Gary opened his bruised and swollen eyelids as far as possible and peered through the yellow flickering light from the tired Tilley-lamp. He’d been mistaken for many people before, faithful husband, dedicated son, conscientious employee, hard working schoolboy but this was the first time he’d been mistaken for... He paused, mistaken for what, a terrorist, spy, influential Westerner? Now, nine years later, Gary continues to divorce himself from history and recalls events in the third person.
A hand grabbed Gary’s hair and pulled, yanked and tugged as a mouth, half-full of yellowing teeth, spat words formed of putrefied breath into his face. “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State,” he replied, “requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow to pass freely without let or hindrance...” A calm, dominant yet menacing voice, the accent bastardised Afghan-American, interrupts from the dark recesses of the cave. “Recite that one more time my friend and, by the will of Allah, I’ll let Tamil cut your tongue out,” he paused, “and we’ll all watch while you eat it.”
Silence. Gary believed he would die and in that moment knew, in death, he’d not be mistaken for a coward. He looked towards his friend Saied, slumped and tied to the chair not two feet from him. How could two Building Society employees from the South of England make such a mistake and end up in an Afghanistan cave, guests of the Taliban? Saied had been born in Pakistan and loved cricket. Wouldn’t it be fun to watch a test-match in the sub-continent? Perhaps a little exploring? Is it safe in the mountains at the moment?
Gary knew the answer to that. He’d never mistake “relatively safe” for “absolutely safe” again. If only he could have the opportunity to make another error of judgement...
“Mr Phillpott, it has been decided that you will serve Allah by telling your government how great we are. You will be released at noon.” Gary heard every word and slowly the meaning seeped into him. “Thank you”, he eventually said, “and my friend?”
“Your friend will serve Allah in a different way. He’s been chosen to demonstrate that true Muslims should not follow Western decadent ways.”
BANG! Blood, skull, brain and hair splattered onto Gary’s swollen face. Never again would Saied be mistaken for a living person.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Sunday, 21 February 2010
COUSIN ANDREW
It’s difficult to say goodbye to a cousin, after all we’d grown up together. Andy was the eldest of us, and the alpha male. Two years my elder and a maverick: a role model at ten; someone to avoid at thirteen; a good bloke from the age of twenty-one. Today was the ultimate goodbye.
“He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” drifted from the speakers. Tremolos? Dave, Dee, Dozy Beaky, Mitch and Titch? I’ll check it later but that’s now a song I won’t be able to hear on the radio without switching off. Some of the congregation tapped along as the coffin was carried into the crematoria by six of Andy’s drinking pals. I held my daughter’s hand; my tears mirrored in her eyes.
Andy was the first of my generation to die. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; a short, fast life. He was bright, good fun and great conservationist. He was also a big drinker until... until his liver packed up and he required a transplant. A transplant that gave him an extra seven years of life; time he spent well.
I remember now, it’s the Hollies. “He’s not heavy he’s my brother” is by the Hollies; no need to confirm the point. It is definitely the Hollies.
The crematoria was packed with friends, family, drinking pals; a plethora of life’s characters. Many I’ll speak with, one or two to politely ignore and quite a few I don’t know. Strangers and friends united in grief, joined by one person’s departure; Cousin Andrew.
“Why are people so happy?” asked my daughter as a late comer slapped an old acquaintance on the back. I tried to tell her but my voice was too croaky. I wish I’d been able to tell her how fond Andy’s friends were of him. He was a friend to everyone.
The controller of the service helped with his accurate eulogy. It’s difficult to know his title. He’s definitely not a Rabbi, Priest, Vicar nor Mullah. Andrew was non-religious in life and death wasn’t going to compromise his principals. After all he’d died before reaching an age when people start gardening and discovering God. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; not much of a tribute for an eight year old’s role model.
“He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” drifted from the speakers. Tremolos? Dave, Dee, Dozy Beaky, Mitch and Titch? I’ll check it later but that’s now a song I won’t be able to hear on the radio without switching off. Some of the congregation tapped along as the coffin was carried into the crematoria by six of Andy’s drinking pals. I held my daughter’s hand; my tears mirrored in her eyes.
Andy was the first of my generation to die. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; a short, fast life. He was bright, good fun and great conservationist. He was also a big drinker until... until his liver packed up and he required a transplant. A transplant that gave him an extra seven years of life; time he spent well.
I remember now, it’s the Hollies. “He’s not heavy he’s my brother” is by the Hollies; no need to confirm the point. It is definitely the Hollies.
The crematoria was packed with friends, family, drinking pals; a plethora of life’s characters. Many I’ll speak with, one or two to politely ignore and quite a few I don’t know. Strangers and friends united in grief, joined by one person’s departure; Cousin Andrew.
“Why are people so happy?” asked my daughter as a late comer slapped an old acquaintance on the back. I tried to tell her but my voice was too croaky. I wish I’d been able to tell her how fond Andy’s friends were of him. He was a friend to everyone.
The controller of the service helped with his accurate eulogy. It’s difficult to know his title. He’s definitely not a Rabbi, Priest, Vicar nor Mullah. Andrew was non-religious in life and death wasn’t going to compromise his principals. After all he’d died before reaching an age when people start gardening and discovering God. Married at nineteen, father of two by twenty-three, divorced at thirty, dead by thirty-nine; not much of a tribute for an eight year old’s role model.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson.
Freda Emmerson, widow and mother, entered her parlour and pulled back the aging velvet curtains. Dust particles danced in the insipid October sunlight as she walked toward the unlit fireplace.
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
Monday, 25 January 2010
Father of the Bride.
Keith mopped his balding head with a large, red, silk handkerchief and looked around the applauding audience. It occurred to him that he was probably wearing the only morning suit that wasn’t hired. He was pretty sure that his father, two brothers and son didn’t own theirs; why should they? He knew absolutely that his daughter’s father-in-law, husband and best-man were in hired clothes; after much filial pleading and tears he’d reluctantly paid for them.
