks at the quarter, her father had completed her.
With this now in mind, our beloved Penny had come out of her manic-depressive situation, and felt once again, whole. With a new found understanding, and a moderately joyous feeling, she had become more earth bond. Her head out of the clouds, and her feet on the ground, as she applies for a new line of work.
how was that?.. Make sure to tell me how you understood Penny's revilation.
Originally posted by Barroom Hero I'll just go with short sentences and try to get them right, because it's a little late:
1. Penny's initial reaction to the poney's kick was rather vulgar, but she knew the beast would come out of its spell. (Psycho-narration?)
2. Surely the poney's clamor was relieved by the swift crack of leather; if nothing else, it satisfied Penny's unquenchable desire to dominate earthly things. (narrated monologue of the dissonant kind)
3. Had she not recognized that the true problem was her loss of dignity, spanning those many lonely nights? (narrated monologue of the consonant kind)
Correct at will, professor! I need your guidance.
1. Penny's initial reaction to the poney's kick was rather vulgar, but she knew the beast would come out of its spell. (Psycho-narration?)
2. Surely the poney's clamor was relieved by the swift crack of leather; if nothing else, it satisfied Penny's unquenchable desire to dominate earthly things. (narrated monologue of the dissonant kind)
3. Had she not recognized that the true problem was her loss of dignity, spanning those many lonely nights? (narrated monologue of the consonant kind)
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by ExTReMe FrEAk There is a woman named Penny. Her job is lost, along with her father. Both incidents happened around the same time. Loneliness shrouds her will and ambition. The rent is will be due soon, and with out a job, she may be evicted. She has decided to take a walk for while to unravel her frantic mind. Surely she must be thinking about her father, what would he say to her about losing her job?
As penny is walking, she notices a silver object with a sun shine glare around it. She notes the beauty of the object as she bends over to pick it up. She had found a coin, a quarter to exact, and how warm it was on her chilly hands. The coin warmed her right to her bones. For a moment, everything looks great, for Penny, and she gives herself permission to feel happy. It was just a quarter, but how she loves it so, it is sad to see such emotional attachment to earthly goods.
Continuing her journey to inner peace, she keeps her hand in her pocket, with the quarter in her palm. The sun warms her face, in turn, warming her heart. As carefree as she walks, she doesn’t take the time to notice her surroundings, how is that ever a good thing? She hears a diesel engine, follow by a very loud splash. This snaps her out of the light hypnotic trance she had put herself into. Fear engulfs her, as she sees a tidal wave of mud and water lurching for her. Penny can feel the horrible event before it even gets to her. It finally hits her, like a ton of bricks; she dropped to her knees in depression. As distant as she had now become from the world, she begins to feel “woe-is-me” once again.
Why do these things always gave to happen to poor penny? Why are there so many bad things happening to our sad Penny? She recalls her age, she is 26 years old. With this established, Penny begins to see everything come together. She feels the quarter in her pocket, and realizes her father had never left her at all, but had changed forms to be with his daughter. As she looks at the quarter, her father had completed her.
With this now in mind, our beloved Penny had come out of her manic-depressive situation, and felt once again, whole. With a new found understanding, and a moderately joyous feeling, she had become more earth bond. Her head out of the clouds, and her feet on the ground, as she applies for a new line of work.
how was that?.. Make sure to tell me how you understood Penny's revilation.
It's a very fine story and I like the element of metamorphosis, with Penny's father sent - as Penny in her psychology sees it - as a monetary token of incentive, alerting her to her very material necessity as the route to curing her difficulties. It's interesting how she works this out though still reads it as a supernatural intervention.
Okay. Now, the exercise had asked for you to write in the past tense but you attempted something more adventurous and did it in the present tense. What I've done here below in terms of editing your work is a hell of a lot less drastic than what a professional literary editor will do with a published writer, so please don't take any offence: I've tweaked your composition so that it foregrounds all the techniques mentioned above and pushes her consciousness rather than the narrator's voice to the fore. In fact, by writing in the present tense there are certain sentences that are so consonant with Penny's that they could in fact be both third and first person stream of consciousness, and that's something you'll see only rarely, in novels such as "Ulysses" by James Joyce.
Okay, this is it. Hope you don't mind. I feel your work is very very strong, I feel.
______
There is a woman named Penny. She lost her job and her father around the same time: How she feels that loneliness has shrouded her will and ambition! The rent is due soon, and with out a job, she may be evicted. She'll take a walk for while to unravel her frantic mind. Oh Father, what would he say to her about losing her job?
