Professional Documents
Culture Documents
In Transition Final Website
In Transition Final Website
• Eduardo Galeano: The Right to Rave 257 • An Introduction to Film Studies 356
• Julia de Burgos: Cry of the Kinky Haired Girl 263 • Film Codes 358
• Paul Celan: Aspen Tree 267 • Film Reviews:
• Pablo Neruda: Sonnet XVII 271 Avatar 364
• Anna Akhmatova: Lot’s Wife 275 O Brother, Where Art Thou? 366
• Louis de Paor: Love Poem 279 Edward Scissorhands 368
The Others 370
CHAPTER 9 ADVANCED MEDIA STUDIES I – REPORTING WAR Life Is Beautiful 372
The General 374
• Robert Fisk: Tanks Roll and Guns Fall Silent, but the Clichés Go on Forever 285
• John Pilger: Obama, the Prince of Bait-and-Switch 291
CHAPTER 12 PICTURES II – STILL IMAGES (PHOTOGRAPHY)
• Jo Wilding: Eyewitness in Fallujah 297
• Howard Zinn: World War II: the Good War 305 • An Introduction to Photography 378
• Maggie O’Kane: Dead: the Man Who Defied the IRA and Refused to Run Away 311 • Seven Classic Images:
• Seymour Hersh: My Lai – Hamlet Attack Called ‘Point-Blank Murder’ 317 Kevin Carter: Sudanese Child and a Vulture 382
Charles C. Ebbets: Lunch atop a Skyscraper 384
CHAPTER 10 ADVANCED MEDIA STUDIES II – THE MEDIA AS AN INSTITUTION Stuart Franklin: Tiananmen Square 386
Steve McCurry: Afghan Girl 388
• The Propaganda Model 326
Elliot Erwitt: Segregated Water Fountains 390
• Ownership: The First Filter 328
Dorothea Lange: Migrant Mother 392
• Advertising: The Second Filter 332
Ray McManus: Catch Me if You Can 394
• News Sources: The Third Filter 336
• Working in the Media
Miriam Cotton: An Interview with Harry Browne 341
• Text over Substance?
Colin Murphy: Media Choose Sensation over Insight in Haiti Reportage 349
INTRODUCTION
The NCTE Guidelines for Transition Year (TY) state that a primary aim of TY is: ‘To must be seen as such: remember, it is a transition year, not a gap year.
promote the personal, social, educational and vocational development of pupils This book contains a considerable amount of material and it is structured in
and to prepare them for their role as autonomous, participative, and responsible such a way that you will probably not study everything in it in your TY. What you
members of society.’ In writing this book, I have taken this guideline very much should do is discuss with your teacher the modules that you would like to study
to heart. What you have in your hands is a collection of texts and tasks that were and that he/she would like to facilitate. Take a class or two at the beginning of
carefully chosen so as to best fulfil what the NCTE wants to achieve in TY. the year to look through the book, discussing the topics that are presented, and
TY is (or at least should be) the best period of your school years. It is the one come to a collective (and compromise) decision about what you want to study
year that you can become involved with topics and subjects that you may never and what your teacher wants to teach in TY English.
otherwise get to study. Free from the constraints of formal assessment, it is a In using the book, there is also great scope for cross-curricular and inter-
time when teachers and students can enjoy learning for its own sake. disciplinary learning. So, for example, you might like to study the film studies
It is also the year when you make the transition from being a junior student to module here and then analyse a French film in French class, or take the
being a senior. This is no easy task. The level of work required from a Leaving photography module in this book and apply what you learn to your art classes,
Certificate student is in another league to that required of a Junior Cert student. culminating in setting up an art/photography exhibition. The possibilities in TY are
TY can help to make that extra work and effort a less stressful experience. huge for these kinds of endeavours – chat to your TY co-ordinator and your class
The texts and tasks in this book are designed to help you make that step from teachers to see what you can come up with.
Junior Cert; they are also designed to be relevant to your Leaving Cert. While TY I hope you find TY as rewarding an experience as it should be, and that this
must not be seen as the first year of a three-year Leaving Certificate programme, book plays a part in making that happen for you.
it can be a very useful stepping stone. This makes TY an important year, and it Mark Conroy
10 INTRODUCTION IN TRANSITION 11
CreaTiVe WriTinG i Short stories and personal essays can be most enjoyable reads.
Part of the fun of them is that, unlike a novel, they can be read
short stories
in a single sitting. Short stories and personal essays can also be
deceptive in how much information is actually contained in them.
Like poetry, the authors seek to hint at and allude to things, and we are left to read
between the lines.
and personal
Ireland has a very proud tradition of short story writing, from writers such as Frank
O’Connor, Liam O’Faoláin, James Joyce, Benedict Kiely, Maeve Binchy, Edna O’Brien,
and many, many others.
In this module you will read a selection of very well-crafted short stories and
essays
personal essays from a range of the world’s best writers, spanning over a hundred
years of celebrated writing.
FRaNK mcCOURT At the end of this module you should be able to:
• prepare a plan for a Leaving Certificate essay/short story, which makes up 25 per cent
of the marks for Leaving Certificate English
• create believable characters and settings for your stories
• write a short story or personal essay on a number of themes/topics.
• All students must write a prose composition in their Leaving Certificate exam.
• This prose composition accounts for 25 per cent of the total Leaving Certificate English mark.