His gaze lingered on the family and friends of the groom; not a suit, jacket or tie among them. The enthusiastic men and tartily-dressed women, cheered his speech in contrast to his family who were all applauding with a reserved politeness (mind you they’d all heard his speech many times before). He’d used it not just at his other daughter’s weddings but with a slight change and addition or subtraction of a joke or two it was recited at birthdays, anniversaries and even a couple of funerals.
The cheering continued and Keith decided to sit down. He reached for his order of service for no other reason than he felt he should try to look nonplussed; try to look as if he received this reaction whenever he opened his mouth. He was surprised to find he’d picked up a pen and had drawn, no doodled, a rocket; a child-like rocket with flames shooting from the bottom. He wondered why he’d selected to draw a rocket. Perhaps he’d taken his audience into orbit with his oration – but he knew he only ever doodled one of two things, and one was a rocket.
Keith was relieved to hear a distinct reduction in the applause. He took a gulp from his wine glass and was astonished how dry his mouth had become. At least he was not required to do anything else and could relax and try to enjoy the rest of the day.
His daughter’s husband was about to say something; the bridegroom’s speech. He didn’t think of him as his son-in-law, but it was early days and Keith had always prided himself on his tolerance.
The pen drew a large black telescope on the order of service; a large black telescope on a tripod. The groom started speaking. Keith wrote below the telescope; “I spy a chav.”
His gaze lingered on the family and friends of the groom; not a suit, jacket or tie among them. The enthusiastic men and tartily-dressed women, cheered his speech in contrast to his family who were all applauding with a reserved politeness (mind you they’d all heard his speech many times before). He’d used it not just at his other daughter’s weddings but with a slight change and addition or subtraction of a joke or two it was recited at birthdays, anniversaries and even a couple of funerals.
The cheering continued and Keith decided to sit down. He reached for his order of service for no other reason than he felt he should try to look nonplussed; try to look as if he received this reaction whenever he opened his mouth. He was surprised to find he’d picked up a pen and had drawn, no doodled, a rocket; a child-like rocket with flames shooting from the bottom. He wondered why he’d selected to draw a rocket. Perhaps he’d taken his audience into orbit with his oration – but he knew he only ever doodled one of two things, and one was a rocket.
Keith was relieved to hear a distinct reduction in the applause. He took a gulp from his wine glass and was astonished how dry his mouth had become. At least he was not required to do anything else and could relax and try to enjoy the rest of the day.
His daughter’s husband was about to say something; the bridegroom’s speech. He didn’t think of him as his son-in-law, but it was early days and Keith had always prided himself on his tolerance.
The pen drew a large black telescope on the order of service; a large black telescope on a tripod. The groom started speaking. Keith wrote below the telescope; “I spy a chav.”
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Reading as a Writer
The following assignment looks at two short pieces.
Alan Bennet. Nights in the garden of Spain.
A plain suburbian drawing room wall. Rosemary is a middle-aged, middle-class woman, sitting on a chair.
Nobody normally gets killed around here; they're mostly detached houses and you never even hear shouting. So it took me a minute to tipple to what she was saying.
I said, "Dead? Is it a heart attack?" She said, Oh no. Nothing like that. Just look at me, I'm in my bare feet."
I really only know her to nod to but they have a lovely Magnolia so once when she was in the garden I called out, "You've had more luck with your agnolia grandiflora than I have." But she's just smiled and said,"Yes." And since I didn't have another remark up my sleeve ready, that was the end of that. I do that all the time, start a conversation but can't keep it going.
Blondish woman, a bit washed out looking. Nice, tired sort of face. Anyway she comes out into the road and waits for me to get to their gate and says, "I know I don't really know you, only there's something wrong with Mr McCorkindale."
I was actually rushing because I'd planned on getting the five to nine and going into Sainsbury's but anyway I went in. I said, "Has he been poorly?" She said, "No. I have a feeling he's dead. Come through ... only Mrs Horrocks ... he doesn't have any trousers on." I said, "Well, I do a stint at the hospice twice a week, that's not a problem." Only to be fair I just take the trolley round I've never actually been there when anybody's been going and they think I'm not really ready to administer the consolation yet.
She had a nice linen dress on, very simple. I think she might have been drinking.
He was lying on his back on the rug, one of those fleecy hairy things with blood and whatnot coming from somewhere behind his head. And it's awful because the first thing I thought was, well, she's never get that out.
He had on these green y-fronty things which I'd have thought were a bit young for someone who's retired, but Henry is the same, suddenly taking it into his head to go in for something he thinks is a bit more dashing. Little Teryllene socks. I said, "Should I touch him?" She said, "Well, if you can if you want but he's dead. I've been sitting here looking at him for an hour." I said, "His pants are on back to front". She said, "Oh that's me. I thought I'd better put them on before I fetch somebody in."
He had a little tattoo not far from his belly button and I remember when they moved in Henry said he thought he had something to do with vending machines.
I said, "Did he bang his head, do you think?" She said, "Oh no. I shot him. I've put the gun away." And she opens the sideboard drawer and there it is with the tablemats and playing cards. He had a gun because he'd been inMalaya apparently.
My first thought was to ring Henry and ask what to do but I couldn't face the fuss. I was a bit I was still a bit nervous of calling 999 because I'm never sure what constitutes an emergency. Anyway I thought if she'd waited an hour already I might as well get her a cup of tea first, and as I was running the tab I called out, "The police haven't already being, have they?" She said, "No. Why?" I said, "Nothing."
Only there was a pair of handcuffs on the draining board.
The policeman had some difficulty writing. A big boy, nice is, spelling all over the place.
When I asked what he thought had happened he said, "Well, it's marriage isn't it, the stresses and strains of. Though we don't normally expect it with oldish people, they've generally got it out of their system by then. And it's a bit early in the day. People seem to like to get breakfast out of the way before the shooting starts."
I'm just signing my statement when Henry arrives back and of course prolongs the process. "I don't know that Mrs Horrocks quite means this, officer. What you said to me on the phone, young lady was ... " I said, "Henry. You weren't there." The policeman winks and says, "Now then, we don't want another shooting match do we?"
I mean at first Henry didn't even know who they were. He said, "Not the chow?" I said no That's the Broadbent's" Anyway he sits around a bit, whistling and under his breath, and goes upstairs and attacks his computer.
