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Survey of American Literature II (Fach) / Survey (Lektion)

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• So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go and write the letter -- and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
• I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking -- thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a- floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I Adventures of Huckleberry Finn come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the ONLY one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper. It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "All right, then, I'll GO to hell" -- and tore it up. Huck Finn, Mark Twain
• “tall tales” Huck Finn, Twain
• sivilization Huck Finn, Twain
• We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; ... The history of mankind is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations on the part of man toward woman, having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over her. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world. He has never permitted her to exercise her inalienable right to the elective franchise. He has compelled her to submit to laws, in the formation of which she had no voice. ... Declaration of Sentiments, Seneca Falls, NY
• A man said to the universe: “Sir, I exist!” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation” A Man said to the Universe, Stephen Crane
• “Fisher King”; “give, sympathy, control”; “Shanti” The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot --> Harlem Renaissance and Modernist Poetry
• “After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world,—a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness,—an American, a Negro; two warring souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife,—this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self.” The Souls of the Black Folk, W.E.B du Bois--> Moderinst Poetry and Harlem Renaissance
• We younger Negro artists now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased, we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We are beautiful. And ugly too... If colored people are pleased, we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn't matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves The Negro Artist and the racial mountain, Langston Hughes --> Modernist Poetry and Harlem Renaissance
• I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I’ll be at the table When company comes. Nobody’ll dare Say to me, “Eat in the kitchen,” Then. Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed— I, too, am America I too, Langston Hughes--> Harlem Renaissance and Modernist Poetry 
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• “America is my country, but Paris is my hometown.” Gertrude Stein--> Modernist Fiction
• “ABOUT half way between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.“ The Great Gatsby, F.Scott Fitzgerald--> Modernist Fiction
• “Lost generation” “Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via. "Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together." Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me. "Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?" THE END” Fiesta:The Sun also Rises, Ernest Hemingway 
• ““From a little after two o’clock until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead September afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office because her father had called it that— a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened fro forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air carried heat and that dark was always cooler, and which (as the sun shone fuller and fuller on that side of the house) became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes which Quentin thought of as being flecks of the dead old dried paint itself blown inward from the scaling blinds as wind might have blown them.” Absalom, Absalom !, William Faulkner--> Modernist Ficition
• “It seems that this demon-his name was Sutpen-(Colonel Sutpen)- Colonel Sutpen. Who came out of nowhere and without warning upon the land with a band of strange niggers and built a plantation -(Tore violently a plantation, Miss Rosa Coldfield says)-tore violently. And married her sister Ellen and begot a son and a daughter which- (Without gentleness begot, Miss Rosa Coldfield says)-without gentleness. Which should have been the jewels of his pride and the shield and comfort of his old age, only-(Only they destroyed him or something or he destroyed them or something. And died)-and died. Without regret, Miss Rosa Coldfield says-(Save by her) Yes, save by her. (And by Quentin Compson) Yes. And by Quentin Compson.” Absalom, Absalom, William Faulkner--> Modernist Fiction
• “The past is the present, it's the future too, we all try to lie [our way] out of that but life won't let us.” “none of us can help the things life has done to us: They are done before you realize it, and once they are done they make you do other things, until at last everything comes between you and what you'd like to be, and you have lost your true self forever.” Long Day‘s Journey into Night, Eugene O‘Neill-->American Drama:the Belated Genre
• “Southern Gothic”; Old South vs. New South “flores para los muertos”A A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams--> American Drama: The Belated Genre
• “Holy! Holy! Holy!” Howl, Allen Ginsberg--> Post-WWI Literature 
• “We’ve got to go somewhere, find something.“ On the Road, Jack Kerouac-->Post-WW II Literature
• “So, in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over the West Coast and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by know that the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry and tonight the stars will be out and don’t you know that God is Pooh-Bear, the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that busses the earth darkens all rivers, cups the peaks, and folds the final ...” On the Road, Jack Kerouac-->Post-WW II Literature
• “Without discarding what he'd already written he began his story afresh in a somewhat different manner. Whereas his earlier version had opened in a straight-forward documentary fashion and then degenerated or at least modulated intentionally into irrealism and dissonance he decided this time to tell his tale from start to finish in a conservative, "realistic," unself-conscious way. He being by vocation an author of novels and stories it was perhaps inevitable that one afternoon the possibility 56 would occur to the writer of these lines that his own life might be a fiction, in which he was the leading or an accessory character. He happened at the time [and here a footnote says "9:00 A.M., Monday, June 20, 1966"] to be in his study attempting to draft the opening pages of a new short story; its general idea had preoccupied him for some months along with other general ideas, but certain elements of the conceit, without which he could scarcely proceed, remained unclear.” Life Story, John Barth-->Postmodernism