• Students often say that they do not get enough practice at this type of writing during the
Leaving Certificate years; this module will help change this.
Writing a
short story
It is said that to create a short story you need to: Decorate
This is where you start to put some flourishes to your story. You might decide
• get a man
to give one of the main characters a catchphrase. You might decide to merge
• put him up a tree
two characters together or split one character in two. You might decide to
• get him down again.
change the tense (from past to present), viewpoint (from first person to third
This basically means that you need to create a character in a situation and person), or time (from evening to late morning). You might even decide to
then resolve that situation in a satisfactory manner. How do we do this? write the same story twice, with slight variations, and see if the endings are
completely different. Naturally, all of this cannot be done in an exam
Plan – Create – Decorate situation, so Transition Year gives you great scope to start practising.
Create
When you have a plan that you are happy with, you are now free to start
writing your story. This should be a first draft, with more to come. Remember
to refer back to your plan regularly; you didn’t write it just for show!
one of
settings that appear perfectly normal.
He has set many of his works in a fictional village
called Macondo, the name that has now been given to
his home village.
86 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE OF THESE DAYS – GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ 87
that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his eleven-year- an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles.
old son interrupted his concentration. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When
‘Papa.’ he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his
‘What?’ mouth.
‘The Mayor wants to know if you’ll pull his tooth.’ Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the
‘Tell him I’m not here.’ infected tooth, he closed the Mayor’s jaw with a cautious pressure of his
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm’s length, and examined fingers.
it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting ‘It has to be without anesthesia,’ he said.
room. ‘Why?’
‘He says you are, too, because he can hear you.’ ‘Because you have an abscess.’
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the The Mayor looked him in the eye. ‘All right,’ he said, and tried to smile.
table with the finished work did he say: The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilised
‘So much the better.’ instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with
cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all
polish the gold. this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn’t take his eyes off him.
‘Papa.’ It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped
‘What?’ the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair,
He still hadn’t changed his expression. braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but
‘He says if you don’t take out his tooth, he’ll shoot you.’ didn’t make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist. Without rancor,
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower ‘Now you’ll pay for our twenty dead men.’
drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell him to come and shoot me.’ tears. But he didn’t breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to
of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left understand his torture of the five previous nights.
side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and
beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a
closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly: clean cloth.
‘Sit down.’ ‘Dry your tears,’ he said.
‘Good morning,’ said the Mayor. The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands,
‘Morning,’ said the dentist. he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider’s eggs
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. ‘Go to bed,’ he
headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: said, ‘and gargle with salt water.’ The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with
88 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE OF THESE DAYS – GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ 89
a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs,
without buttoning up his tunic.
‘Send the bill,’ he said.
‘To you or the town?’
The Mayor didn’t look at him. He closed the door and said through the
screen: QUESTIONS
‘It’s the same damn thing.’ •
1) In what way does this story show that power corrupts?
3) Was the dentist brave or stupid or something else to refuse to see the mayor
at the beginning of the story?
90 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE OF THESE DAYS – GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ 91
MAEVE BINCHY was born in Dalkey, Dublin, in 1940.
She is a hugely popular writer, not just in Ireland, but
around the world.
After completing a degree in UCD in 1960, Binchy
taught for eight years, before becoming a
reporter with The Irish Times. Her first
Marigold
stories are studies of the struggles that
young women experience, and were
published in collections in 1978 and 1980,
and then as a single-volume edition
in 1983, entitled London Transports. She
is regarded as a great storyteller, one
who observes her characters with great wit and
understanding. Maeve Binchy
She has written many best-selling novels, some of
which have been turned into successful films (Tara
SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE IT WHEN HE CAME AND ASKED HER TO DANCE
Road, for example), and others which have been
at the big office party.
placed on the Leaving Certificate syllabus (Circle of
Friends, for example). ‘Me?’ she said. ‘You’d like to dance with me?’
‘That’s the idea,’ he said.
MARIGOLD They danced easily together as if they knew each other well. And they
You have probably often heard the phrase, ‘what’s in a smiled at the same bits of song. They even joined in at the chorus.
name?’ This story by Maeve Binchy takes this phrase as Tall, handsome Eddie who worked in the showrooms. Everyone had
one of its themes. The main character is embarrassed
been looking at him since he came in to the party and now he was
to reveal her real name to a man that she fancies, in
dancing with her.
case he won’t like it. Although in her heart she
probably knows it is silly to feel like this, it is ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
nevertheless a cause of constant pain to her. Unknown ‘Panda, I’m afraid.’ She hated having to tell him. Why could
to her, the man she fancies also has a secret that she not have had a nice easy name like Nora or Anne? Or
embarrasses him.
something lovely like Siofra or Aisling? ‘Well, it’s what they
The story is a sweet, tender, light-hearted tale of love
always call me. They would, you know. Because I look a bit
and the goodness it can bring out in people.
like a panda, you know, small, dark and fat.’ She gave a little
giggle to show she didn’t care.
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re not particularly small,
dark and fat, are you?’
‘People must think so, since that’s what they call me.’ She had her brave
face on now.
‘What’s your real name?’ He had such a nice smile and he seemed to be
4) Does this story have the three elements of ‘get a man, put him up a tree,
get him down again’?