After the policeman had gone I went up and apologisea and ask Henry whether he thought anything had been going on. He said, "Why." I said, "well she didn't have anything on under that linen dress." Of course any suggestion of that embarrasses Henry, he's such an innocent. He said, " Rosemary, I did don't know what sort of world you think you're living in but there's probably some perfectly reasonable explanation. In the meantime let's just remember that somebody has died. I'm only sorry that you had to be the one who was passing, because I preferred you not have been involved."
I went out later to get some milk at the garage and there were still one or two reporters outside number 17, a whole branch of the magnolia broken off. One of them said, "Are you a neighbour? Did you know the McCorkindale's?" I shook my head and didn't anything so one of them shouts after me, "You owe it to the community." So I turned round and said, "Yes, and you owe it to the community not to break branches of people's magnolia trees." And of course that's just the point where the photographer takes a picture and it's in the paper this morning with me looking like a mad woman and the caption "The face of suburbia." Whereas the face of suburbia was Henry when he saw it.
I woke up in the night and I could hear him whistling under his breath. I said, "Are you thinking about Mrs McCorkindale?" He said, No, I was thinking about house prices. Prices are down as it is and something like this isn't going to help matters." He reached over from his bed and took my hand. "You must try not be upset, but if we don't get a 175 we shall have to kiss goodbye to Marbella."
I keep wondering if I ought to have told somebody about the handcuffs.
Sonnet on your Birth
When I sing my overture to you
Should I expect you'd ever really find
That when the cord was cut you'd journey to
The true, unending nature of your mind
When I watch you careless in your dreams
Should I prepare you for life's transient dance
Where ego and the dollar rule supreme
And myopic view is that of chance
When I see the devil first attack
Should I expect your innocence to wane
Whilst all around the light is turning black
And men in all their wickedness remain
If I am there to catch you when you fall
Should I expect your gratitude at all?
Jacqueline Dewey
Reading as a Writer
As a reader I have studied two short pieces from different genres; a modern sonnet from a little-known poet and a dramatic monologue by a leading writer, dramatist and diarist.
I would argue that Jacqueline Dewey‘s poem “Sonnet on your Birth” (HEAD 1996:60) is a first person traditional English sonnet written in rising iambic pentameter. The theme concerns unconditional love a parent feels towards their new-born child, the desire to help them reach their potential and the realisation that this involvement may not always be welcomed. This gives an insight into the poet’s identity as a caring, proud yet apprehensive new parent. The poem comprises three quatrains and a final couplet as the denouement and therefore has the requisite number of lines for the sonnet form.
The poem is written in abab, cdcd, efef, gg rhyming pattern and exact masculine rhymes, with the exception of ‘Dreams’ and ‘Supreme’ (lines 5 and 7); is this deliberate or accidental? The first line of each quatrain has nine syllables and comprises three iambic feet and anapest foot: deliberate or accidental? As the anapest is in different positions (‘my overture’ - line 1, ‘in your dreams’ – line 5, ‘devil first’ – line 9) I would suggest this is an error and not a literary decision. When compared to the sonnets of Shakespeare, and I use his examples as a benchmark, the Bard writes in strict iambic pentameter, while Dewey does not. However, I am certain she has based her poem on two of Shakespeare’s sonnets; sonnet fifteen and thirty-seven. This conclusion is based upon two assumptions; subject choice and anaphora starting each quatrain. While the subject matter may be coincidental the repetition of ‘When I’ is copied from Shakespeare’s sonnet fifteen (KERRIGAN 1995:84).
Although there is much to criticise in “Sonnet of your birth” there is also a little that is interesting. I particularly like the assonance “o” vowel in the third line “cord and journey” and “to, you, you and gratitude” in lines 13-14. I also like consonance of the “d” sound in “should, find and cord” (lines 2- 3). If the plagiarism of Shakespeare’s ‘when I’ is accepted as pastiche, we can applaud the anaphoric use of ‘should I” in lines 2, 6 10 and 14 as a clever device for retaining interest. Dewey tries to keep the piece interesting with implied metaphors, the first in the ninth line where she uses “devil first attack” for evil and the second two lines later when she says “light is turning black” instead of night; neither of which I find attractive. Much better is her use of metonymy in lines 3 and 5 where she implies birth by saying “the cord was cut” and a peaceful sleep with “careless in your dreams”. I find “where ego and the dollar rule supreme” a grating and ambiguous metaphor. “Dollar” could mean money, America or the Western World and each interpretation gives a different meaning to the work.
Although the sonnet is mainly written in general English without resorting to colloquialisms, Dewey uses three words, “overture, transient and myopic”, either in an attempt to demonstrate high English or her belief that they are an acceptable form of poetic diction. Whatever her reason, denotation and her understanding of these words differ. In the first line of the sonnet Dewey uses the phrase “sings my overture”, yet an overture is ‘a single orchestral movement’ (CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY 1999) and therefore not sung or maybe she means ‘an approach made with the aim of entering into a relationship’ (CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY 1999). If her intention is the latter, then her following lines make little sense. Likewise “our myopic view is of chance” implies her and her newborn can see no other way than leaving everything to luck. This is far from good parenting and contradicts the poem’s theme. More concerning is “life’s transient dance”. Does this mean the child only has a short-while to live? Furthermore, ‘to wane’ in line 10 and ‘wickedness remain’ in line 12 are both archaisms and add very little to the piece. I feel her vocabulary selection detracts from the theme and is neither convincing nor realistic and I consider it amateurish.
I reserve my biggest criticism for Dewey’s failed attempt at punctuation. The sonnet is unpunctuated and a ramble of merging ideas. The poet dispenses with comma and full-stop for end stop-lines. It is almost as if she’s never heard of the possibility of enjambment. For this reason above all others I, as a reading writer, find this poem very disappointing and demonstrating a lack of “writerly” decisions.
