AEC Arts Semester 1 PDF

Ability enhancement course (AEC - ARTS) Semester 1  CONTENTS Module I: Of Travel – Francis Bacon Long Trip – Langston Hughes Six Phases of Transformative Travel – Jaco J Hamman Module II: The Beauty Industry – Aldous Huxley How the Philosophy behind the Jap...

Ability enhancement course (AEC - ARTS) Semester 1  CONTENTS Module I: Of Travel – Francis Bacon Long Trip – Langston Hughes Six Phases of Transformative Travel – Jaco J Hamman Module II: The Beauty Industry – Aldous Huxley How the Philosophy behind the Japanese art form of kintsugi can help us navigate failure – Ella Tennant Equipment – Edgar Guest Module III: Are the Rich Happy – Stephen Leacock Desiderata – Max Ehrmann Moxton’s Master – Ambrose Bierce MODULE I  OF TRAVEL Francis Bacon Francis Bacon (1561–1626) was one of the leading figures in natural philosophy and in the field of scientific methodology in the period of transition from the Renaissance to the early modern era. As a lawyer, member of Parliament, and Queen's Counsel, Bacon wrote on questions of law, state and religion, as well as on contemporary politics; but he also published texts in which he speculated on possible conceptions of society, and he pondered questions of ethics (Essays) even in his works on natural philosophy (The Advancement of Learning). After his studies at Trinity College, Cambridge and Gray's Inn, London, Bacon did not take up a post at a university, but instead tried to start a political career. Although his efforts were not crowned with success during the era of Queen Elizabeth, under James I he rose to the highest political office, Lord Chancellor. Bacon's international fame and influence spread during his last years, when he was able to focus his energies exclusively on his philosophical work, and even more so after his death, when English scientists of the Boyle circle (Invisible College) took up his idea of a cooperative research institution in their plans and preparations for establishing the Royal Society. To the present day Bacon is well known for his treatises on empiricist natural philosophy (The Advancement of Learning, Novum Organum Scientiarum) and for his doctrine of the idols, which he put forward in his early writings, as well as for the idea of a modern research institute, which he described in Nova Atlantis.  OF TRAVEL Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education, in the elder, a part of experience. He that travelleth into a country, before he hath some entrance into the language, goeth to school, and not to travel. That young men travel under some tutor, or grave servant, I allow well; so that he be such a one that hath the language, and hath been in the country before; whereby he may be able to tell them what things are worthy to be seen, in the country where they go; what acquaintances they are to seek; what exercises, or discipline, the place yieldeth. For else, young men shall go hooded, and look abroad little. It is a strange thing, that in sea voyages, where there is nothing to be seen, but sky and sea, men should make diaries; but in land- travel, wherein so much is to be observed, for the most part they omit it; as if chance were fitter to be registered, than observation. Let diaries, therefore, be brought in use. The things to be seen and observed are: the courts of princes, especially when they give audience to ambassadors; the courts of justice, while they sit and hear causes; and so of consistories ecclesiastic; the churches and monasteries, with the monuments which are therein extant; the walls and fortifications of cities, and towns, and so the heavens and harbors; antiquities and ruins; libraries; colleges, disputations, and lectures, where any are; shipping and navies; houses and gardens of state and pleasure, near great cities; armories; arsenals; magazines; exchanges; burses; warehouses; exercises of horsemanship, fencing, training of soldiers, and the like; comedies, such whereunto the better sort of persons do resort; treasuries of jewels and robes; cabinets and rarities; and, to conclude, whatsoever is memorable, in the places where they go. After all which, the tutors, or servants, ought to make diligent inquiry. As for triumphs, masks, feasts, weddings, funerals, capital executions, and such shows, men need not to be put in mind of them; yet are they not to be neglected. If you will have a young man to put his travel into a little room, and in short time to gather much, this you must do. First, as was said, he must have some entrance into the language before he goeth. Then he must have such a servant, or tutor, as knoweth the country, as was likewise said. Let him carry with him also, some card or book, describing the country where he travelleth; which will be a good key to his inquiry. Let him keep also a diary. Let him not stay long, in one city or town; more or less as the place deserveth, but not long; nay, when he stayeth in one city or town, let him change his lodging from one end and part of the town, to another; which is a great adamant of acquaintance. Let him sequester himself, from the company of his countrymen, and diet in such places, where there is good company of the nation where he travelleth. Let him, upon his removes from one place to another, procure recommendation to some person of quality, residing in the place whither he removeth; that he may use his favor, in those things he desireth to see or know. Thus he may abridge his travel, with much profit. As for the acquaintance, which is to be sought in travel; that which is most of all profitable, is acquaintance with the secretaries and employed men of ambassadors: for so in travelling in one country, he shall suck the experience of many. Let him also see, and visit, eminent persons in all kinds, which are of great name abroad; that he may be able to tell, how the life agreeth with the fame. For quarrels, they are with care and discretion to be avoided. They are commonly for mistresses, healths, place, and words. And let a man beware, how he keepeth company with choleric and quarrelsome persons; for they will engage him into their own quarrels. When a traveller returneth home, let him not leave the countries, where he hath travelled, altogether behind him; but maintain a correspondence by letters, with those of his acquaintance. which are of most worth. And let his travel appear rather in his discourse, than his apparel or gesture; and in his discourse, let him be rather advised in his answers, than forward to tell stories; and let it appear that he doth not change his country manners, for those of foreign parts; but only prick in some flowers, of that he hath learned abroad, into the customs of his own country. Vocabulary: Ecclesiastic – connecting to or belonging to the Christian church Extant – still existing; not destroyed or lost Diligent – persistent and earnest effort Sequester – isolate Discourse – verbal interchange of ideas, especially conversation Questions: 1. What advice does Bacon give regarding the selection of travel companions? 2. How does Francis Bacon view encountering different cultures through travel? 3. According to Bacon, how can travellers avoid superficiality and enhance the benefits of their journeys? 