98 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS THE USE OF FORCE – WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS 99
we tho’t you’d better look her over and tell us what is the matter. possibly die of it. But that’s nothing to her. Look here, I said to the child,
As doctors often do, I took a trial shot at it as a point of departure. Has we’re going to look at your throat. You’re old enough to understand what
she had a sore throat? I’m saying. Will you open it now by yourself or shall we have to open it for
Both parents answered me together, No … No, she says her throat don’t you?
hurt her. Not a move. Even her expression hadn’t changed. Her breaths, however,
Does your throat hurt you? added the mother to the child. But the little were coming faster and faster. Then the battle began. I had to do it. I had
girl’s expression didn’t change nor did she move her eyes from my face. to have a throat culture for her own protection. But first I told the parents
Have you looked? that it was entirely up to them. I explained the danger but said that I would
I tried to, said the mother, but I couldn’t see. not insist on a throat examination so long as they would take the
As it happens, we had been having a number of cases of diphtheria in responsibility.
the school to which this child went during that month, and we were all, quite If you don’t do what the doctor says you’ll have to go to the hospital, the
apparently, thinking of that, though no one had as yet spoken of the thing. mother admonished her severely.
Well, I said, suppose we take a look at the throat first. I smiled in my best Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself. After all, I had already fallen in love
professional manner and, asking for the child’s first name, I said, come on, with the savage brat; the parents were contemptible to me. In the ensuing
Mathilda, open your mouth and let’s take a look at your throat. struggle they grew more and more abject, crushed, exhausted while she
Nothing doing. surely rose to magnificent heights of insane fury of effort bred of her terror
Aw, come on, I coaxed, just open your mouth wide and let me take a of me.
look. Look, I said, opening both hands wide, I haven’t anything in my hands. The father tried his best, and he was a big man, but the fact that she was
Just open up and let me see. his daughter, his shame at her behavior and his dread of hurting her made
Such a nice man, put in the mother. Look how kind he is to you. Come him release her just at the critical times when I had almost achieved
on, do what he tells you to. He won’t hurt you. success, till I wanted to kill him. But his dread also that she might have
At that I ground my teeth in disgust. If only they wouldn’t use the word diphtheria made him tell me to go on, go on though he himself was almost
‘hurt’ I might be able to get somewhere. But I did not allow myself to be fainting, while the mother moved back and forth behind us raising and
hurried or disturbed, but speaking quietly and slowly I approached the lowering her hands in an agony of apprehension.
child again. Put her in front of you on your lap, I ordered, and hold both her wrists.
As I moved my chair a little nearer suddenly with one catlike movement But as soon as he did the child let out a scream. Don’t, you’re hurting me.
both her hands clawed instinctively for my eyes and she almost reached Let go of my hands. Let them go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly,
them too. In fact she knocked my glasses flying and they fell, though hysterically. Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing me!
unbroken, several feet away from me on the kitchen floor. Do you think she can stand it, doctor! said the mother.
Both the mother and father almost turned themselves inside out in You get out, said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to die of
embarrassment and apology. You bad girl, said the mother, taking her and diphtheria?
shaking her by one arm. Look what you’ve done. The nice man … Come on now, hold her, I said.
For heaven’s sake, I broke in. Don’t call me a nice man to her. I’m here Then I grasped the child’s head with my left hand and tried to get the
to look at her throat on the chance that she might have diphtheria and wooden tongue depressor between her teeth. She fought, with clenched
100 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS THE USE OF FORCE – WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS 101
teeth, desperately! But now I also had grown furious – at a child. I tried to
hold myself down but I couldn’t. I know how to expose a throat for
inspection. And I did my best. When finally I got the wooden spatula behind
the last teeth and just the point of it into the mouth cavity, she opened up
for an instant, but before I could see anything she came down again and
gripping the wooden blade between her molars she reduced it to splinters QUESTIONS
before I could get it out again.
Aren’t you ashamed, the mother yelled at her. Aren’t you ashamed to 1) What is your impression of the doctor in this story?
act like that in front of the doctor? 2) Given that there were cases of diphtheria, do you think he was correct to persevere?
Get me a smooth-handled spoon of some sort, I told the mother. We’re
going through with this. The child’s mouth was already bleeding. Her 3) This story was written in the early part of the twentieth century. Do you think it is a
tongue was cut and she was screaming in wild hysterical shrieks. Perhaps realistic description of something that might have happened then?
I should have desisted and come back in an hour or more. No doubt it 4) Discuss how the ‘energy’ of the story changes from the beginning to the end.
would have been better. But I have seen at least two children lying dead in
bed of neglect in such cases, and feeling that I must get a diagnosis now or
never I went at it again. But the worst of it was that I too had got beyond SUGGESTED aCTIvITy – FUNCTIONal wRITING – DIaRy
reason. I could have torn the child apart in my own fury and enjoyed it. It
was a pleasure to attack her. My face was burning with it. Write the diary entry you imagine the girl might write on the evening of this encounter.
The damned little brat must be protected against her own idiocy, one
says to one’s self at such times. Others must be protected against her. It is
a social necessity. And all these things are true. But a blind fury, a feeling
of adult shame, bred of a longing for muscular release are the operatives.
One goes on to the end.
In a final unreasoning assault I overpowered the child’s neck and jaws.
I forced the heavy silver spoon to the back of her teeth and down her throat
till she gagged. And there it was – both tonsils covered with membrane.