Alan Bennett’s ‘Nights in the Garden of Spain’ (BENNETT 1998:72 -p74) is a continuous monologue by Rosemary. She is the central intelligence whose perceptions shape the plot and determine the atmosphere. She is a reliable first person, participating yet innocent, narrator. She is often detached but never impartial or unemotional. She is very close to events yet able to provide an external perspective. The monologue has an element of dramatic irony and the reader often understand the situation before Rosemary does. She is naive and sometimes unaware of the full import of her words. The first example of innocence is where y-fronts are mentioned; ‘Henry’s the same, suddenly taken it into his head to go in for something a bit more dashing‘ (p72).
Bennett creates four rounded, dynamic characters who develop as the narrative progresses; Rosemary, Henry her husband, Mrs McCorquodale and, surprisingly, Mrs McCorquodale’s dead husband. All characterisations are made through Rosemary’s observation and perceptions. Examples include the small tattoo on the deceased stomach and the revelation that he obtained a gun in Malaysia. Henry’s character is that of a domineering and self centred husband; ‘I’d...ring Henry, but I couldn’t face the fuss’ and Henry’s statement to the police, ‘I don’t know that Mrs Horrocks means this, officer,” (page 73) finally his comment that the murder will negatively impact his house price (p74).
Bennett regularly releases snippets of Mrs McCorquodale’s character. When asked if her husband died of a heart attack she says ‘no, nothing like that. Just look at me. I’m in my bare feet’ (p72). The sudden, and matter of fact change of subject could either signify she’s suffering from shock or considers the death an inevitability. When asked if he’d hit his head the reply of ‘Oh no. I shot him’ leads me to believe the latter and thereby revealing a great deal more about both her and her husband’s character. As do the handcuffs on the draining board.
Rosemary’s identity is the most defined. Her use of juxtapositions, her chatty dialogue, her caring actions show her as a kindly, interesting, yet naive person. From the first exchange about the magnolia and her inability to continue the conversation we learn a great deal; she is shy, lonely and neither very clever nor worldly wise. Her choice to talk about magnolias (using the Latin name) and gardens shows the reader she is middle-aged and lives in suburbia (thereby confirming the initial stage directions). Bennett reveals her character through choice of language and revelation of her thoughts. She is caring and this is repeated throughout the text; interrupting her day when Mrs McCorquodale asks for assistance, helping out at the hospice and being angry when the journalist breaks the tree’s branch. She also has the ability to take everything in her stride without being judgemental: examples being; seeing the dead body, the widow having had a drink and not wearing underclothes, the handcuffs and her dealings with the police.
Bennett writes in a distinctive, humorous, matter-of-fact style. The diction, syntax, grammar, figurative speech and punctuation are ‘Bennettesqe”. Almost any sentence could be quoted as all are crafted with Bennett’s wit; ‘blondish woman, bit washed-out looking. Nice, tired sort of face’ (p72). It’s all written to be delivered like knocking on a kitchen door. Bennett’s sentences are all finely crafted without a wasted word. They are funny and often have an absurd juxtaposition of thought; Rosemary’s first sight of the dead body and her immediate concern was how to clean the rug. Or her first meeting with the policeman; ‘Big boy, nice ears, spelling all over the place’. The scene concludes with a climax. It is impossible to read the final paragraph and not want to continue; ‘Only there was a pair of handcuffs on the draining board.”
Having suggested that Dewey’s poem is very disappointing I have the opposite opinion of Bennett’s beautifully crafted and witty monologue. By reading these two pieces as a writer I have learnt to consider assonance, consonance, anaphora, metaphor, metonymy and the importance of correct meter and punctuation. Bennett’s monologue gives a master-class in the use of diction, syntax, grammar, figurative speech and dramatic irony. Most importantly, Bennett writes in Bennett’s voice and we should all applaud him for doing so. Every writer should use this example as a catalyst for finding their own distinctive voice.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
BENNETT A. (1998) Talking Heads 2. LONDON. BBC Publishing.
KERRIGAN J. Editor (1995 first published 1986)William Shakespeare - The sonnets and lover’s complaint. .LONDON. PENGUIN.
KENNEDY X.J. GIOIA D. BAUERLEIN M - Editors (2009). Handbook of Literary Terms. NEW YORK, PEARSON EDUCATION INC.
HEAD A. (1996) Growing up. PETERBOROUGH, POETRY NOW.
CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY (1999), OXFORD. OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS.
Word count: 1487 excluding title and bibliography.
Alan Bennet. Nights in the garden of Spain.
A plain suburbian drawing room wall. Rosemary is a middle-aged, middle-class woman, sitting on a chair.
Nobody normally gets killed around here; they're mostly detached houses and you never even hear shouting. So it took me a minute to tipple to what she was saying.
I said, "Dead? Is it a heart attack?" She said, Oh no. Nothing like that. Just look at me, I'm in my bare feet."
I really only know her to nod to but they have a lovely Magnolia so once when she was in the garden I called out, "You've had more luck with your agnolia grandiflora than I have." But she's just smiled and said,"Yes." And since I didn't have another remark up my sleeve ready, that was the end of that. I do that all the time, start a conversation but can't keep it going.
Blondish woman, a bit washed out looking. Nice, tired sort of face. Anyway she comes out into the road and waits for me to get to their gate and says, "I know I don't really know you, only there's something wrong with Mr McCorkindale."
I was actually rushing because I'd planned on getting the five to nine and going into Sainsbury's but anyway I went in. I said, "Has he been poorly?" She said, "No. I have a feeling he's dead. Come through ... only Mrs Horrocks ... he doesn't have any trousers on." I said, "Well, I do a stint at the hospice twice a week, that's not a problem." Only to be fair I just take the trolley round I've never actually been there when anybody's been going and they think I'm not really ready to administer the consolation yet.
She had a nice linen dress on, very simple. I think she might have been drinking.
He was lying on his back on the rug, one of those fleecy hairy things with blood and whatnot coming from somewhere behind his head. And it's awful because the first thing I thought was, well, she's never get that out.
He had on these green y-fronty things which I'd have thought were a bit young for someone who's retired, but Henry is the same, suddenly taking it into his head to go in for something he thinks is a bit more dashing. Little Teryllene socks. I said, "Should I touch him?" She said, "Well, if you can if you want but he's dead. I've been sitting here looking at him for an hour." I said, "His pants are on back to front". She said, "Oh that's me. I thought I'd better put them on before I fetch somebody in."