4. What does Francis Bacon believe is the impact of travel on a person's worldview? 5. How does Bacon believe travel contributes to a person's education and intellectual development?  LONG TRIP Langston Hughes James Mercer Langston Hughes was born on February 1, 1901, in Joplin, Missouri. His parents, James Nathaniel Hughes and Carrie Langston Hughes, divorced when he was a young child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his maternal grandmother, Mary Sampson Patterson Leary Langston, who was nearly seventy when Hughes was born, until he was thirteen. He then moved to Lincoln, Illinois, to live with his mother and her husband, before the family eventually settled in Cleveland. It was in Lincoln that Hughes began writing poetry. After graduating from high school, he spent a year in Mexico followed by a year at Columbia University. During this time, he worked as an assistant cook, a launderer, and a busboy. He also traveled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In November 1924, he moved to Washington, D.C. Hughes’s first book of poetry, The Weary Blues was published in 1926. He finished his college education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania three years later. In 1930 his first novel, Not Without Laughter (Knopf, 1930), won the Harmon gold medal for literature. Hughes, who cited Paul Laurence Dunbar, Carl Sandburg, and Walt Whitman as his primary influences, is particularly known for his insightful portrayals of Black life in America from the 1920s to the 1960s. He wrote novels, short stories, plays, and poetry, and is also known for his engagement with the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing, as in his book-length poem Montage of a Dream Deferred (Holt, 1951). His life and work were enormously important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. In addition to leaving us a large body of poetic work, Hughes wrote eleven plays and countless works of prose, including the well-known “Simple” books: Simple’s Uncle Sam (Hill and Wang, 1965); Simple Stakes a Claim (Rinehart, 1957); Simple Takes a Wife (Simon & Schuster, 1953); Simple Speaks His Mind (Simon & Schuster, 1950). He coedited the The Poetry of the Negro, 1746–1949 (Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1949) with Arna Bontemps, edited The Book of Negro Folklore (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1958), and wrote an acclaimed autobiography, The Big Sea (Knopf, 1940). Hughes also cowrote the play Mule Bone (HarperCollins, 1991) with Zora Neale Hurston.  Long Trip The sea is a wilderness of waves, A desert of water. We dip and dive, Rise and roll, Hide and are hidden On the sea. Day, night, Night, day, The sea is a desert of waves, A wilderness of water. Summary: On the surface of it, this poem describes the sea and its endlessness. Hughes describes the sea as a "wilderness" and a "desert," both words which are usually applied to dry land, and both of which suggest a certain barren emptiness. A wilderness and a desert are both places devoid of people and things: to be in such a place is to be alone. The title of the poem—"Long Trip"—and the references to "we" in the poem suggest that, rather than simply being literally about the sea, Hughes may actually be using the sea as a metaphor for life. It is unlikely that a person would spend "day, night, / Night, day" actually on the water, yet these two lines suggest a monotony of experience: "we" have been on this sea forever. On it, we "hide and are hidden"; it is our whole universe and our reality. Sometimes we "dip"—when things seem to be going downhill for us—and at other times, we "rise." Yet, ultimately, the sea goes on forever and we are alone in the "wilderness" of it, left to ride its waves, just as we go through life alone, subject to its unpredictable vicissitudes. Questions: 1. What is the central theme of the poem? 2. How does Langston Hughes use imagery in ”Long Trip” to convey his message? 3. What literary devices are used in the poem and how do they contribute to its meaning? 4. What is the significance of the title “Long Trip” in relation to the poem’s content? 5. “Hide and are hidden/ On the sea”. Elucidate. Poetic Devices: Metaphor: The entire poem can be seen as a metaphor for life and the many challenges it throws at us Imagery: Hughes uses vivid imagery throughout the poem to create a visual and sensory experience for the reader. Alliteration: the repetition of initial consonant sounds in two or more neighboring words or syllables. Here, “wilderness of waves”, “dip and dive”, “rise and roll” etc  Six Phases of Transformative Travel - Jaco J Hamman In June 2022, I set off on a 10,650-mile, six-week motorcycle trip from Tennessee to Alaska and back again, carrying not too much more than my GPS and phone. The ride kick-started a year of travel for research – and despite the horror stories of delayed and canceled flights, I couldn’t be happier. Just about everywhere I went, even in remote parts of the Yukon and British Columbia, folks were traveling. Many of the trailers being pulled were brand-new, suggesting the owners had bought them recently. After yet another cooped-up pandemic winter, it seems people’s appetite to get away is just as keen. But why do we travel in the first place? What is the allure of the open road? As a professor of religion, psychology and culture I study experiences that lie at the intersection of all three. And in my research on travel, I’m struck by its unsolvable paradoxes: Many of us seek to get away in order to be present; we speed to destinations in order to slow down; we may care about the environment but still leave carbon footprints. Ultimately, many people hope to return transformed. Travel is often viewed as what anthropologists call a “rite of passage”: structured rituals in which individuals separate themselves from their familiar surroundings, undergo change and return rejuvenated or “reborn.” But travelers are not just concerned with themselves. The desire to explore may be a defining human trait, as I argue in my latest book, “Just Traveling: God, Leaving Home, and a Spirituality for the Road”. The ability to do it, however, is a privilege that can come at a cost to host communities. Increasingly, the tourism industry and scholars alike are interested in ethical travel, which minimizes visitors’ harm on the places and people they encounter. The media inundate tourists with advice and enticements about where to travel and what to do there. But in order to meet the deeper goals of transformative, ethical travel, the “why” and “how” demand deeper discernment. During my book research, I studied travel stories in sacred scriptures and researched findings from psychologists, sociologists, ethicists, economists and tourism scholars. I argue that meaningful travel is best understood not as a three-stage rite but as a six-phase practice, based on core human experiences. These phases can repeat and overlap within the same journey, just as adventures twist and turn. 1. Anticipating Traveling begins long before departure, as we research and plan. But anticipation is more than logistics. The Dutch aptly call it “voorpret”: literally, the pleasure before. How and what people anticipate in any given situation has the power to shape their experience, for better or worse – even when it comes to prejudice. Psychology experiments, for example, have shown that when children anticipate greater cooperation between groups, it can reduce their bias in favor of their own group. But phenomenology, a branch of philosophy that studies human experience and consciousness, emphasizes that anticipation is also “empty”: our conscious intentions and expectations of what’s to come could be fulfilled or dashed by a future moment. With that in mind, travelers should try to remain open to uncertainty and even disappointment. 