She had fought valiantly to keep me from knowing her secret. She had been
hiding that sore throat for three days at least and lying to her parents in
order to escape just such an outcome as this.
Now truly she was furious. She had been on the defensive before but
now she attacked. Tried to get off her father’s lap and fly at me while tears
of defeat blinded her eyes. •
102 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS THE USE OF FORCE – WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS 103
SUSANNA KAYSEN was born in 1948. Her father was
a professor at the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology and a former adviser to US President
John F. Kennedy. She attended school in her native
Boston, before she was committed to
McLean Hospital. She was diagnosed
with borderline personality disorder and
The Taxi
received treatment for depression. She
was released after 18 months.
In 1993 she published a memoir called
Girl, Interrupted in which she described
her experiences at McLean. Winona Ryder
played the lead role in a film adaptation of the book exCerpT froM Girl, inTerrupTeD
in 1999. susanna kaysen
GIRL, INTERRUPTED
‘YOU HAVE A PIMPLE,’ SAID THE DOCTOR.
Girl, Interrupted takes its name from a Vermeer I’d hoped nobody would notice.
painting entitled ‘Girl Interrupted at her Music’. Kaysen
‘You’ve been picking it,’ he went on.
describes her experience of living for nearly two years
in a mental hospital in the late 1960s in this memoir, When I’d woken that morning – early, so as to get to this appointment –
basing the details on her medical records. The book the pimple had reached the stage of hard expectancy in which it begs to
was well received by critics and the film adaption was be picked. It was yearning for release. Freeing it from its little white dome,
also very successful. pressing until the blood ran, I felt a sense of accomplishment: I’d done all
In this excerpt, she describes the moment when her
that could be done for this pimple.
doctor suggests and then insists that she must go
‘You’ve been picking at yourself,’ the doctor said.
straight to the hospital. At this point, she has become
resigned to her fate and accepts it. I nodded. He was going to keep talking about it until I agreed with him,
so I nodded.
‘Have a boyfriend?’ he asked.
I nodded to this too.
‘Trouble with the boyfriend?’ It wasn’t a question, actually he was
already nodding for me. ‘Picking at yourself,’ he repeated. He popped out
from behind his desk and lunged toward me. He was a taut fat man, tight-
bellied and dark.
‘You need a rest,’ he announced.
I did need a rest, particularly since I’d gotten up so early that morning
in order to see this doctor, who lived out in the suburbs. I’d changed trains
twice. And I would have to retrace my steps to get to my job. Just thinking
104 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS THE TAXI – SUSANNA KAYSEN 105
of it made me tired.
‘Don’t you think?’ He was still standing in front of me. ‘Don’t you think
you need a rest?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He strode off to the adjacent room, where I could hear him talking on the
phone. QUESTIONS
I have thought often of the next ten minutes – my last ten minutes. I had
the impulse, once, to get up and leave through the door I’d entered, to walk 1) Was the doctor clever to begin the conversation by asking about the pimple?
the several blocks to the trolley stop and wait for the train that would take 2) What differing meanings did both characters ascribe to the line, ‘You need a rest’?
me back to my troublesome boyfriend, my job at the kitchen store. But I
was too tired. 3) Why does Susanna Kaysen call these ten minutes her ‘last ten minutes’?
He strutted back into the room, busy, pleased with himself. 4) Do you feel that she is being sincere when she says she is glad to be in a taxi
‘I’ve got a bed for you,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a rest. Just for a couple of weeks, rather than having to wait for the train?
okay?’ He sounded conciliatory, or pleading, and I was afraid.
‘I’ll go Friday,’ I said. It was Tuesday, maybe by Friday I wouldn’t want
to go. SUGGESTED aCTIvITy – pERSONal wRITING – mEmOIR
He bore down on me with his belly. ‘No. You go now.’
I thought this was unreasonable. ‘I have a lunch date,’ I said. Continue this memoir, explaining what happens when Susanna Kaysen gets
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘You aren’t going to lunch. You’re going to the to the hospital.
hospital.’ He looked triumphant.
It was very quiet out in the suburbs before eight in the morning. And
neither of us had anything more to say. I heard the taxi pulling up in the
doctor’s driveway.
He took me by the elbow – pinched me between his large stout fingers –
and steered me outside. Keeping hold of my arm, he opened the back door
of the taxi and pushed me in. His big head was in the backseat with me for
a moment. Then he slammed the door shut.
The driver rolled his window down halfway.
‘Where to?’
Coatless in the chilly morning, planted on his sturdy legs in his
driveway, the doctor lifted one arm to point at me.
‘Take her to McLean,’ he said, ‘and don’t let her out till you get there.’
I let my head fall back against the seat and shut my eyes. I was glad to
be riding in a taxi instead of having to wait for the train. •
106 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS THE TAXI – SUSANNA KAYSEN 107
ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN was born in 1918. A exCerpT froM
Russian writer and historian, his most famous work is
life of iVan
II, Solzhenitsyn himself was sentenced to
eight years in just such a camp for making
a derogatory comment about Soviet leader
DenisoViCh
Joseph Stalin in a letter to a friend.