He had a little tattoo not far from his belly button and I remember when they moved in Henry said he thought he had something to do with vending machines.
I said, "Did he bang his head, do you think?" She said, "Oh no. I shot him. I've put the gun away." And she opens the sideboard drawer and there it is with the tablemats and playing cards. He had a gun because he'd been inMalaya apparently.
My first thought was to ring Henry and ask what to do but I couldn't face the fuss. I was a bit I was still a bit nervous of calling 999 because I'm never sure what constitutes an emergency. Anyway I thought if she'd waited an hour already I might as well get her a cup of tea first, and as I was running the tab I called out, "The police haven't already being, have they?" She said, "No. Why?" I said, "Nothing."
Only there was a pair of handcuffs on the draining board.
The policeman had some difficulty writing. A big boy, nice is, spelling all over the place.
When I asked what he thought had happened he said, "Well, it's marriage isn't it, the stresses and strains of. Though we don't normally expect it with oldish people, they've generally got it out of their system by then. And it's a bit early in the day. People seem to like to get breakfast out of the way before the shooting starts."
I'm just signing my statement when Henry arrives back and of course prolongs the process. "I don't know that Mrs Horrocks quite means this, officer. What you said to me on the phone, young lady was ... " I said, "Henry. You weren't there." The policeman winks and says, "Now then, we don't want another shooting match do we?"
I mean at first Henry didn't even know who they were. He said, "Not the chow?" I said no That's the Broadbent's" Anyway he sits around a bit, whistling and under his breath, and goes upstairs and attacks his computer.
After the policeman had gone I went up and apologisea and ask Henry whether he thought anything had been going on. He said, "Why." I said, "well she didn't have anything on under that linen dress." Of course any suggestion of that embarrasses Henry, he's such an innocent. He said, " Rosemary, I did don't know what sort of world you think you're living in but there's probably some perfectly reasonable explanation. In the meantime let's just remember that somebody has died. I'm only sorry that you had to be the one who was passing, because I preferred you not have been involved."
I went out later to get some milk at the garage and there were still one or two reporters outside number 17, a whole branch of the magnolia broken off. One of them said, "Are you a neighbour? Did you know the McCorkindale's?" I shook my head and didn't anything so one of them shouts after me, "You owe it to the community." So I turned round and said, "Yes, and you owe it to the community not to break branches of people's magnolia trees." And of course that's just the point where the photographer takes a picture and it's in the paper this morning with me looking like a mad woman and the caption "The face of suburbia." Whereas the face of suburbia was Henry when he saw it.
I woke up in the night and I could hear him whistling under his breath. I said, "Are you thinking about Mrs McCorkindale?" He said, No, I was thinking about house prices. Prices are down as it is and something like this isn't going to help matters." He reached over from his bed and took my hand. "You must try not be upset, but if we don't get a 175 we shall have to kiss goodbye to Marbella."
I keep wondering if I ought to have told somebody about the handcuffs.
Sonnet on your Birth
When I sing my overture to you
Should I expect you'd ever really find
That when the cord was cut you'd journey to
The true, unending nature of your mind
When I watch you careless in your dreams
Should I prepare you for life's transient dance
Where ego and the dollar rule supreme
And myopic view is that of chance
When I see the devil first attack
Should I expect your innocence to wane
Whilst all around the light is turning black
And men in all their wickedness remain
If I am there to catch you when you fall
Should I expect your gratitude at all?
Jacqueline Dewey
Reading as a Writer
As a reader I have studied two short pieces from different genres; a modern sonnet from a little-known poet and a dramatic monologue by a leading writer, dramatist and diarist.
I would argue that Jacqueline Dewey‘s poem “Sonnet on your Birth” (HEAD 1996:60) is a first person traditional English sonnet written in rising iambic pentameter. The theme concerns unconditional love a parent feels towards their new-born child, the desire to help them reach their potential and the realisation that this involvement may not always be welcomed. This gives an insight into the poet’s identity as a caring, proud yet apprehensive new parent. The poem comprises three quatrains and a final couplet as the denouement and therefore has the requisite number of lines for the sonnet form.
The poem is written in abab, cdcd, efef, gg rhyming pattern and exact masculine rhymes, with the exception of ‘Dreams’ and ‘Supreme’ (lines 5 and 7); is this deliberate or accidental? The first line of each quatrain has nine syllables and comprises three iambic feet and anapest foot: deliberate or accidental? As the anapest is in different positions (‘my overture’ - line 1, ‘in your dreams’ – line 5, ‘devil first’ – line 9) I would suggest this is an error and not a literary decision. When compared to the sonnets of Shakespeare, and I use his examples as a benchmark, the Bard writes in strict iambic pentameter, while Dewey does not. However, I am certain she has based her poem on two of Shakespeare’s sonnets; sonnet fifteen and thirty-seven. This conclusion is based upon two assumptions; subject choice and anaphora starting each quatrain. While the subject matter may be coincidental the repetition of ‘When I’ is copied from Shakespeare’s sonnet fifteen (KERRIGAN 1995:84).
Although there is much to criticise in “Sonnet of your birth” there is also a little that is interesting. I particularly like the assonance “o” vowel in the third line “cord and journey” and “to, you, you and gratitude” in lines 13-14. I also like consonance of the “d” sound in “should, find and cord” (lines 2- 3). If the plagiarism of Shakespeare’s ‘when I’ is accepted as pastiche, we can applaud the anaphoric use of ‘should I” in lines 2, 6 10 and 14 as a clever device for retaining interest. Dewey tries to keep the piece interesting with implied metaphors, the first in the ninth line where she uses “devil first attack” for evil and the second two lines later when she says “light is turning black” instead of night; neither of which I find attractive. Much better is her use of metonymy in lines 3 and 5 where she implies birth by saying “the cord was cut” and a peaceful sleep with “careless in your dreams”. I find “where ego and the dollar rule supreme” a grating and ambiguous metaphor. “Dollar” could mean money, America or the Western World and each interpretation gives a different meaning to the work.