2. Leaving Leaving can awaken deep emotions that are tied to our earliest experiences of separation. The attachment styles psychologists study in infants, which shape how secure people feel in their relationships, continue to shape us as adults. These experiences can also affect how comfortable people feel exploring new experiences and leaving home, which can affect how they travel. Some travelers leave with excitement, while others experience hesitation or guilt before the relief and excitement of departure. Mindfulness about the stages of travel can help people manage anxiety. 3. Surrendering Travelers cannot control their journey: A flight is canceled, or a vehicle breaks down; the weather report predicts sunshine, but it rains for days on end. To some extent, they have to surrender to the unknown. Modern Western cultures tend to see “surrendering” as something negative – as hoisting a white flag. But as a therapeutic concept, surrendering helps people let go of inhibiting habits, discover a sense of wholeness and experience togetherness with others. The perfectionist learns that a changed itinerary doesn’t mean a diminished travel experience and lets go of the fear of failure. The person with a strong sense of independence grows in vulnerability when receiving care from strangers. In fact, some psychological theories hold that the self longs for surrender, in the sense of liberation: letting down its defensive barriers and finding freedom from attempts to control one’s surroundings. Embracing that view can help travelers cope with the reality that things may not go according to plan. 4. Meeting Meeting, traveling’s fourth phase, is the invitation to discover oneself and others anew. All cultures have unconscious “rules of recognition”, their own ingrained customs and ways of thinking, making it more difficult to forge cross-cultural connections. Carrying conscious and unconscious stereotypes, travelers may see some people and places as uneducated, dangerous, poor or sexual, while hosts may see travelers as rich, ignorant and exploitable. Going beyond such stereotypes requires that travelers be mindful of behaviors that can add tension to their interactions – knowing conversational topics to avoid, for example, or following local dress codes. In many parts of the world, those challenges are intensified by the legacy of colonization, which makes it harder for people to meet in authentic ways. Colonial views still influence Western perceptions of nonwhite groups as exotic, dangerous and inferior. Starting to overcome these barriers demands an attitude known as cultural humility, which is deeper than “cultural competence” – simply knowing about a different culture. Cultural humility helps travelers ask questions like, “I don’t know,” “Please help me understand” or “How should I …?” 5. Caring Caring involves overcoming “privileged responsibility”: when a traveler does not recognize their own privilege and take responsibility for it, or does not recognize other people’s lack of privilege. Travel becomes irresponsible when tourists ignore injustices and inequities they witness or the way their travels contribute to the unfolding climate crisis. Ethically, “empathy” is not enough; travelers must pursue solidarity, as an act of “caring with.” That might mean hiring local guides, eating in family-owned restaurants and being mindful of the resources like food and water that they use. 6. Returning Travels do end, and returning home can be a disorienting experience. Coming back can cause reverse cultural shock if travelers struggle to readjust. But that shock can diminish as travelers share their experiences with others, stay connected to the places they visited, deepen their knowledge about the place and culture, anticipate a possible return trip or get involved in causes that they discovered on their trip. I believe that reflecting on these six phases can invite the kind of mindfulness needed for transformative, ethical travel. And amid a pandemic, the need for thoughtful travel that prioritizes host communities’ well-being is clear. Vocabulary: Rejuvenated – give new energy/vigour to Inundated – overwhelmed Enticements – temptations Ingrained – firmly fixed or established Disorienting – Causing confusion or disorientation Questions: 1. What does the author mean by ethical travel? 2. How does the author argue that surrendering can be a positive experience? 3. How does the author emphasise the significance of cultivating “cultural humility”? 4. How does the author characterise irresponsible travel? What are some measures that the author suggests to avoid this? 5. What strategies does the passage recommend for travelers to mitigate reverse cultural shock? MODULE II  THE BEAUTY INDUSTRY Aldous Huxley Aldous Huxley (1894 – 1963) was a classical scholar and writer who put his signature on all forms of literature: novel, poetry, drama, travel books, short stories, biographies and essays. His notable works include novels like Crome Yellow(1921),Antic Hay(1923), Those Barren Leaves (1925), Point Counter Point(1928),Brave New World (1932); short story collections like Limbo (1920),Mortal Coils (1922); collection of essays like Along the Road(1925), Essays New and Old (1926), Holy Face and Other Essays (1929) and Music at Night(1931). He was the editor of Oxford Poetry and also a contributor to the Sitwell Anthology Wheels. Under the pseudonym Autolycus, he wrote for The Athenaeum, a monthly magazine. The subjects discussed reveal him to be a man of great knowledge and wide culture. He is a satirist whose tone can vary from jovial irony to biting malice, and the striking incisiveness of his satires springs from an easy, polished style, a great gift for epigram, a ready wit and an alert mind. The Beauty Industry The one American industry unaffected by the general depression of trade is the beauty industry. American women continue to spend on their faces and bodies as much as they spent before the coming of the slump – about three million pounds a week. These facts and figures are official and can be accepted as being substantially true. Reading them, I was only surprised by the comparative smallness of the sums expended. From the prodigious number of advertisements of aids of beauty contained in the American magazines, I had imagined that the personal appearance business must stand high up among champions of American industry – “the equal, or only just less