Solzhenitsyn is credited with bringing
knowledge to the Western world of what
life was like under Stalin. He did this in his
books One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and The aleksandr solzhenitsyn
Gulag Archipelago. The books met with a very hostile
reception from the country’s communist leaders, REVEILLE WAS SOUNDED, AS ALWAYS, AT 5 A.M. – A HAMMER
however, and in 1974 the writer was exiled from the pounding on a rail outside camp HQ. The ringing noise came faintly on and
Soviet Union. Just four years earlier he had been
off through the windowpanes covered with ice more than an inch thick, and
awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
In 1990 Solzhenitsyn’s citizenship was restored and died away fast. It was cold and the warder didn’t feel like
he returned to the USSR. He continued to write until going on banging.
his death in 2008. The sound stopped and it was pitch black on the other side
of the window, just like in the middle of the night when Shukhov
ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH
had to get up to go to the latrine, only now three yellow beams fell on
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich was first
the window – from two lights on the perimeter and one inside the camp.
published in a magazine called Novy Mir (New World)
He didn’t know why but nobody’d come to open up the barracks. And
in 1962. It was surprising that such a book was allowed
to be published in the Soviet Union, given its harsh
criticisms of the Gulag – or forced-labour camp –
system. The book tells the story of a day in a Gulag.
In this excerpt, we read the opening pages of the
book, where Shukov is getting up for the day, in
temperatures below minus 20 degrees (if it drops to
minus 30 or below, the prisoners do not have to go to you couldn’t hear the orderlies hoisting the latrine tank on the poles to
work). Feeling a bit sick, he is late to get out of bed carry it out.
and, so, is taken by an officer to be punished. Shukhov never slept through reveille but always got up at once. That
gave him about an hour and a half to himself before the morning roll call,
a time when anyone who knew what was what in the camps could always
scrounge a little something on the side. He could sew someone a cover for
his mittens out of a piece of old lining. He could bring one of the big gang
108 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH – ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN 109
bosses his dry felt boots while he was still in his bunk, to save him the Then someone from Gang 75 dumped a pile of felt boots from the
trouble of hanging around the pile of boots in his bare feet and trying to drying room on the floor. And now someone from his gang did the same (it
find his own. Or he could run around to one of the supply rooms where was also their turn to use the drying room today). The gang boss and his
there might be a little job, sweeping or carrying something. Or he could go assistant quickly put on their boots, and their bunk creaked. The assistant
to the mess hall to pick up bowls from the tables and take piles of them to gang boss would now go and get the bread rations. And then the boss
the dishwashers. That was another way of getting food, but there were would take off for the Production Planning Section (PPS) at HQ.
always too many other people with the same idea. And the worst thing was But, Shukhov remembered, this wasn’t just the same old daily visit to
that if there was something left in a bowl you started to lick it. You couldn’t the PPS clerks. Today was the big day for them. They’d heard a lot of talk
help it. And Shukhov could still hear the words of his first gang boss, of switching their gang – 104 – from putting up workshops to a new job,
Kuzyomin – an old camp hand who’d already been inside for twelve years building a new ‘Socialist Community Development’. But so far it was
in 1943. Once, by a fire in a forest clearing, he’d said to a new batch of men nothing more than bare fields covered with snowdrifts, and before anything
just brought in from the front: could be done there, holes had to be dug, posts put in, and barbed wire put
‘It’s the law of the jungle here, fellows. But even here you can live. The up – by the prisoners for the prisoners, so they couldn’t get out. And then
first to go is the guy who licks out bowls, puts his faith in the infirmary, or they could start building.
squeals to the screws.’ You could bet your life that for a month there’d be no place where you
He was dead right about this – though it didn’t always work out that way could get warm – not even a hole in the ground. And you couldn’t make a
with the fellows who squealed to the screws. They knew how to look after fire – what could you use for fuel? So your only hope was to work like hell.
themselves. They got away with it and it was the other guys who suffered. The gang boss was worried and was going to try to fix things, try to
Shukhov always got up at reveille, but today he didn’t. He’d been palm the job off on some other gang, one that was a little slower on the
feeling lousy since the night before – with aches and pains and the shivers, uptake. Of course you couldn’t go empty-handed. It would take a pound of
and he just couldn’t manage to keep warm that night. In his sleep he’d felt fatback for the chief clerk. Or even two.
very sick and then again a little better. All the time he dreaded the Maybe Shukhov would try to get himself on the sick list so he could
morning. have a day off. There was no harm in trying. His whole body was one big
But the morning came, as it always did. ache.
Anyway, how could anyone get warm here, what with the ice piled up on Then he wondered – which warder was on duty today?
the window and a white cobweb of frost running along the whole barracks He remembered that it was Big Ivan, a tall, scrawny sergeant with black
where the walls joined the ceiling? And a hell of a barracks it was. eyes. The first time you saw him he scared the pants off you, but when you
Shukhov stayed in bed. He was lying on the top bunk, with his blanket got to know him he was the easiest of all the duty warders – wouldn’t put
and overcoat over his head and both his feet tucked in the sleeve of his you in the can or drag you off to the disciplinary officer. So Shukhov could
jacket. He couldn’t see anything, but he could tell by the sounds what was stay put till it was time for Barracks 9 to go to the mess hall.
going on in the barracks and in his own part of it. He could hear the The bunk rocked and shook as two men got up together – on the top
orderlies tramping down the corridor with one of the twenty-gallon latrine Shukhov’s neighbour, the Baptist Alyoshka, and down below Buynovsky,
tanks. This was supposed to be light work for people on the sick list – but who’d been a captain in the navy.