Although the sonnet is mainly written in general English without resorting to colloquialisms, Dewey uses three words, “overture, transient and myopic”, either in an attempt to demonstrate high English or her belief that they are an acceptable form of poetic diction. Whatever her reason, denotation and her understanding of these words differ. In the first line of the sonnet Dewey uses the phrase “sings my overture”, yet an overture is ‘a single orchestral movement’ (CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY 1999) and therefore not sung or maybe she means ‘an approach made with the aim of entering into a relationship’ (CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY 1999). If her intention is the latter, then her following lines make little sense. Likewise “our myopic view is of chance” implies her and her newborn can see no other way than leaving everything to luck. This is far from good parenting and contradicts the poem’s theme. More concerning is “life’s transient dance”. Does this mean the child only has a short-while to live? Furthermore, ‘to wane’ in line 10 and ‘wickedness remain’ in line 12 are both archaisms and add very little to the piece. I feel her vocabulary selection detracts from the theme and is neither convincing nor realistic and I consider it amateurish.
I reserve my biggest criticism for Dewey’s failed attempt at punctuation. The sonnet is unpunctuated and a ramble of merging ideas. The poet dispenses with comma and full-stop for end stop-lines. It is almost as if she’s never heard of the possibility of enjambment. For this reason above all others I, as a reading writer, find this poem very disappointing and demonstrating a lack of “writerly” decisions.
Alan Bennett’s ‘Nights in the Garden of Spain’ (BENNETT 1998:72 -p74) is a continuous monologue by Rosemary. She is the central intelligence whose perceptions shape the plot and determine the atmosphere. She is a reliable first person, participating yet innocent, narrator. She is often detached but never impartial or unemotional. She is very close to events yet able to provide an external perspective. The monologue has an element of dramatic irony and the reader often understand the situation before Rosemary does. She is naive and sometimes unaware of the full import of her words. The first example of innocence is where y-fronts are mentioned; ‘Henry’s the same, suddenly taken it into his head to go in for something a bit more dashing‘ (p72).
Bennett creates four rounded, dynamic characters who develop as the narrative progresses; Rosemary, Henry her husband, Mrs McCorquodale and, surprisingly, Mrs McCorquodale’s dead husband. All characterisations are made through Rosemary’s observation and perceptions. Examples include the small tattoo on the deceased stomach and the revelation that he obtained a gun in Malaysia. Henry’s character is that of a domineering and self centred husband; ‘I’d...ring Henry, but I couldn’t face the fuss’ and Henry’s statement to the police, ‘I don’t know that Mrs Horrocks means this, officer,” (page 73) finally his comment that the murder will negatively impact his house price (p74).
Bennett regularly releases snippets of Mrs McCorquodale’s character. When asked if her husband died of a heart attack she says ‘no, nothing like that. Just look at me. I’m in my bare feet’ (p72). The sudden, and matter of fact change of subject could either signify she’s suffering from shock or considers the death an inevitability. When asked if he’d hit his head the reply of ‘Oh no. I shot him’ leads me to believe the latter and thereby revealing a great deal more about both her and her husband’s character. As do the handcuffs on the draining board.
Rosemary’s identity is the most defined. Her use of juxtapositions, her chatty dialogue, her caring actions show her as a kindly, interesting, yet naive person. From the first exchange about the magnolia and her inability to continue the conversation we learn a great deal; she is shy, lonely and neither very clever nor worldly wise. Her choice to talk about magnolias (using the Latin name) and gardens shows the reader she is middle-aged and lives in suburbia (thereby confirming the initial stage directions). Bennett reveals her character through choice of language and revelation of her thoughts. She is caring and this is repeated throughout the text; interrupting her day when Mrs McCorquodale asks for assistance, helping out at the hospice and being angry when the journalist breaks the tree’s branch. She also has the ability to take everything in her stride without being judgemental: examples being; seeing the dead body, the widow having had a drink and not wearing underclothes, the handcuffs and her dealings with the police.
Bennett writes in a distinctive, humorous, matter-of-fact style. The diction, syntax, grammar, figurative speech and punctuation are ‘Bennettesqe”. Almost any sentence could be quoted as all are crafted with Bennett’s wit; ‘blondish woman, bit washed-out looking. Nice, tired sort of face’ (p72). It’s all written to be delivered like knocking on a kitchen door. Bennett’s sentences are all finely crafted without a wasted word. They are funny and often have an absurd juxtaposition of thought; Rosemary’s first sight of the dead body and her immediate concern was how to clean the rug. Or her first meeting with the policeman; ‘Big boy, nice ears, spelling all over the place’. The scene concludes with a climax. It is impossible to read the final paragraph and not want to continue; ‘Only there was a pair of handcuffs on the draining board.”
Having suggested that Dewey’s poem is very disappointing I have the opposite opinion of Bennett’s beautifully crafted and witty monologue. By reading these two pieces as a writer I have learnt to consider assonance, consonance, anaphora, metaphor, metonymy and the importance of correct meter and punctuation. Bennett’s monologue gives a master-class in the use of diction, syntax, grammar, figurative speech and dramatic irony. Most importantly, Bennett writes in Bennett’s voice and we should all applaud him for doing so. Every writer should use this example as a catalyst for finding their own distinctive voice.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
BENNETT A. (1998) Talking Heads 2. LONDON. BBC Publishing.
KERRIGAN J. Editor (1995 first published 1986)William Shakespeare - The sonnets and lover’s complaint. .LONDON. PENGUIN.
KENNEDY X.J. GIOIA D. BAUERLEIN M - Editors (2009). Handbook of Literary Terms. NEW YORK, PEARSON EDUCATION INC.
HEAD A. (1996) Growing up. PETERBOROUGH, POETRY NOW.
CONCISE OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY (1999), OXFORD. OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS.
Word count: 1487 excluding title and bibliography.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
All my Sons – Historical and Cultural Context.
Communism, Consumerism, Capitalism.
I have studied Arthur Miller’s All my Sons in relation to the impact communism, consumerism and capitalism had on both the playwright and the American populous and how this is evidenced in the play.