As Penny is walking, she notices a silver object with a sun shine glare around it. She notes the beauty of the object as she bends over to pick it up. It's a coin, a quarter to exact, and how warm it feels on her chilly hands! The coin warms, right to the bones. For a moment, everything looks and feels great. Penny gives herself permission to feel happy. So, it's just a quarter, but how she loves it so, though she knows it's sad to feel such emotional attachment to earthly goods.
Continuing her journey to inner peace, she keeps her hand in her pocket, with the quarter in her palm. The sun warms her face, in turn, warming her heart. As carefree as she walks, she knows she doesn’t take the time to notice her surroundings, how is that ever a good thing? She enjoys putting herself in a light hypnotic trance. But then she hears a diesel engine, followed by a very loud splash. Fear come before her, as she sees a tidal wave of mud and water lurching for her. Penny can feel the horrible event before it even gets to her. Thought finally hits her, and she drops to her knees in depression. As distant as she had now become from the world, she begins to feel sore and “woe-is-me”, but somehow strangely vital.
Why do these things always gave to happen to her? Why are there so many bad things happening? She's 26 years old! Penny begins to see everything come together. She feels the quarter in her pocket, and realizes her father had never left her at all, but had changed forms to be with his daughter. As she looks at the quarter, her father had completed her.
With this now in mind, Penny feels the clouds of what they've called her manic depression lift, and she feels, once again, whole. With a new found understanding, and a moderately joyous feeling, she feels more earth bound, less chained to the ether! Yes! She'll start today with her father found in gold. She'll apply for a new line of work.
Originally posted by olderman HA!! Fins this IS a challenge!
i will do it, however, i will work on it and return.. this will be fun!!
I look forward to reading your work, olderman. I know you've read "Middlemarch": I know you're well acquainted with the dilemmas of Dorothea Brooke, Tertius Lydgate and Nicholas Bulstrode.
Reeds, there were great reeds rising from the middle of the stream, some as thick as rhubarb stalks, all late summer yellowings of green and brown, shimmering in patches of muddy water sunlight, a dirty yellow. Their sound? A silky fumbling, expert and deliciously unnerving, setting the ears and temples on edge like the touch of dusty velvet. The wind leaned them pendulously, at times flipping their tips in the rippling black of the rush upstream. Shiftings of darting pike blazed in the brook at the reeds' sudden parting, streaking fast shudderings of light past the angling water wind. Coins of sun breaking through the reed stems caught the lip of a buckle on an open sandalwood bag, patterned and fragrant, laying by four bare feet on the daisyed grass. And there were eyes that flashed currency for a kiss, a deep meadow kiss, afforded by these brief shape changes in the ripple tossed reeds.
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
poetic licence? to what purpose....this goes back to the thread on sevensins' piece......is a mistake poetic licence?
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Never mind the "pony"/"poney" debate; back to the writing!
I want you to write a short piece of prose involving a character called Mrs Neave who has a discovery of some sort. You could use some of the techniques demonstrated in the exercise above, or write something different.
A few pages above I wrote my own "Mrs Neave's Discovery", and to save scrolling up I'll simply repeat it here:
Judith Neave ran her right index finger, panning left to right, along the third shelf of blue and grey cloth bound books in the case set in the alcove of the living room. White clouded afternoon light, from the back garden behind her shoulder, streamed through the closed French windows upon her forearm and hand as she played the tops of the books like piano keys. Each book reverberated a different memory. The old secondhand Oxford edition of Wordsworth, blue cloth with browning gilt, brought to mind Jeffrey standing clad only in a towel after a bath, on the landing at the first house they bought in Duke Street. He stood there, suds around his feet and soaking the landing carpet, reading aloud Maud in a mock parson's drone as she heard her laugh rebound around the bathroom tiles, she happy to go in and take his water for her own wash. They'd been young students together, married, and had got that house when Jeff had accepted his first teaching post at the new Comprehensive. Ha! Yes, she used to scour the market in town for poetry books for him, she never forgot him. Stacks and stacks, he really did read them all, he devoured them. That was long before they could afford to move here. And then there was that time when she was on maternity leave from the University after Jill was born. She'd take the baby into town and buy old collections of Donne or early English translations of Zola, and surprise him with them when he returned from work in the evening. There they were on the shelves, those memories. And look: That original Faber of Eliot! Ah, Prufrock. He recited it all to her by heart that first holiday together, their honeymoon out by the bright dunes at Southwold, snuggled on a red tartan blanket with rather warm Chardonnay, and with the cloud perpetually threatening rain and wind blowing her straw hat down to the sea. Oh, that was a touch of realism in the moment of romance! How did it happen, now? Oh! There he was in his cream linen shirt and trousers, all sandy, his eyes closed, whispering, she in her pink dress, her breast sighing. all the time watching his lips, "Do I dare?" Then the wind caught that hat she'd left beside her and it blew it up over their heads right up in the air, spinning it round and down to the sea, with the tide coming in for teatime, showering sprays of foam on the glistening sand ...