it was no joke carrying the thing out without spilling it! When they’d carried out the two latrine tanks, the orderlies started
110 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH – ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN 111
quarrelling about who’d go to get the hot water. They went on and on like ‘Why weren’t you up yet? Let’s go to the Commandant’s office,’ the
two old women. The electric welder from Gang 20 barked at them: Tartar drawled – he and Shukhov and everyone else knew what he was
‘Hey, you old bastards!’ And he threw a boot at them. ‘I’ll make you shut getting the can for.
up.’ There was a blank look on the Tartar’s hairless, crumpled face. He
The boot thudded against a post. The orderlies shut up. turned around and looked for somebody else to pick on, but everyone –
The assistant boss of the gang next to them grumbled in a low voice: whether in the dark or under a light, whether on a bottom bunk or a top
‘Vasili Fyodorovich! The bastards pulled a fast one on me in the supply one – was shoving his legs into the black, padded trousers with numbers
room. We always get four two-pound loaves, but today we only got three. on the left knee. Or they were already dressed and were wrapping
Someone’ll have to get the short end.’ themselves up and hurrying for the door to wait outside till the Tartar left.
He spoke quietly, but of course the whole gang heard him and they all If Shukhov had been sent to the can for something he deserved he
held their breath. Who was going to be shortchanged on rations this wouldn’t have been so upset. What made him mad was that he was always
evening? one of the first to get up. But there wasn’t a chance of getting out of it with
Shukhov stayed where he was, on the hard-packed sawdust of his the Tartar. So he went on asking to be let off just for the hell of it, but
mattress. If only it was one thing or another – either a high fever or an end meantime pulled on his padded trousers (they too had a worn, dirty piece
to the pain. But this way he didn’t know where he was. of cloth sewed above the left knee, with the number S-854 painted on it in
While the Baptist was whispering his prayers, the Captain came back black and already faded), put on his jacket (this had two numbers, one on
from the latrine and said to no one in particular, but sort of gloating: the chest and one on the back), took his boots from the pile on the floor, put
‘Brace yourselves, men! It’s at least twenty below.’ on his cap (with the same number in front), and went out after the Tartar.
Shukhov made up his mind to go to the infirmary. The whole Gang 104 saw Shukhov being taken off, but no one said a
And then some strong hand stripped his jacket and blanket off him. word. It wouldn’t help, and what could you say? The gang boss might have
Shukhov jerked his quilted overcoat off his face and raised himself up a stood up for him, but he’d left already. And Shukhov himself said nothing
bit. Below him, his head level with the top of the bunk, stood the Thin Tartar. to anyone. He didn’t want to aggravate the Tartar. They’d keep his breakfast
So this bastard had come on duty and sneaked up on them. for him and didn’t have to be told.
‘S-854!’ the Tartar read from the white patch on the back of the black The two of them went out.
coat. ‘Three days in the can with work as usual.’ It was freezing cold, with a fog that caught your breath. Two large
The minute they heard his funny muffled voice everyone in the entire searchlights were crisscrossing over the compound from the watchtowers
barracks – which was pretty dark (not all the lights were on) and where at the far corners. The lights on the perimeter and the lights inside the
two hundred men slept in fifty bug-ridden bunks – came to life all of a camp were on full force. There were so many of them that they blotted out
sudden. Those who hadn’t yet gotten up began to dress in a hurry. the stars.
‘But what for, Comrade Warder?’ Shukhov asked, and he made his voice With their felt boots crunching on the snow, prisoners were rushing past
sound more pitiful than he really felt. on their business – to the latrines, to the supply rooms, to the package
The can was only half as bad if you were given normal work. You got hot room, or to the kitchen to get their groats cooked. Their shoulders were
food and there was no time to brood. Not being let out to work – that was hunched and their coats buttoned up, and they all felt cold, not so much
real punishment. because of the freezing weather as because they knew they’d have to be
112 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH – ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN 113
out in it all day. But the Tartar in his old overcoat with shabby blue tabs The gang bosses reporting at the PPS had formed a small group near
walked steadily on and the cold didn’t seem to bother him at all. the post, and one of the younger ones, who was once a Hero of the Soviet
They went past the high wooden fence around the punishment block Union, climbed up and wiped the thermometer.
(the stone prison inside the camp), past the barbed-wire fence that The others were shouting up to him: ‘Don’t breathe on it or it’ll go up.’
guarded the bakery from the prisoners, past the corner of the HQ where a ‘Go up … the hell it will … it won’t make a fucking bit of difference
length of frost-covered rail was fastened to a post with heavy wire, and past anyway.’
another post where – in a sheltered spot to keep the readings from being Tyurin – the boss of Shukhov’s work gang – was not there. Shukhov put
too low – the thermometer hung, caked over with ice. Shukhov gave a down the bucket and dug his hands into his sleeves. He wanted to see what
hopeful sidelong glance at the milk-white tube. If it went down to forty-two was going on.
below zero they weren’t supposed to be marched out to work. But today The fellow up the post said in a hoarse voice: ‘Seventeen and a half
the thermometer wasn’t pushing forty or anything like it. below – shit!’