than the equal, of bootlegging and racketeering, movies and automobiles. Still, one hundred and fifty-six million pounds a year is a tidy sum. Rather more than twice the revenue of India , if I remember rightly. I do not know what the European figures are. Much smaller, undoubtedly. Europe is poor, and a face can cost as much in upkeep as a Rolls-Royce. The most that the majority of European women can do is just wash and hope for the best. Perhaps the soap will produce its loudly advertised effects: perhaps it will transform them into the likeness of those ravishing creatures who smile so rosily and creamily, so peachily and pearlily, from every hoarding. Perhaps on the other hand, it may not. In any case, the more costly experiments in beautification are still as much beyond most European means as are high-powered motor cars and electric refrigerators. Even in Europe, however, much more is noe spent on beauty than was ever spent in the past. Not quite so much more as in America, that is all. But, everywhere, the increase has been undoubtedly enormous. The fact is significant. To what is it due? In part, I suppose, to a general increase in prosperity. The rich have always cultivated their personal appearance. The diffusion of wealth such as it is now permits those of the poor who are less badly off than their fathers to do the same. But this is clearly not the whole story. The modern cult of beauty is not exclusively a function (in the mathematical sense) of wealth. If it were, then the personal appearance industries would have been as hardly hit by the trade depression as any other business. But, as we have seen, they have not suffered. Women are retrenching on other things than their faces. The cult of beauty must thereof be symptomatic of changes that have taken place outside the economic sphere. Of what changes? Of the changes, I suggest in the status of women; of the changes in our attitude towards one ‘the merely physical’. Women, it is obvious, are freer than in the past. Freer not only to perform the generally unviable social functions but hitherto reserved to the male, but also freer to exercise the more pleasing, feminine privilege of being attractive. They have the right, if not to be less virtuous than their grandmothers, at any rate to look less virtuous. The British nation, not long since a creature of austere and even terrifying aspect, now does her best to achieve and perennially, preserved the appearance of what her predecessor would have described as a Lost Woman. She often succeeds. But we are not shocked-mat at any rate, not morally short. Aesthetically shocked- “yes”; we may sometimes be that. But morally, no. We concede that the Matron is morally justified in being preoccupied with her personal appearance. This concession depends on another of a more general nature- “a concession to the Body, with a large B, to the Manichaean principle of evil. For we have come to admit that body has its rights. And not only rights -“duties, actually duties. It has, for example, a duty to do the best it can for itself in the way of strength and beauty. Christian- ascetic ideas no longer trouble us. We demand justice for the body as well as for the soul. Hence, among other things, the fortunes made by face -cream manufacturers and beauty specialists, by the vendors of rubber reducing belts and massage machines, by the patentees of hair lotions and the authors of books on the culture of the abdomen. What are the practical results of this modern cult of beauty? The exercises and the massages, the health-motors and the skin-foods-to what have they lead? Are women more beautiful than they were? Do they get something for the enormous expenditure of energy, time, and money demanded of them by the beauty cult? These are questions which it is difficult to answer. For the facts seem to contradict themselves. The campaign for more physical beauty seems to be both a tremendous success and a lamentable failure. It depends how you look at the results. It is a success in so far as more women retain their youthful appearance to a greater age than in the past. 'Old ladies' are already becoming rare. In a few years, we may well believe, they will be extinct. -White hair and wrinkles, a bent back and hollow cheeks will come to be regarded as mediaevally old-fashioned. The crone of the future will be golden, curly and cherry-lipped, neat-ankled and slender. The Portrait of the Artist's Mother will come to be almost indistinguishable, at future picture shows, from the Portrait of the Artist's Daughter. This desirable consummation will be due in part to skin foods and injections of paraffin-wax, facial surgery mud baths, and paint, in part to improved health, due in its turn to a more rational mode of life. Ugliness is one of the symptoms of disease, beauty of health. In so far as the campaign for more beauty is also a campaign for more health, it is admirable and, up to a point, genuinely successful. Beauty that is merely the artificial shadow of these symptoms of health is intrinsically of poorer quality than the genuine article. Still, it is a sufficiently good imitation to be sometimes mistakable for the real thing. The apparatus for mimicking the symptoms of health is now within the reach of every moderately prosperous person; the knowledge of the way in which real health can be achieved is growing, and will in time, no doubt, be universally acted upon. When that happy moment comes, will every woman be beautiful-as beautiful, at any rate, as the natural shape of her features, with or without surgical and chemical aid, permits? The answer is emphatically: No. For real beauty is as much an affair of the inner as of the outer self. The beauty of a porcelain jar is a matter of shape, of colour, of surface texture. The jar may be empty or tenanted by spiders, full of honey or stinking slime-it makes no difference to its beauty or ugliness. But a woman is alive, and her beauty is therefore not skin deep. The surface of the human vessel is affected by the nature of its spiritual contents. I have seen women who, by the standards of a connoisseur of porcelain, were ravishingly lovely. Their shape, their colour, their surface texture were perfect. And yet they were not beautiful. For the lovely vase was either empty or filled with some corruption. Spiritual emptiness or ugliness shows through. And conversely, there is an interior light that can transfigure forms that the pure aesthetician would regard as imperfect or downright ugly. There are numerous forms of psychological ugliness. There is an ugliness of stupidity, for example, of un- awareness (distressingly common among pretty women). An ugliness also of greed, Of lasciviousness, of avarice. All the deadly sins, indeed, have their own peculiar negation of beauty. On the pretty faces of those especially who are trying to have a continuous 'good time,' one sees very often a kind of bored sullenness that ruins all their charm. I remember in particular two young American girls I once met in North Africa. From the porcelain specialist's point of view, they were beautiful. But the sullen boredom of which I have spoken was so deeply stamped into