Peter and Margaret were the last of the guests to go home. They'd said to Judith if she needed anything, just to call. Jill had been but had now gone to her boyfriend's: She'd said she couldn't take it being here, surrounded by memories, so soon afterwards. Judith was still in the black outfit. It wasn't right to change so soon, was it? The fabric itched a little. She touched an unfamiliar edition of Proust with her fingertips. Then she felt a warm light upon the side of her face. She blinked, turned, and opened the French windows, to let the afternoon sounds of a busy high street resound over her garden wall, through her garden and into the still living room. Flies poured in on the speared cocktail sausages and limp ham sandwiches from the wake, before now untouched on their plates on the table. Judith turned her eyes once again to the strange copy of Proust, "The Remembrance of Things Past", plucked the volume from the shelf and opened it in her palm, the soft dust jacket sensuous against her flesh. Then she saw her husband's name etched in someone else's extravagant hand, a Loop on the J, a flourish on the Y. And just as the sun blinded, she read the dedication.
Comments
It wasn't his looks now that rankled. It was the deep echo of the touch of Antinoos that she knew now in the whisperless chambers of the palace. It was the sight of her golden weave in near completion beneath her cloister window. That beggar's prodigal narrative of nostos could be nipped in the bud. Was there a way of making this not inevitable, while escaping the fate of Clytemnaistra, her tactless cousin, murderer of Agamemnon?
Oh, but then she heard the stranger speak, head down, broken but with his uncanny voice, sonorous, twenty times the breadth of his ragged breast: "Lady, your fame goes up to heaven". The syllables exploded into dream memories of showered hibiscus and lotus petals reflected one June morning in her sunshine skin and golden hair that he said he would love, would love, would love forever and that surged in her heart to return that yes, oh she would love, she would love: Oh, no, would she renew her vow, now? Oh, a voice, a mouth of flowers, and I am undone, undone.
EV: Honolulu-4/21 & 4/22/07 [Kokua]. Detroit-6/26/11.
I'd like you to attempt a short piece of prose narrative featuring a character called Penny who is in a dilemma. The nature of her difficulty, you can choose entirely for yourself. What I'm really interested in here is to ask you to explore the possibilities of representing Penny's consciousness. However, your main constraint is that Penny must always be referred to in the third person. She is not the narrator even though it is her thought being represented.
I'd like you to take note of the following:
When a third-person, "omniscient" narrator plunges into the consciousness of a character and represents their thoughts but still in the third-person, this technique is called focalization.
And there are different levels of focalization. Used to great effect, the narrator can display a particular level of empathy with a character, for a different effect. Let me demonstrate how this works.
A character's quoted monologue, "Have I wasted my time in this job all these years?" would, in focalization, be converted to the third person and the past tense, using for example the following three techniques:
1 She wondered if she had wasted her time in her job, all those years. This sentence is an example of what is called psycho-narration. The narrator is reporting indirectly the character's thought, changing the pronoun and tense, and substituting the demonstrative adjective "those" for "these".
2 Had she squandered her time by remaining in that occupation for all those years?: This sentence is an example of narrated monologue. Note that there's no phrase such as "She wondered" in this example to identify the prominence of an obtrusive authorial narrator here, which means we have greater emphasis on the character's thoughts, without any additional narratorial reportage. However, the language used is more writerly than in the character's own quoted monologue, so we say that here is an example of narrated monologue of the dissonant kind.
3 Had she wasted her time in his job, all those years? This is narrated monologue of the consonant kind, because though it phrases the character's thought in the third person and switches tense, it is the closest kind of focalization we have seen to the original example of quoted monologue quoted above.
Example 3, and, to an extent, example 2, are known in linguistics as free indirect discourse. Such discourse is 'free' because it's not preceded by phrases such as "She said" to make it reported speech that emphasises the narrator's standpoint; it's indirect because it's not a first person utterance.
