Topic: Medium-stakes assignment
Order code: 81586685
Pages: | 1, Double spaced |
Sources: | 1 |
Style: | APA |
| Order type: | Coursework |
Subject: | English |
Academic level: | Not specified |
Language: | English (U.S.) |
The English class that I am taking right now is a bit different with other college level English classes. Before you start working on my assignment, I want you to read the course description of my class.
Texting the World brings together literary and nonliterary texts and considers how the same theme plays through them via analysis, evaluation, and creation of said ...view middle of the document...
Instruction for this assignment:
Please read Down to a Sunless Sea by Neil Gaiman. Respond to Down to a Sunless Sea by Neil Gaiman. If you are having trouble thinking of what to write, you may want to consider these questions:
* What traits of this short story can you identify with Postmodernism? Explain why you feel this way.
* How does the title give meaning to the rest of the story
* Discuss the symbolic meaning of the rain, the necklace, the ships, or any other things you wish to identify.
When you write this assignment, please DO Not SUMMARIZE THE TEXT. You need to think of "What makes you think of after reading this Down to a Sunless Sea by Neil Gaiman" and write about it. You will need to closely read, analyze, and interpret the text. Apply your basic critical and rhetorical terms, devices, and/or strategies in close reading.You need to recognize multiple perspectives.
Down to a Sunless Sea by Neil Gaiman
A rainy encounter in London on the banks of the Thames unlocks a tale of loss and grief in this exclusive story from Neil Gaiman, Down to a Sunless Sea
'The Thames is a filthy beast: it winds through London like a snake, or a sea serpent' ... Tower Bridge at the turn of the 20th century Photograph: Royal Photographic Society/ SSPL via Getty Images Royal Photographic Society/SSPL via Getty Images
The Thames is a filthy beast: it winds through London like a snake, or a sea serpent. All the rivers flow into it, the Fleet and the Tyburn and the Neckinger, carrying all the filth and scum and waste, the bodies of cats and dogs and the bones of sheep and pigs down into the brown water of the Thames, which carries them east into the estuary and from there into the North Sea and oblivion.
It is raining in London. The rain washes the dirt into the gutters, and it swells streams into rivers, rivers into powerful things. The rain is a noisy thing, splashing and pattering and rattling the rooftops. If it is clean water as it falls from the skies it only needs to touch London to become dirt, to stir dust and make it mud.
Nobody drinks it, neither the rain water nor the river water. They make jokes about Thames water killing you instantly, and it is not true. There are mudlarks who will dive deep for thrown pennies then come up again, spout the river water, shiver and hold up their coins. They do not die, of course, or not of that, although there are no mudlarks over fifteen years of age.
The woman does not appear to care about the rain.
She walks the Rotherhithe docks, as she has done for years, for decades: nobody knows how many years, because nobody cares. She walks the docks, or she stares out to sea. She examines the ships, as they bob at anchor. She must do something, to keep body and soul from dissolving their partnership, but none of the folk of the dock have the foggiest idea what this could be.
You take refuge from the deluge beneath a canvas awning put up by a sailmaker. You believe yourself to...