their fresh faces, their gait and gestures expressed so weary a listlessness, that it was unbearable to look at them. These exquisite creatures were positively repulsive. Still commoner and no less repellent is the hardness which spoils so many pretty faces. Often, it is true, this air of hardness is due not to psychological causes, but to the contemporary habit of overpainting. In Paris, where this overpainting is most pronounced, many women have ceased to look human at all. Whitewashed and ruddled, they seem to be wearing masks. One must look closely to discover the soft and living face beneath. But often the face is not soft, often it turns out to be imperfectly alive. The hardness and deadness are from within. They are the outward and visible signs of some emotional or instinctive disharmony, accepted as a chronic condition of being. We do not need a Freudian to tell us that this disharmony is often of a sexual nature. So long as such disharmonies continue to exist, so long as there is good reason for sullen boredom, so long as human beings allow themselves to be possessed and hag-ridden by monomaniacal vices, the cult of beauty is destined to be ineffectual. Successful in prolonging the appearance of youth, of realizing or simulating the symptoms of health, the campaign inspired by this cult remains fundamentally a failure. Its operations do not touch the deepest source of beauty-«the experiencing soul. It is not by improving skin foods and point rollers, by cheapening health motors and electrical hair removers, that the human race will be made beautiful; it is not even by improving health. All men and women will be beautiful only when the arrangements give to every one of them an Opportunity to live completely and harmoniously, when there is no environmental incentive and no hereditary tendency towards monomaniacal vice, In other words, all men and women will never be beautiful. But there might easily be fewer ugly human beings in the world than there are at present. We must be content with moderate hopes. Vocabulary: Slump – economic depression Prodigious – enormous Bootlegging – illegal business of transporting alcoholic beverages Racketeering – making money from illegal activity Ravishing – enchanting Hoarding – large board used for displaying advertisements Retrench – reduce expenses Austere – severely and strictly moral Concede – admit that something is true Preoccupied – obsessed Crone – an ugly old woman Tenanted – occupy as a tenant Connoisseur – an expert judge Sullen – bad tempered and sulky Exquisite – extremely beautiful and delicate Repulsive – arousing intense distaste or disgust Hag-ridden – afflicted by nightmares or anxieties Monomania – an obsessive interest in a single thing, idea, or the like Questions: 1. How does the author claim that the increase in beauty expenditure “has been undoubtedly enormous”? 2. Why is it said that the modern cult of beauty is not exclusively a function of wealth? 3. Why does Huxley opine that “the campaign for more physical beauty seems to be both a tremendous success and a lamentable failure?” 4. How does Huxley compare and contrast the beauty of a porcelain jar and the beauty of a woman? 5. Why is it said that hardness spoils so many pretty faces? 6. Bring out the elements of irony, satire and humour in the essay.  How the Philosophy behind the Japanese art form of kintsugi can help us navigate failure Ella Tennant In our 20s and 30s, there can be immense pressure to measure up to the expectations of society, our families, our friends and even those we have for ourselves. Many people look back and feel disappointed that they hadn’t taken the opportunity to travel more. Others might have envisioned that they would be further along in their careers or personal relationships. In reality, life is hard and we might face setbacks (big and small) that can shatter our dreams, leaving us with fragments we perceive as worthless. Feelings of failure can take a long-lasting mental toll but they don’t have to stop you in your tracks. There are many teachings, practices and philosophies that can help you deal with disappointment, embrace imperfection and remain optimistic. One such practice is the Japanese art form of kintsugi, which means joining with gold. It has attracted a great deal of attention in recent years as both an art technique, a worldview and metaphor for how we can live life. Many forms of Japanese art have been influenced by Zen and Mahayana philosophies, which champion the concepts of acceptance and contemplation of imperfection, as well as the constant flux and impermanence of all things. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. If a bowl is broken, rather than discarding the pieces, the fragments are put back together with a glue-like tree sap and the cracks are adorned with gold. There are no attempts to hide the damage, instead, it is highlighted. The practice has come to represent the idea that beauty can be found in imperfection. The breakage is an opportunity and applying this kind of thinking to instances of failure in our own lives can be helpful. A technique to repair broken pots Kintsugi was fairly widespread in Japan around the late 16th and early 17th centuries. The origins of this aesthetic go back hundreds of years to the Muromachi period (approximately 1336 to 1573). The third ruling Shogun (leader) of that era, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu (1358- 1408), is said to have broken his favourite tea bowl. The bowl was unique and could not be replaced. So, instead of throwing it away, he sent it to China for a replacement or repair. The bowl returned repaired with its pieces held in place by metal staples. Staple repair was a common technique in China as well as in parts of Europe at the time for particularly valuable pieces. However, the Shogun considered it to be neither functional nor beautiful. Instead, the Shogun had his own artisans resolve the situation by finding a method to make something beautiful from the broken, damaged object, but without disguising the damage. And so, kintsugi came to be. Finding the beauty in imperfection Kintsugi makes something new from a broken pot, which is transformed to possess a different sort of beauty. The imperfection, the golden cracks, are what make the new object unique. They are there every time you look at it and they welcome contemplation of the object’s past and of the moment of “failure” that it and its owner has overcome. The art of kintsugi is inextricably linked to the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi: a worldview centred on the acceptance of transience, imperfection and the beauty found in simplicity. Wabi-sabi is also an appreciation of both natural objects and the forces of nature that remind us that nothing stays the same forever. Wabi-sabi can also be incorporated into contemplating something and seeing it grow more beautiful as time passes. As a craft and an art form, kintsugi challenges expectations. This is because the technique goes further than repairing an object but actually transforms and intentionally changes its appearance. In an age of mass production and conformity, learning to accept and celebrate imperfect things, as kintsugi demonstrates, can be powerful. Whether it’s reeling from a breakup or being turned down for a promotion, the fragments of our disappointment can be transformed into something new. That new thing might not be perfect or be how you had envisioned it would be, but it is beautiful. Rather than try to disguise the flaws, the kintsugi technique highlights and draws attention to them. The philosophy of kintsugi, as an approach to life, can help encourage us when we face failure. We can try to pick up the pieces, and if we manage to do that we can put them back together. The result might not seem beautiful straight away but as wabi- sabi teaches, as time passes, we may be able to appreciate the beauty of those imperfections. The bowl may seem broken, the pieces scattered, but this is an opportunity to put it back together with seams of gold. It will be something new, unique and strong. Vocabulary: 1. Kintsugi: Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. 