So, I'd like you to produce a piece of work which shows all three kinds of focalization mentioned above, in operation.
And please do make sure to have good fun at attempting this exercise. I hope it will benefit you!
She's in a forest now
where she can't find her way...
Shall she take the low road?
Starving creatures giving chase
taking chomps of flesh much to her dismay...
Has she chosen her last path?
Gaining speed the monsters approach
nearing the river bend...
Is it time for Penny to wake?
Arising from slumbering fright
she clears the sweat from her brow...
Wonders what the next forest hides.
EV: Honolulu-4/21 & 4/22/07 [Kokua]. Detroit-6/26/11.
EV: Honolulu-4/21 & 4/22/07 [Kokua]. Detroit-6/26/11.
Arriving in New Delhi on April 1st, her itinerary was self-dictated and, with only the constraint of a pleasurable detour on a barge in Kashmir for 3 days, it was distinctly ill-formed. She took the train to Jodphur and booked into a small hotel, which boasted pure whitewashed external walls with a pristinely aquaed pool (of modest proportions). During the day she visited the markets and at night partook of varied and sumptuous meals, (her treat to herself as part of the shucking off of Winter). She thought to go to an open-air concert on the 3rd day of her stay, but unfortunately, a sudden downpour forestalled this, and instead she made do with listening to an array of classical Indian musicians whose tapes she had purchased at a local shop. She was amazed by how little everything cost, but even more incredible was the beauty of the city.
Two days before her trip to Kashmir, she went to watch a polo match. Penny had only ridden a horse once or twice as a child, but during the match she fell under the spell of a fine horse who was hands above the others. At the break she approached the player to enquire about his ride. The man was affable and his genial nature became apparent to Penny as they talked. The horse's name was Shara, and she was a 3 year old mare. During the second half of the game, however, Penny noticed that the horse's performance had become markedly lower. She spoke to Raj after the game, and asked him what the reason was. His English was quite good, but he couldn't explain the problem to Penny. From what she could make out, something was under the saddle of the horse. Penny tried hard to think of the English word for what Raj produced from under the saddle, but all she could think of was burr.
That night she looked in her dictionary for the word burr but found no definition matching the item under the saddle. This anomaly plagued her day and night for the rest of her time in Jodhpur, and it was only after resting in Kashmir for a few days that her peace of mind returned. By the time she was back in Dorsal (heheheheheh), the little burr had stopped pricking her.
ISN, you've begun something here. Carry it on.
Thank you.
"Penny was among those who wished for an hiatus from the unrelenting elements"
"She thought to go to an open-air concert on the 3rd day of her stay"
(Partly third person reportage, partly psycho narration).
"She was amazed by how little everything cost, but even more incredible was the beauty of the city"(Narrated monologue. Could either be dissonant or consonant because the narrative voice is consistent with the focalisers).
"The man was affable and his genial nature became apparent to Penny as they talked"
(Dissonant narrated monologue).
"Penny noticed that the horse's performance had become markedly lower"
(Partly third person reportage, psycho narration).
"His English was quite good, but he couldn't explain the problem to Penny"
"From what she could make out, something was under the saddle of the horse"
(Consonant narrated monologue).
"Penny tried hard to think of the English word for what Raj produced from under the saddle, but all she could think of was burr"
(Psycho narration).
"This anomaly plagued her day and night for the rest of her time in Jodhpur, and it was only after resting in Kashmir for a few days that her peace of mind returned"
(Part third person reportage, partly psycho narration).
"the little burr had stopped pricking her"
(Consonant narrated monologue).
Well done, ISN.
is like a barroom drunk networking the other drunks
frantically rushing from table to table keeping them apart
making sure they don't get together and compare notes
to find out that he didn't really get to go out with the pretty girl
that she's never heard of him
and that he's been making it all up
these four long years
i've got something in mind. maybe i'll work on it later.
enjoyed the 'principled politician' up tharrr.
me too Finsbury...KUTGW...:)
EV: Honolulu-4/21 & 4/22/07 [Kokua]. Detroit-6/26/11.
HA!! Fins this IS a challenge!
i will do it, however, i will work on it and return.. this will be fun!!
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
1. Penny's initial reaction to the poney's kick was rather vulgar, but she knew the beast would come out of its spell. (Psycho-narration?)
