Chapter 12

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In Chapter 12 of The Catcher in the Rye, Holden rides in a taxi and tries to engage the driver in conversation about where ducks go in the winter, but the driver gets annoyed. At the bar, Ernie plays the piano to an enthusiastic crowd that Holden thinks is reacting excessively. A girl named Lillian recognizes Holden and asks him to join her and a sailor, but Holden lies and says he has to leave.

Education

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Rob Auton follows the success of In Heaven The Onions Make You Laugh with a deeper darker, richer collection of his trademark micro stories and poems from the other side. PETROL HONEY features work from the Edinburgh fringe shows (the Yellow Show and the Sky Show) that have earned him cult status and a growing army of fans. PETROL HONEY explores the deeper meaning of the colour yellow, whether Lurpack is available in Heaven, and what happens in a Supermarket when the lights go out. PETROL HONEY introduces us to Nigel who runs the weather and will teach you to sing the Normal Song on the bus. You will never look at the world in the same way again once Rob Auton has taught you how to throw stones into the future. About the author: Rob Auton is an expatriate Yorkshireman living in the alien environment of Walthamstow. He performs regularly all over the UK and is part of London's Bang Said The Gun stand up poetry collective. He has taken two one man shows to the Edinburgh Fringe and hit the headlines in August 2013 when a throw away gag won the Dave Funniest Joke of the Edinburgh fringe award. He is the future of British comic poetry. You heard it here first.

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1 P e b La H e T e Ne S ea R e By Langston Hughes (1921) I e kno n i e : I e kno n i e ancien a he o ld and olde han he flo of h man blood in h man ein . My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln en do n o Ne O lean , and I e een its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I e kno n i e : Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes 2 M e S By Langston Hughes (1922) Well, on, I ll ell o : Life fo me ain been no c al ai . I had ack in i , And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor Bare. But all the time I e been a-climbin on, And eachin landin , And nin co ne , And ome ime goin in he da k Whe e he e ain been no ligh . So bo , don o n back. Don o e do n on he e Ca e o find i kinde ha d. Don o fall no Fo I e ill goin , hone , I e ill climbin , And life fo me ain been no c al ai . https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes 3 I, T By Langston Hughes (1925) 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 a he able When company comes. Nobod ll da e Say to me, Ea in he ki chen, Then. Besides, The ll ee ho bea if l I am And be ashamed I, too, am America. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes 4 T e Wea B e By Langston Hughes (1925) Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway. . . . He did a lazy sway. . . . To he ne o ho e Wea Bl e . With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming f om a black man o l. O Blues! In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan Ain go nobod in all hi o ld, Ain go nobod b ma elf. I g ine o i ma f o nin And ma o ble on he helf. Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more I go he Wea Bl es And I can be a i fied. Got the Weary Blues And can be a i fied I ain ha no mo And I i h ha I had died. And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. He le like a ock o a man ha dead. https://www.poetryfoundat ...

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CH1:Rowdy Gives Me Advice About Love Have you ever watched a beautiful woman play volleyball? Yesterday, during a game, Penelope was serving the ball and I watched her like she was a work of art. She was wearing a white shirt and white shorts, and I could see the outlines of her white bra and white panties. Her skin was pale white. Milky white. Cloud white. So she was all white on white on white, like the most perfect kind of vanilla dessert cake you've ever seen. I wanted to be her chocolate topping. She was serving against the mean girls from Davenport Lady Gorillas. Yeah, you read that correctly. They willingly called themselves the Lady Gorillas. And they played like superstrong primates, too. Penelope and her teammates were getting killed. The score was like 12 to 0 in the first set. But I didn't care. I just wanted to watch the sweaty Penelope sweat her perfect sweat on that perfectly sweaty day. She stood at the service line, bounced the volleyball a few lines to get her rhythm, then tossed it into the air above her head. She tracked the ball with her blue eyes. Just watched it intensely. Like that volleyball mattered more than anything he in the world. I got jealous of that ball. I wished I were that ball. As the ball floated in the air, Penelope twisted her hips id back and swung her right arm back over her shoulder, coiling like a really pretty snake. Her leg muscles were stretched and taut. I almost fainted when she served. Using all of that twisting id flexing and concentration, she smashed the ball and aced le Lady Gorillas.   And then Penelope clenched a fist and shouted, "Yes!"   Absolutely gorgeous.   Even though I didn't think I'd ever hear back, I wanted to know what to do with my feelings, so I walked over to the computer lab and e-mailed Rowdy. He's had the same address for five years. "Hey, Rowdy," I wrote. "I'm in love with a white girl. What should I do?"   A few minutes later, Rowdy wrote back.   "Hey, Asshole," Rowdy wrote back. "I'm sick of Indian guys who treat white women like bowling trophies. Get a life."   Well, that didn't do me any good. So I asked Gordy what I should do about Penelope. "I'm an Indian boy," I said. "How can I get a white girl to love me?"   "Let me do some research on that," Gordy said.   A few days later, he gave me a brief report.   "Hey, Arnold," he said. "I looked up 'in love with a white girl' on Google and found an article about that white girl named Cynthia who disappeared in Mexico last summer. You remember how her face was all over the papers and everybody said it was such a sad thing?" "I kinda remember," I said. "Well, this article said that over two hundred Mexican girls have disappeared in the last three years in that same part of the country. And nobody says much about that. And that's racist. The guy who wrote the article says people care more about beautiful white girls than they do about everybody else on the p.

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You will compare the themes of a political cartoon to the themes of Orwell’s essay “Shooting an Elephant.” Shooting an Elephant Author: George Orwell In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans. All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically—and secretly, of course—I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos—all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest's guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty. One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real .

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