2. Zen: A school of Mahayana Buddhism that emphasizes meditation and intuition. 3. Mahayana: One of the two main branches of Buddhism, emphasizing universal salvation. 4. Impermanence: The concept that all things are temporary and subject to change. 5. Wabi-sabi: A Japanese aesthetic embracing imperfection, transience, and the beauty of natural patina. 6. Shogun: A military dictator of Japan during the period from 1185 to 1868. 7. Muromachi period: A period of Japanese history from approximately 1336 to 1573. 8. Transience: The state of being temporary or brief. 9. Conformity: Compliance with standards, rules, or laws. 10. Artisans: Skilled workers who make things by hand. Questions: 1. What is kintsugi, and how does it differ from traditional methods of repairing broken pottery? 2. How does kintsugi exemplify the philosophical concept of wabi-sabi? 4. According to the passage, how does kintsugi challenge modern expectations in a mass- produced society? 5. How does the practice of kintsugi metaphorically apply to personal setbacks and failures in life? 6. Describe the materials and techniques involved in performing kintsugi on a broken pottery piece. 7. How does the philosophy of impermanence play a role in both kintsugi and wabi-sabi? 8. What are some examples of setbacks or disappointments in life that could be compared to broken pottery in the context of kintsugi? 9. How does kintsugi encourage a different perspective on imperfection and failure compared to conventional attitudes? 10. What does the use of gold in kintsugi symbolize, both practically and metaphorically, in the context of repairing broken objects?  EQUIPMENT Edgar Guest Edgar Albert Guest was a British-born U.S. writer whose poems were widely read during the first half of the 20th century. Guest’s family relocated from Warwickshire, England to the United States in 1891, when Guest was 10 years old. Edgar Guest began his career at the Detroit Free Press in 1895, where he first worked as a copyboy. He was soon promoted to police writer and later to exchange editor, and in 1904 he began writing verse for the Free Press under the heading "Chaff." Those columns evolved into an immensely popular daily feature entitled "Breakfast Table Chat," which, at the height of its popularity, was syndicated in about 300 other newspapers. In 1916 Guest published A Heap O' Livin', a collection of verse that eventually sold more than 1,000,000 copies. That work was followed by Just Folks (1918), Rhythms of Childhood (1924), Life's Highway (1933), and Living the Years (1949). Equipment Figure it out for yourself, my lad You’ve all the greatest of men have had. Two arms, two hands, two legs, two eyes And a brain to use if you would be wise. With this equipment they all began So start for the top and say, “I can”. Look them over, the wise and great They take their food from a common plate. And similar knives and forks they use With similar laces they tie their shoes. The world considers them brave and smart But you’ve all they had when they made their start. You can triumph and come to skill You can be great if you only will. You’re well equipped for what fight you choose You have arms and legs and a brain to use. And the man who has risen great deeds to do Began his life with no more than you You are the handicap you must face You are the one who must choose your place. You must say where you want to go How much you will study the truth to know. God has equipped you for life but he lets you decide what you want to be. Courage must come from the soul within The man must furnish the will to win. So figure it out for yourself, my lad You were born with all that the great have had. With your equipment they all began Get a hold of yourself and say “I can” Summary: The poem "Equipment" discusses how all people are born with the same abilities and tools needed for success, such as two hands, two legs, and a brain, and encourages readers to have confidence in themselves and work hard to achieve their goals, just as great men have. Questions: 1. What does the speaker consider to be the most important "equipment" for life? 2. How does Guest define "equipment" in the context of the poem? 3. What qualities does Guest emphasize as crucial for facing life's challenges? 4. How does Guest characterize the attitude one should have towards setbacks and difficulties? 5. What examples or metaphors does Guest use to illustrate his message about "equipment"? 6. How does Guest suggest one can acquire or develop the necessary "equipment"? 7. How does the poem resonate with universal themes of resilience and perseverance? Poetic Devices: Metaphor: The entire poem revolves around the metaphorical use of "equipment" to describe the qualities and virtues necessary for navigating life successfully. Alliteration: the repetition of initial consonant sounds in two or more neighboring words or syllables. For eg: “Courage must come” Anaphora: repetition of a word or expression at the beginning of successive phrases, clauses, sentences, or verses especially for rhetorical or poetic effect. Here, “You can triumph and come to skill You can be great if you only will.” MODULE III  ARE THE RICH HAPPY? Stephen Leacock Stephen Leacock was an internationally popular Canadian humorist, educator, lecturer, and author of more than 30 books of light hearted sketches and essays. Leacock immigrated to Canada with his parents at the age of six. He attended Upper Canada College (1882–87) and later received a B.A. degree from the University of Toronto (1891). After teaching for eight years at Upper Canada College, he entered the University of Chicago and was awarded a Ph.D. in 1903. Appointed that same year to the staff of McGill University in Montreal, he became head of the department of economics and political science in 1908 and served in that capacity until his retirement in 1936. Although Leacock was the author of nearly 20 works on history and political economy, his true calling was humour, both as a lecturer and as an author. His fame now rests securely on work begun with the beguiling fantasies of Literary Lapses (1910) and Nonsense Novels (1911). Leacock’s humour is