They went into HQ – straight into the warders’ room. There it turned And after another look just to make sure, he jumped down.
out – as Shukhov had already had a hunch on the way – that they never ‘Anyway, it’s always wrong – it’s a damned liar,’ someone said. ‘They’d
meant to put him in the can but simply that the floor in the warders’ room never put in one that works here.’
needed scrubbing. Sure enough, the Tartar now told Shukhov that he was The gang bosses scattered. Shukhov ran to the well. Under the flaps of
letting him off and ordered him to mop the floor. his cap, which he’d lowered but hadn’t tied, his ears ached with the cold.
Mopping the floor in the warders’ room was the job of a special The top of the well was covered by a thick layer of ice so that the bucket
prisoner – the HQ orderly, who never worked outside the camp. But a long would hardly go through the hole. And the rope was stiff as a board.
time ago he’d set himself up in HQ and now had a free run of the rooms Shukhov’s hands were frozen, so when he got back to the warders’ room
where the Major, the disciplinary officer, and the security chief worked. He with the steaming bucket he shoved them in the water. He felt warmer. •
waited on them all the time and sometimes got to hear things even the
warders didn’t know. And for some time he’d figured that to scrub floors for
ordinary warders was a little beneath him. They called for him once or
twice, then got wise and began pulling in ordinary prisoners to do the job.
The stove in the warders’ room was blazing away. A couple of warders
who’d undressed down to their dirty shirts were playing checkers, and a
third who’d left on his belted sheepskin coat and felt boots was sleeping
on a narrow bench. There was a bucket and rag in the corner.
Shukhov was real pleased and thanked the Tartar for letting him off:
‘Thank you, Comrade Warder. I’ll never get up late again.’
The rule here was simple – finish your job and get out. Now that
Shukhov had been given some work, his pains seemed to have stopped. He
took the bucket and went to the well without his mittens, which he’d
forgotten and left under his pillow in the rush.
114 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH – ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN 115
QUESTIONS
1) It has been claimed that One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is one of the
harshest criticisms of life in Gulags (work camps). Based on this extract, do
you agree with this statement?
3) What are your thoughts on Shukov’s relationship with the warders, in that he
must be very nice to them so he isn’t punished, but at the same time, they are
the ones responsible for locking him up and punishing him if they wish?
116 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH – ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN 117
FRANK McCOURT was born in 1930 in the United exCerpT froM
anGela's
States, but grew up in Limerick. He is most famous for
his memoir Angela’s Ashes, which tells the story of his
Limerick childhood. McCourt was the eldest of seven
children, three of whom died very young
ashes
due to the poverty in which the family
lived. He left school at 13 and worked at
odd jobs until he moved to America at 19.
After leaving the US army he became a
teacher, and taught English for 30 years. frank McCourt
Angela’s Ashes was his first work,
FIRST COMMUNION DAY IS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE BECAUSE
published at the age of 66. It was an
immediate bestseller and won its author the National of The Collection and James Cagney at the Lyric Cinema. The night
Book Critics Circle Award and the Pulitzer Prize. before I was so excited I couldn’t sleep till dawn. I’d still be sleeping if my
McCourt wrote two other books besides Angela’s grandmother hadn’t come banging at the door.
Ashes – ’Tis and Teacher Man. He died in July 2009.
Get up! Get up! Get that child outa the bed. Happiest day of his life an’
him snorin’ above in the bed.
ANGELA’S ASHES
I ran to the kitchen. Take off that shirt, she said. I took off the shirt and
Angela’s Ashes is Frank McCourt’s memoir of his early
life, a life marred by constant poverty, a father who she pushed me into a tin tub of icy cold water. My mother scrubbed me, my
could not provide for his family and drank too much, grandmother scrubbed me. I was raw, I was red.
and church representatives who did not properly care They dried me. They dressed me in my black velvet First Communion
for their congregation. The book was an international suit with the white frilly shirt, the short pants, the white stockings, the black
bestseller; it also caused a lot of controversy, with many
patent leather shoes. Around my arm they tied a white satin bow and on my
in Limerick saying it was not an accurate portrayal of
lapel they pinned the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a picture with blood
the city. A film version of the book was released in
1999, directed by Alan Parker. dripping from it, flames erupting all around it and on top a nasty-
In this excerpt Frank talks about his first communion, looking crown of thorns.
telling us it is supposed to be the happiest day of a Come here till I comb your hair, said Grandma. Look at
child’s life – though mostly for the money, which will
that mop, it won’t lie down. You didn’t get that hair from my
get him into the cinema.
side of the family. That’s that North of Ireland hair you got
from your father. That’s the kind of hair you see on
Presbyterians. If your mother had married a proper decent
Limerick man you wouldn’t have this standing up, North of Ireland,
Presbyterian hair.
She spat twice on my head.
Grandma, will you please stop spitting on my head.
If you have anything to say, shut up. A little spit won’t kill you. Come on,
118 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ANGELA’S ASHES – FRANK McCOURT 119
we’ll be late for the Mass. She dragged me through the streets of Limerick. She told the
We ran to the church. My mother panted along behind with Michael in neighbours and passing strangers about God in her backyard. She pushed
her arms. We arrived at the church just in time to see the last of the boys me into the confession box.
leaving the altar rail where the priest stood with the chalice and the host, In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. Bless me, Father, for
glaring at me. Then he placed on my tongue the wafer, the body and blood I have sinned. It’s a day since my last confession.
of Jesus. At last, at last. A day? And what sins have you committed in a day, my child?