All my Sons was completed and first performed in 1947, the year the House Un-American Activities Committee began investigating communist infiltration of Hollywood. This period of history coincided with the idea of the “American Dream” where money was important and everyone could be successful. Eighteen years earlier the Wall Street Crash heralded ten years of depression. Miller’s father, like millions of Americans, lost his business during this period and the failure of capitalism is a recurring theme in this and other plays written by Miller. Welland says, ‘Miller was growing up during the depression and no other single factor is more important than this in determining his work’ (WELLAND 1961:6). During 1932 -1938 unemployment in America averaged 20.3% (www.infoplease) and it could be argued that his father’s business failure sparked Miller’s communist sympathies and “All My Son’s” is an attack on both the capitalistic culture and an attack on the House Committee’s Un-American Activities’ Special Investigation Committee. Others, including Welland, suggests the opposite view, namely; ‘not an attack on capitalist business ethic but as a study of the bewildered common man’ (WELLAND 1979 A Study of Miller’s Plays:29). Miller explained his beliefs in 1958 when he addressed the Congressional Investigation Committee; ‘although never under communist discipline’ he had ‘explored – and rejected – the party’s doctrine although he attended communist sponsored meetings’ (WELLAND 1961: 10). However, counter-rumours continue to circulate to the effect that he had been an active member of a writer’s unit of the communist party, under the pseudonym of Matt Wayne, during the time he was writing All My Son’s.
The depression in America ended with the advent of the Second World War. Increase in manufacturing of armaments and war goods allowed America to break out of this circle of deprivation and become the wealthiest nation in the world. Keller’s business was no different and was working to full capacity as demonstrated in his outburst; ‘you gotta appreciate what was doing in that shop in the war...It was a madhouse. Every half an hour the Major callin’ for cylinder heads. (p118)’
America’s new found wealth allowed consumerism and suburbia living to flourish. Keller and his neighbours are part of this. Indeed, although the Lubey’s and Keller’s have lived in their houses for some-time, the Bayliss’ moved into theirs at the end of the war. Miller is very specific with the initial stage directions to ensure that the setting of the house and yard is stereotypical of North American affluent suburbia; ‘outskirts of American town...hedged and planted poplars...two storey house...driveway...cost perhaps $15,000’ (p89).
Joe Keller was forty years of age when the Wall Street Crash affected the nation and nearly fifty when America started providing war machinery to the Allies. Joe experienced poverty during this dark decade and again when he lost his machine shop manufacturing business while incarcerated. During these times he dreamt the “American Dream” of having money and success; ‘once upon a time I used to think that when I got money I would have a maid’ (p103). Miller shows America as a land of opportunities by the way Keller once again became a successful businessman after re-building his business in fourteen months by making consumables; ‘Pressure cookers and assembly for washing-machines’ (p150).
Issel suggests that post war America was a two class society, those with money and those without and ‘the coexistence of wealth and poverty after 1945 bought a central theme of American history into the post-war period’ (ISSEL-1985:135). Lee goes further ‘The new affluent society increased emphasis on materialism. Household equipment would no longer be basic...’ (LEE-1993:126). Keller the capitalist has liberal, if not communistic leanings. He is aware that, but for luck, he could be poor or out of work. Even for those employed, post war pay rates in America were pitifully low and work menial; “I got so many lieutenants, majors and colonels that I’m ashamed to ask somebody to sweep the floor...you stand on a street today and spit, you’re gonna hit a college man’ (p134).
Money became a motivator to majority of Americans and was a commodity to be spent on consumer items and houses in the suburbs. Money and possessions were important; ownership demonstrated wealth and thereby status. Miller uses this theme on numerous occasions. Lydia’s failed attempt to get the toaster to work by inadvertently plugging in the malted mixer (p94-95) thereby demonstrating that families with 3 children can also live the American Dream and own new kitchen appliances; Anne’s dress costing nearly three weeks’ salary (p109) and Sue’s continual attempt to get her husband to earn money from his patients – ‘seems to me that for ten dollars you could hold his hand’ (p94).
Not all American’s were totally committed to money and commercialism and Miller explores this aspect with both Jim and Chris. Both of them initially give the impression of dollar chasing: Jim when he says; ‘I’d love to help humanity on a Warner Brothers’ salary’ (p93) and Chris when he tells Annie; ‘I’m going to make a fortune for you’ (p122). Sue confirms her husband is, in reality, a selfless person; ‘he’s got an idea he’d like to do medical research...Research pays twenty-five dollars a week’ (p130) while Chris demonstrates he is not driven by money and has high morals when he turns down his father’s offer of taking over the business (p124).
Miller manages to combine three of America’s cultural and period themes in the space of four lines; the growth of suburbia, the importance of money, the potential corruption of capitalists. Keller wants Chris to stay and continue to run the business. He offers; ‘to build’...him...‘a house, stone, with a driveway from the road’ (p124) thereby using his capitalist-money to buy a house in suburbia by way of a bribe.
Bibliography
FIEDLER L.A. (1972 first published 1948) An End to Innocence. NEW YORK. STEIN AND CO.
ISSEL W. (1985) Social Changes in the United States 1945 – 1983. LONDON MACMILLAN.
LASSMAN E.Z. (2008 first published 2007) All My Sons, Arthur Mille. LONDON, YORK PRESS.
LEE R. (Editor) (1993) A Permanent Etcetera. LONDON, PLUTO PRESS.
LEICESTER THEATRE TRUST. All my son’s by ARTHUR MILLER. Walter Meierjohann. CURVE THEATRE. 8 Oct 2009 – 14 Dec 2009.
MILLER A. (2000 first published 1961) A View from the Bridge/ All my Sons. LONDON, PENGUIN CLASSICS.
WELLAND D. (1961). Arthur Miller. EDINBURGH. OLIVER & BOYD LTD.
WELLAND D. (1979) Miller: a study of his plays. LONDON, EYRE METHUEN.
WELLAND D. (1979) Miller The Playwright. LONDON, EYRE METHUEN.
WWW.infoplease.com/ipa/a0104719
I have studied Arthur Miller’s All my Sons in relation to the impact communism, consumerism and capitalism had on both the playwright and the American populous and how this is evidenced in the play.