typically based on a comic perception of social foibles and the incongruity between appearance and reality in human conduct, and his work is characterized by the invention of lively comic situations. Most renowned are his Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town (1912), which gently mocks life in the fictional town of Mariposa, Ont., and Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich (1914). He also wrote Humour: Its Theory and Technique (1935), a discussion of his humour, and The Boy I Left Behind Me (1946), an uncompleted autobiography. Are the Rich Happy? Let me admit at the outset that I write this essay without adequate material. I have never known, I have never seen, any rich people. Very often I have thought that I had found them. But it turned out that it was not so. They were not rich at all. They were quite poor. They were hard up. They were pushed for money. They didn't know where to turn for ten thousand dollars. In all the cases that I have examined this same error has crept in. I had often imagined, from the fact of people keeping fifteen servants, that they were rich. I had supposed that because a woman rode down town in a limousine(vehicle) to buy a fifty-dollar hat, she must be well-to- do. Not at all. All these people turn out on examination to be not rich. They are cramped(packed). They say it themselves. Pinched, I think is the word they use. When I see a glittering group of eight people in a stage box at the opera, I know that they are all pinched. The fact that they ride home in a limousine has nothing to do with it. A friend of mine who has ten thousand dollars a year told me the other day with a sigh that he found it quite impossible to keep up with the rich. On his income he couldn't do it. A family that I know who have twenty thousand a year have told me the same thing. They can't keep up with the rich. There is no use in trying. A man that I respect very much who has an income of fifty thousand dollars a year from his law practice has told me with the greatest frankness that he finds it absolutely impossible to keep up with the rich. He says it is better to face the brutal fact of being poor. He says he can only give me a plain meal, what he calls a home dinner--it takes three men and two women to serve it--and he begs me to put up with it. As far as I remember, I have never met Mr. Carnegie. But I know that if I did he would tell me that he found it quite impossible to keep up with Mr. Rockefeller. No doubt Mr. Rockefeller has the same feeling. On the other hand there are, and there must be, rich people somewhere. I run across traces of them all the time. The janitor(care taker) in the building where I work has told me that he has a rich cousin in England who is in the South Western Railway and gets ten pounds a week. He says the railway wouldn't know what to do without him. In the same way the lady who washes at my house has a rich uncle. He lives in Winnipeg and owns his own house, clear, and has two girls at the high school. But these are only reported cases of richness. I cannot vouch(assure) for them myself. When I speak therefore of rich people and discuss whether they are happy, it is understood that I am merely drawing my conclusions from the people that I see and know. My judgment is that the rich undergo cruel trials and bitter tragedies of which the poor know nothing. In the first place I find that the rich suffer perpetually(always) from money troubles. The poor sit snugly(easily) at home while sterling exchange falls ten points in a day. Do they care? Not a bit. An adverse balance of trade washes over the nation like a flood. Who have to mop(sweep) it up? The rich. Call money rushes up to a hundred per cent, and the poor can still sit and laugh at a ten cent moving picture show and forget it. But the rich are troubled by money all the time. I know a man, for example--his name is Spugg--whose private bank account was overdrawn last month twenty thousand dollars. He told me so at dinner at his club, with apologies for feeling out of sorts. He said it was bothering him. He said he thought it rather unfair of his bank to have called his attention to it. I could sympathise, in a sort of way, with his feelings. My own account was overdrawn twenty cents at the time. I knew that if the bank began calling in overdrafts it might be my turn next. Spugg said he supposed he'd have to telephone his secretary in the morning to sell some bonds and cover it. It seemed an awful thing to have to do. Poor people are never driven to this sort of thing. I have known cases of their having to sell a little furniture, perhaps, but imagine having to sell the very bonds out of one's desk. There's a bitterness about it that the poor can never know. With this same man, Mr. Spugg, I have often talked of the problem of wealth. He is a self- made man and he has told me again and again that the wealth he has accumulated is a mere burden to him. He says that he was much happier when he had only the plain, simple things of life. Often as I sit at dinner with him over a meal of nine courses, he tells me how much he would prefer a plain bit of boiled pork, with a little smashed turnip. He says that if he had his way he would make his dinner out of a couple of sausages, fried with a bit of bread. I forget what it is that stands in his way. I have seen Spugg put aside his glass of champagne--or his glass after he had drunk his champagne-- with an expression of something like contempt. He says that he remembers a running creek at the back of his father's farm where he used to lie at full length upon the grass and drink his fill. Champagne, he says, never tasted like that. I have suggested that he should lie on his stomach on the floor of the club and drink a saucerful of soda water. But he won't. I know well that my friend Spugg would be glad to be rid of his wealth altogether, if such a thing were possible. Till I understood about these things, I always imagined that wealth could be given away. It appears that it cannot. It is a burden that one must carry. Wealth, if one has enough of it, becomes a form of social service. One regards it as a means of doing good to the world, of helping to brighten the lives of others, in a word, a solemn trust.Spugg has often talked with me so long and so late on this topic--the duty of brightening the lives of others-- that the waiter who held blue flames for his cigarettes fell asleep against a door post, and the chauffeur outside froze to the seat of his motor. Spugg's wealth, I say, he regards as a solemn trust. I have often asked him why he didn't give it, for example, to a college. But he tells me that unfortunately he is not a college man. I have called his attention to the need of further pensions for college professors; after all that Mr. Carnegie and others have done, there are still thousands and thousands of old professors of thirty-five and even forty, working away day after day and getting nothing but what they earn themselves, and with no provision beyond the age of eighty-five. But Mr. Spugg says that these men are the nation's heroes. Their work is its own reward. But after all, Mr. Spugg's troubles--for