It’s on my tongue. I draw it back. I overslept. I nearly missed my First Communion. My grandmother said
It stuck. I have standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair. I threw up my First
I had God glued to the roof of my mouth. I could hear the master’s voice, Communion breakfast. Now Grandma says she has God in her backyard
Don’t let that host touch your teeth for if you bite God in two you’ll roast in and what should she do.
hell for eternity. I tried to get God down with my tongue but the priest The priest is like the First Confession priest. He has the heavy breathing
hissed at me, Stop that clucking and get back to your seat. God was good. and the choking sounds.
He melted and I swallowed Him and now, at last, I was a member of the Ah … ah … tell your grandmother to wash God away with a little water
True Church, an official sinner. and for your penance say one Hail Mary and one Our Father. Say a prayer
When the Mass ended there they were at the door of the church, my for me and God bless you, my child.
mother with Michael in her arms, my grandmother. They each hugged me Grandma and Mam were waiting close to the confession box. Grandma
to their bosoms. They each told me it was the happiest day of my life. They said, Were you telling jokes to that priest in the confession box? If ’tis a
each cried all over my head and after my grandmother’s contribution that thing I ever find out you were telling jokes to Jesuits I’ll tear the bloody
morning my head was a swamp. kidneys outa you. Now what did he say about God in my backyard?
Mam, can I go now and make The Collection? He said wash Him away with a little water, Grandma.
She said, After you have a little breakfast. Holy water or ordinary water?
No, said Grandma.You’re not making no collection till you have a proper He didn’t say, Grandma.
First Communion breakfast at my house. Come on. Well, go back and ask him.
We followed her. She banged pots and rattled pans and complained But, Grandma …
that the whole world expected her to be at their beck and call. I ate the She pushed me back into the confessional.
egg, I ate the sausage, and when I reached for more sugar for my tea she Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it’s a minute since my last confession.
slapped my hand away. A minute! Are you the boy that was just here?
Go easy with that sugar. Is it a millionaire you think I am? An American? I am, Father.
Is it bedecked in glitterin’ jewelry you think I am? Smothered in fancy furs? What is it now?
The food churned in my stomach. I gagged. I ran to her backyard and My grandma says, Holy water or ordinary water?
threw it all up. Out she came. Ordinary water, and tell your grandmother not to be bothering me again.
Look at what he did. Thrun up his First Communion breakfast. Thrun up I told her, Ordinary water, Grandma, and he said don’t be bothering
the body and blood of Jesus. I have God in me backyard. What am I goin’ him again.
to do? I’ll take him to the Jesuits for they know the sins of the Pope himself. Don’t be bothering him again. That bloody ignorant bogtrotter.
120 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ANGELA’S ASHES – FRANK McCOURT 121
I asked Mam, Can I go now and make The Collection? I want to see
James Cagney.
Grandma said, You can forget about The Collection and James Cagney
because you’re not a proper Catholic the way you left God on the ground.
Come on, go home.
Mam said, Wait a minute. That’s my son. That’s my son on his First QUESTIONS
Communion day. He’s going to see James Cagney.
No he’s not. 1) Did you find this a humorous piece of writing?
Yes he is. 2) Given that this is a memoir, do you think McCourt is being totally honest
Grandma said, Take him then to James Cagney and see if that will save or is he, perhaps, exaggerating things?
his Presbyterian North of Ireland American soul. Go ahead.
She pulled her shawl around her and walked away. 3) What impression do you get of the granny from this extract?
Mam said, God, it’s getting very late for The Collection and you’ll never 4) Is the granny’s bigotry malicious or just a manner of speaking?
see James Cagney. We’ll go to the Lyric Cinema and see if they’ll let you
in anyway in your First Communion suit. We met Mikey Molloy on
Barrington Street. He asked if I was going to the Lyric and I said I was SUGGESTED aCTIvITy – pERSONal wRITING – mEmOIR
trying. Trying? he said. You don’t have money? I was ashamed to say no
but I had to and he said, That’s all right. I’ll get you in. I’ll create a diversion. Write a memoir of an early childhood memory of your own.
What’s a diversion?
I have the money to go and when I get in I’ll pretend to have the fit and
the ticket man will be out of his mind and you can slip in when I let out the SUGGESTED mODUlE aCTIvITy
big scream. I’ll be watching the door and when I see you in I’ll have a Write a short story using one of the following as your title:
miraculous recovery. That’s a diversion. That’s what I do to get my brothers • Arthur and George
in all the time. • Crime and Punishment
Mam said, Oh, I don’t know about that, Mikey. Wouldn’t that be a sin • Great Expectations
and surely you wouldn’t want Frank to commit a sin on his Communion day. • The Stranger
Mikey said if there was a sin it would be on his soul and he wasn’t a • A Confederacy of Dunces
proper Catholic anyway so it didn’t matter. He let out his scream and I • Tender is the Night
slipped in and sat next to Question Quigley, and the ticket man, Frank
Goggin, was so worried over Mikey he never noticed. It was a thrilling film
but sad in the end because James Cagney was a public enemy and when
they shot him they wrapped him in bandages and threw him in the door,
shocking his poor old Irish mother, and that was the end of my First
Communion day. •
122 SHORT STORIES AND PERSONAL ESSAYS ANGELA’S ASHES – FRANK McCOURT 123