2. Surely the poney's clamor was relieved by the swift crack of leather; if nothing else, it satisfied Penny's unquenchable desire to dominate earthly things. (narrated monologue of the dissonant kind)
3. Had she not recognized that the true problem was her loss of dignity, spanning those many lonely nights? (narrated monologue of the consonant kind)
Correct at will, professor! I need your guidance.
As penny is walking, she notices a silver object with a sun shine glare around it. She notes the beauty of the object as she bends over to pick it up. She had found a coin, a quarter to exact, and how warm it was on her chilly hands. The coin warmed her right to her bones. For a moment, everything looks great, for Penny, and she gives herself permission to feel happy. It was just a quarter, but how she loves it so, it is sad to see such emotional attachment to earthly goods.
Continuing her journey to inner peace, she keeps her hand in her pocket, with the quarter in her palm. The sun warms her face, in turn, warming her heart. As carefree as she walks, she doesn’t take the time to notice her surroundings, how is that ever a good thing? She hears a diesel engine, follow by a very loud splash. This snaps her out of the light hypnotic trance she had put herself into. Fear come before her, as she sees a tidal wave of mud and water lurching for her. Penny can feel the horrible event before it even gets to her. It finally hits her, like a ton of bricks; she dropped to her knees in depression. As distant as she had now become from the world, she begins to feel “woe-is-me” once again.
Why do these things always gave to happen to poor penny? Why are there so many bad things happening to our sad Penny? She recalls her age, she is 26 years old. With this established, Penny begins to see everything come together. She feels the quarter in her pocket, and realizes her father had never left her at all, but had changed forms to be with his daughter. As she looks at the quarter, her father had completed her.
With this now in mind, our beloved Penny had come out of her manic-depressive situation, and felt once again, whole. With a new found understanding, and a moderately joyous feeling, she had become more earth bond. Her head out of the clouds, and her feet on the ground, as she applies for a new line of work.
how was that?.. Make sure to tell me how you understood Penny's revilation.
1. Penny's initial reaction to the poney's kick was rather vulgar, but she knew the beast would come out of its spell. (Psycho-narration?)
2. Surely the poney's clamor was relieved by the swift crack of leather; if nothing else, it satisfied Penny's unquenchable desire to dominate earthly things. (narrated monologue of the dissonant kind)
3. Had she not recognized that the true problem was her loss of dignity, spanning those many lonely nights? (narrated monologue of the consonant kind)
It's a very fine story and I like the element of metamorphosis, with Penny's father sent - as Penny in her psychology sees it - as a monetary token of incentive, alerting her to her very material necessity as the route to curing her difficulties. It's interesting how she works this out though still reads it as a supernatural intervention.
Okay. Now, the exercise had asked for you to write in the past tense but you attempted something more adventurous and did it in the present tense. What I've done here below in terms of editing your work is a hell of a lot less drastic than what a professional literary editor will do with a published writer, so please don't take any offence: I've tweaked your composition so that it foregrounds all the techniques mentioned above and pushes her consciousness rather than the narrator's voice to the fore. In fact, by writing in the present tense there are certain sentences that are so consonant with Penny's that they could in fact be both third and first person stream of consciousness, and that's something you'll see only rarely, in novels such as "Ulysses" by James Joyce.
Okay, this is it. Hope you don't mind. I feel your work is very very strong, I feel.
______
There is a woman named Penny. She lost her job and her father around the same time: How she feels that loneliness has shrouded her will and ambition! The rent is due soon, and with out a job, she may be evicted. She'll take a walk for while to unravel her frantic mind. Oh Father, what would he say to her about losing her job?
As Penny is walking, she notices a silver object with a sun shine glare around it. She notes the beauty of the object as she bends over to pick it up. It's a coin, a quarter to exact, and how warm it feels on her chilly hands! The coin warms, right to the bones. For a moment, everything looks and feels great. Penny gives herself permission to feel happy. So, it's just a quarter, but how she loves it so, though she knows it's sad to feel such emotional attachment to earthly goods.
Continuing her journey to inner peace, she keeps her hand in her pocket, with the quarter in her palm. The sun warms her face, in turn, warming her heart. As carefree as she walks, she knows she doesn’t take the time to notice her surroundings, how is that ever a good thing? She enjoys putting herself in a light hypnotic trance. But then she hears a diesel engine, followed by a very loud splash. Fear come before her, as she sees a tidal wave of mud and water lurching for her. Penny can feel the horrible event before it even gets to her. Thought finally hits her, and she drops to her knees in depression. As distant as she had now become from the world, she begins to feel sore and “woe-is-me”, but somehow strangely vital.