• “What a dreary way to begin a story he said to himself upon reviewing his long introduction. Not only is there no "groundsituation," but the prose style is heavy and somewhat old-fashioned, like an English translation of Thomas Mann, and the so-called "vehicle" itself is at least questionable: self- conscious, vertiginously arch, fashionably solipsistic, unoriginal—in fact a convention of twentieth- century literature. Another story about a writer writing a story! Another regressus in infinitum! Who doesn't prefer art that at least overtly imitates something other than its own process? That doesn't continually proclaim "Don't forget I'm an artifice!"? That takes for granted its mimetic nature instead of asserting it in order (not so slyly after all) to deny it, or vice-versa?” Life-Story, John Barth--> Postmodernism 
• “One summer afternoon Mrs. Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary.” Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon--> Postmodernism
• When a free exchange of heat takes place between two bodies as a self-sustaining and continuous process, the heat must always be transferred from the hotter to the colder body. In other words, the entropy is irreversible, it will always increase until the two bodies are uniformly cold and without any remaining energy.“ Cyring of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon--> Postmodernism 
• “It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!” Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison-->African-American Literature
• “Keep this nigger running” Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison-->African-American Literature
• “It must have been a pathetic exchange. Our chief never learned English beyond an occasional odd phrase he picked up from Joseph, who pronounces “English” “Yanglush.” The Color Purple, Alice Walker-->African-American Literature
• "How did our current historical situations become the way they are?" The Color Purple, Alice Walker-->African-American Literature
• “124 WAS SPITEFUL. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children. For years each put up with the spite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims. The grandmother, Baby Suggs, was dead, and the sons, Howard and Buglar, had run away by the time they were thirteen years old--as soon as merely looking in a mirror shattered it (that was the signal for Buglar); as soon as two tiny band prints appeared in the cake (that was it for Howard). Neither boy waited to see more; another kettleful of chickpeas smoking in a heap on the floor; soda crackers crumbled and strewn in a line next to the doorsill.” Beloved, Toni Morrison-->African-American Literature
• ch. 1: “spiteful,” “baby’s venom”; (“rememory”) Beloved, Toni Morrison-->African-American Literature
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• • "Word by word these men were disposing of him in language, their language.“ • "He was running, and under his breath he began to sing. There was no sound, and he had no voice; he had only the words of a song. And he went running on the rise of the song.“ House Made of Dawn, N.Scott Momaday-->Native American Literature
• Sunrise"; "Sunrise, accept this offering, Sunrise" Ceremony, Leslie M.Sliko-->Native American Literature
• I will tell you something about stories, [he said] They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death" • "What She Said: The only cure I know is a good ceremony, that’s what she said" Ceremony, Leslie M. Silko-->Native American Literature
• -Tayo: "He reached into his mouth and felt his own tongue; it was dry and dead, the carcass of a tiny rodent." -"the land was green again” -Betonie: "Things which don't shift and grow are dead things" Ceremony, Leslie M.Silko-->Native American Literature
• “On the night the baby was to be born the villagers raided our house. Some were crying. Like a great saw, teeth strung with lights, files of people walked zigzag across our land, tearing the rice. Their lanterns doubled in the disturbed black water, which drained away through the broken bunds. As the villagers closed in, we could see that some of them, probably men and women we knew well, wore white masks. The people with long hair hung it over their faces. Women with short hair made it stand up on end. Some had tied white bands around their foreheads, arms, and legs.” Woman Warrior, Maxine Hong Kingston-->Asian-American and Latino/a Literature
• “talk-stories” • “’Don't let your father know that I told you. He denies her. Now that you have started to menstruate, what happened to her could happen to you. Don't humiliate us. You wouldn't like to be forgotten as if you had never been born. The villagers are watchful.’ Whenever she had to warn us about life, my mother told stories that ran like this one, a story to grow up on. She tested our strength to establish realities. . . . Those of us in the first American generations have had to figure out how the invisible world the emigrants built around our childhood fits in solid America.” Woman Warrior, Maxine Hong Kingston-->Asian-American and Latino/a Literature
• “it would be difficult for him in that strange place [Mexico], for although he was a product of two cultures, he was an American and felt a deep love for his home town and its surroundings.” Pocho, José Antonio Villareal-->Asian-American and Latino/a Literature
• “She [the Chicana] learns to be an Indian in Mexican culture, to be Mexican from an Anglo point of view. She learns to juggle cultures. She has a plural personality. [...] Not only does she sustain contradictions, she turns the ambivalence into something else.” Borderlands/La Frontera; The New Mestiza, Gloria Anzaldúa-->Asian-American and Latino/a Literature
• • “No Speak English” • “His name was Geraldo. And his home was in another country.” The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros-->Asian-American and Latino/a Literature
• Felice “opened her mouth and let out a yell as loud as any mariachi” Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories, Sandra Cisneros-->Asian-American and Latino/a Literature
• “Traffic was barely moving now. There were people shouting up at him, outraged at the spectacle, the puppetry of human desperation, a body’s last fleet breath and what it held. It held the gaze of the world, she thought. There was the awful openness of it, something we’d not seen, the single falling figure that trails a collective dread, body come down among us all. And now, she thought, this little theater piece, disturbing enough to stop traffic and send her back into the terminal.” Falling Man, Don DeLillo-->American Literature after 9/11
• “He [Hammad] fastened his seatbelt. [...] A blast wave passed through the structure that sent Keith Neudecker out of his chair and into a wall” Falling Man, Don DeLillo-->American Literature after 9/11
• “The others exist only to the degree that they fill the role we have designed for them” Falling Man, Don DeLillo-->American Literature after 9/11

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