All my Sons was completed and first performed in 1947, the year the House Un-American Activities Committee began investigating communist infiltration of Hollywood. This period of history coincided with the idea of the “American Dream” where money was important and everyone could be successful. Eighteen years earlier the Wall Street Crash heralded ten years of depression. Miller’s father, like millions of Americans, lost his business during this period and the failure of capitalism is a recurring theme in this and other plays written by Miller. Welland says, ‘Miller was growing up during the depression and no other single factor is more important than this in determining his work’ (WELLAND 1961:6). During 1932 -1938 unemployment in America averaged 20.3% (www.infoplease) and it could be argued that his father’s business failure sparked Miller’s communist sympathies and “All My Son’s” is an attack on both the capitalistic culture and an attack on the House Committee’s Un-American Activities’ Special Investigation Committee. Others, including Welland, suggests the opposite view, namely; ‘not an attack on capitalist business ethic but as a study of the bewildered common man’ (WELLAND 1979 A Study of Miller’s Plays:29). Miller explained his beliefs in 1958 when he addressed the Congressional Investigation Committee; ‘although never under communist discipline’ he had ‘explored – and rejected – the party’s doctrine although he attended communist sponsored meetings’ (WELLAND 1961: 10). However, counter-rumours continue to circulate to the effect that he had been an active member of a writer’s unit of the communist party, under the pseudonym of Matt Wayne, during the time he was writing All My Son’s.
The depression in America ended with the advent of the Second World War. Increase in manufacturing of armaments and war goods allowed America to break out of this circle of deprivation and become the wealthiest nation in the world. Keller’s business was no different and was working to full capacity as demonstrated in his outburst; ‘you gotta appreciate what was doing in that shop in the war...It was a madhouse. Every half an hour the Major callin’ for cylinder heads. (p118)’
America’s new found wealth allowed consumerism and suburbia living to flourish. Keller and his neighbours are part of this. Indeed, although the Lubey’s and Keller’s have lived in their houses for some-time, the Bayliss’ moved into theirs at the end of the war. Miller is very specific with the initial stage directions to ensure that the setting of the house and yard is stereotypical of North American affluent suburbia; ‘outskirts of American town...hedged and planted poplars...two storey house...driveway...cost perhaps $15,000’ (p89).
Joe Keller was forty years of age when the Wall Street Crash affected the nation and nearly fifty when America started providing war machinery to the Allies. Joe experienced poverty during this dark decade and again when he lost his machine shop manufacturing business while incarcerated. During these times he dreamt the “American Dream” of having money and success; ‘once upon a time I used to think that when I got money I would have a maid’ (p103). Miller shows America as a land of opportunities by the way Keller once again became a successful businessman after re-building his business in fourteen months by making consumables; ‘Pressure cookers and assembly for washing-machines’ (p150).
Issel suggests that post war America was a two class society, those with money and those without and ‘the coexistence of wealth and poverty after 1945 bought a central theme of American history into the post-war period’ (ISSEL-1985:135). Lee goes further ‘The new affluent society increased emphasis on materialism. Household equipment would no longer be basic...’ (LEE-1993:126). Keller the capitalist has liberal, if not communistic leanings. He is aware that, but for luck, he could be poor or out of work. Even for those employed, post war pay rates in America were pitifully low and work menial; “I got so many lieutenants, majors and colonels that I’m ashamed to ask somebody to sweep the floor...you stand on a street today and spit, you’re gonna hit a college man’ (p134).
Money became a motivator to majority of Americans and was a commodity to be spent on consumer items and houses in the suburbs. Money and possessions were important; ownership demonstrated wealth and thereby status. Miller uses this theme on numerous occasions. Lydia’s failed attempt to get the toaster to work by inadvertently plugging in the malted mixer (p94-95) thereby demonstrating that families with 3 children can also live the American Dream and own new kitchen appliances; Anne’s dress costing nearly three weeks’ salary (p109) and Sue’s continual attempt to get her husband to earn money from his patients – ‘seems to me that for ten dollars you could hold his hand’ (p94).
Not all American’s were totally committed to money and commercialism and Miller explores this aspect with both Jim and Chris. Both of them initially give the impression of dollar chasing: Jim when he says; ‘I’d love to help humanity on a Warner Brothers’ salary’ (p93) and Chris when he tells Annie; ‘I’m going to make a fortune for you’ (p122). Sue confirms her husband is, in reality, a selfless person; ‘he’s got an idea he’d like to do medical research...Research pays twenty-five dollars a week’ (p130) while Chris demonstrates he is not driven by money and has high morals when he turns down his father’s offer of taking over the business (p124).
Miller manages to combine three of America’s cultural and period themes in the space of four lines; the growth of suburbia, the importance of money, the potential corruption of capitalists. Keller wants Chris to stay and continue to run the business. He offers; ‘to build’...him...‘a house, stone, with a driveway from the road’ (p124) thereby using his capitalist-money to buy a house in suburbia by way of a bribe.
Bibliography
FIEDLER L.A. (1972 first published 1948) An End to Innocence. NEW YORK. STEIN AND CO.
ISSEL W. (1985) Social Changes in the United States 1945 – 1983. LONDON MACMILLAN.
LASSMAN E.Z. (2008 first published 2007) All My Sons, Arthur Mille. LONDON, YORK PRESS.
LEE R. (Editor) (1993) A Permanent Etcetera. LONDON, PLUTO PRESS.
LEICESTER THEATRE TRUST. All my son’s by ARTHUR MILLER. Walter Meierjohann. CURVE THEATRE. 8 Oct 2009 – 14 Dec 2009.
MILLER A. (2000 first published 1961) A View from the Bridge/ All my Sons. LONDON, PENGUIN CLASSICS.
WELLAND D. (1961). Arthur Miller. EDINBURGH. OLIVER & BOYD LTD.
WELLAND D. (1979) Miller: a study of his plays. LONDON, EYRE METHUEN.
WELLAND D. (1979) Miller The Playwright. LONDON, EYRE METHUEN.
WWW.infoplease.com/ipa/a0104719
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