Why do these things always gave to happen to her? Why are there so many bad things happening? She's 26 years old! Penny begins to see everything come together. She feels the quarter in her pocket, and realizes her father had never left her at all, but had changed forms to be with his daughter. As she looks at the quarter, her father had completed her.
With this now in mind, Penny feels the clouds of what they've called her manic depression lift, and she feels, once again, whole. With a new found understanding, and a moderately joyous feeling, she feels more earth bound, less chained to the ether! Yes! She'll start today with her father found in gold. She'll apply for a new line of work.
I look forward to reading your work, olderman. I know you've read "Middlemarch": I know you're well acquainted with the dilemmas of Dorothea Brooke, Tertius Lydgate and Nicholas Bulstrode.
lol! Hey, it was 1am when I wrote that. I know how to spell 'pony.'
I still love you ISN, for all your impeccable writing critiques.
You know, a response such is this, above, is the deepest any poem might know.
Thank you.
also could spelling pony 'poney' be a form of poetic license? I thought it worked quite well.
EV: Honolulu-4/21 & 4/22/07 [Kokua]. Detroit-6/26/11.
I want you to write a short piece of prose involving a character called Mrs Neave who has a discovery of some sort. You could use some of the techniques demonstrated in the exercise above, or write something different.
A few pages above I wrote my own "Mrs Neave's Discovery", and to save scrolling up I'll simply repeat it here:
Judith Neave ran her right index finger, panning left to right, along the third shelf of blue and grey cloth bound books in the case set in the alcove of the living room. White clouded afternoon light, from the back garden behind her shoulder, streamed through the closed French windows upon her forearm and hand as she played the tops of the books like piano keys. Each book reverberated a different memory. The old secondhand Oxford edition of Wordsworth, blue cloth with browning gilt, brought to mind Jeffrey standing clad only in a towel after a bath, on the landing at the first house they bought in Duke Street. He stood there, suds around his feet and soaking the landing carpet, reading aloud Maud in a mock parson's drone as she heard her laugh rebound around the bathroom tiles, she happy to go in and take his water for her own wash. They'd been young students together, married, and had got that house when Jeff had accepted his first teaching post at the new Comprehensive. Ha! Yes, she used to scour the market in town for poetry books for him, she never forgot him. Stacks and stacks, he really did read them all, he devoured them. That was long before they could afford to move here. And then there was that time when she was on maternity leave from the University after Jill was born. She'd take the baby into town and buy old collections of Donne or early English translations of Zola, and surprise him with them when he returned from work in the evening. There they were on the shelves, those memories. And look: That original Faber of Eliot! Ah, Prufrock. He recited it all to her by heart that first holiday together, their honeymoon out by the bright dunes at Southwold, snuggled on a red tartan blanket with rather warm Chardonnay, and with the cloud perpetually threatening rain and wind blowing her straw hat down to the sea. Oh, that was a touch of realism in the moment of romance! How did it happen, now? Oh! There he was in his cream linen shirt and trousers, all sandy, his eyes closed, whispering, she in her pink dress, her breast sighing. all the time watching his lips, "Do I dare?" Then the wind caught that hat she'd left beside her and it blew it up over their heads right up in the air, spinning it round and down to the sea, with the tide coming in for teatime, showering sprays of foam on the glistening sand ...
Peter and Margaret were the last of the guests to go home. They'd said to Judith if she needed anything, just to call. Jill had been but had now gone to her boyfriend's: She'd said she couldn't take it being here, surrounded by memories, so soon afterwards. Judith was still in the black outfit. It wasn't right to change so soon, was it? The fabric itched a little. She touched an unfamiliar edition of Proust with her fingertips. Then she felt a warm light upon the side of her face. She blinked, turned, and opened the French windows, to let the afternoon sounds of a busy high street resound over her garden wall, through her garden and into the still living room. Flies poured in on the speared cocktail sausages and limp ham sandwiches from the wake, before now untouched on their plates on the table. Judith turned her eyes once again to the strange copy of Proust, "The Remembrance of Things Past", plucked the volume from the shelf and opened it in her palm, the soft dust jacket sensuous against her flesh. Then she saw her husband's name etched in someone else's extravagant hand, a Loop on the J, a flourish on the Y. And just as the sun blinded, she read the dedication.
Okay, have fun doing your own!