he is a single man with no ties--are in a sense selfish. It is perhaps in the homes--or more properly in the residences--of the rich that the great silent tragedies are being enacted every day--tragedies of which the fortunate poor know and can know nothing. I saw such a case only a few nights ago at the house of the Ashcroft-Fowlers, where I was dining. As we went in to dinner, Mrs. Ashcroft-Fowler said in a quiet aside to her husband, "Has Meadows spoken?" He shook his head rather gloomily(thickly) and answered, "No, he has said nothing yet." I saw them exchange a glance of quiet sympathy and mutual help, like people in trouble, who love one another. They were old friends and my heart beat for them. All through the dinner as Meadows--he was their butler--poured out the wine with each course, I could feel that some great trouble was impending over my friends. After Mrs. Ashcroft-Fowler had risen and left us, and we were alone over our port wine, I drew my chair near to Fowler's and I said, "My dear Fowler, I'm an old friend and you'll excuse me if I seem to be taking a liberty. But I can see that you and your wife are in trouble." "Yes," he said very sadly and quietly, "we are." "Excuse me," I said. "Tell me--for it makes a thing easier if one talks about it--is it anything about Meadows?" "Yes," he said. "It is about Meadows." There was silence for a moment, but I knew already what Fowler was going to say. I could feel it coming. "Meadows," he said presently, constraining himself to speak with as little emotion as possible, "is leaving us." "Poor old chap!" I said, taking his hand. "It's hard, isn't it?" he said. "Franklin left last winter--no fault of ours; we did everything we could--and now Meadows." There was almost a sob(sadness) in his voice. "He hasn't spoken definitely as yet," Fowler went on, "but we know there's hardly any chance of his staying." "Does he give any reason?" I asked. "Nothing specific," said Fowler. "It's just a sheer case of incompatibility. Meadows doesn't like us." He put his hand over his face and was silent. I left very quietly a little later, without going up to the drawing room. A few days afterwards I heard that Meadows had gone. The Ashcroft-Fowlers, I am told, are giving up in despair. They are going to take a little suite of ten rooms and four baths in the Grand Palaver Hotel, and rough it there for the winter. Yet one must not draw a picture of the rich in colours altogether gloomy. There are cases among them of genuine, light-hearted happiness. I have observed that this is especially the case among those of the rich who have the good fortune to get ruined, absolutely and completely ruined. They may do this on the Stock Exchange or by banking or in a dozen other ways. The business side of getting ruined is not difficult. Once the rich are ruined, they are--as far as my observation goes--all right. They can then have anything they want. I saw this point illustrated again just recently. I was walking with a friend of mine and a motor passed bearing a neatly dressed young man, chatting gaily with a pretty woman. My friend raised his hat and gave it a jaunty and cheery swing in the air as if to wave goodwill and happiness. "Poor old Edward Overjoy!" he said, as the motor moved out of sight. "What's wrong with him?" I asked. "Hadn't you heard?" said my friend. "He's ruined--absolutely cleaned out--not a cent left." "Dear me!" I said. "That's awfully hard. I suppose he'll have to sell that beautiful motor?" My friend shook his head. "Oh, no," he said. "He'll hardly do that. I don't think his wife would care to sell that." My friend was right. The Overjoys have not sold their motor. Neither have they sold their magnificent sandstone residence. They are too much attached to it, I believe, to sell it. Some people thought they would have given up their box at the opera. But it appears not. They are too musical to care to do that. Meantime it is a matter of general notoriety that the Overjoys are absolutely ruined; in fact, they haven't a single cent. You could buy Overjoy--so I am informed--for ten dollars. But I observe that he still wears a seal-lined coat worth at least five hundred. Vocabulary: Limousine – luxury vehicle driven by a chauffeur with a partition between the driver and passenger compartments Cramped – uncomfortably small or restricted Pinched – under financial constraint Janitor – doorkeeper Vouch – confirm Sterling – British currency Questions: 1. What did Leacock feel when he thought he had met the rich people? 2. Attempt a character sketch of Spugg. 3. What were Spugg’s reasons for not donating his money to others? 4. What was the reason behind Mr and Mrs Fowler’s sadness? 5. Discuss the uses of irony and sarcasm in the essay. 6. “Rich are troubled by money all the time”. Explain the meaning of the sentence in the context of Spugg’s life. 7. Discuss the differences between the way rich and poor deal with their issues in general.  DESIDERATA Max Ehrmann Max Ehrmann was born in Indiana in 1872. His parents were from Bavaria, and he was educated in the small town of Terre Haute whilst attending a German Methodist church nearby. Ehrmann went to college in Indiana and studied English, moving on to Harvard where he took law and philosophy. There he had his first taste of editing, taking on one of the Harvard sorority magazines that was published nationally. Having passed his degree and been accepted to the bar, Ehrmann returned to his hometown to practice. Ehrmann wrote A Farrago in 1898 and several other works that achieved moderate success, including Scarlett Women and The Plumber. Even when he wrote Desiderata in 1927 it didn’t receive very much attention. Although Ehrmann was well-known in his own circles and was awarded an honorary doctorate and received Harvard’s highest alumni award, he was hardly noticed for his literary exploits. That Desiderata became one of the worlds most loved and inspirational poems is testament to the poem’s strength and enduring appeal. Erhmann died in 1945 and so was unable to see how his work suddenly began to blossom in the 1960s. Desiderata Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy. Summary: This poem offers practical advice for navigating life's challenges. It emphasizes maintaining inner peace amidst external noise and haste, and the value of self-reflection and authenticity. The poem encourages compassion for others, regardless of their status, and warns against comparing oneself to them. It promotes humility and perseverance, reminding readers to appreciate their accomplishments and pursue their passions. Despite life's hardships, the poem encourages seeking virtue and finding beauty in the world. It suggests embracing aging gracefully and cultivating inner strength. The poem concludes with a message of universal connection and encouragement to find peace and happiness in the midst of life's complexities. Vocabulary: Desiderata - Things that are desired or essential; in the context of the poem, it refers to the desired qualities for living a fulfilling life. Vexations – Irritations or annoyances; things that cause distress or worry. Feign – to pretend Cynical – pessimistic Aridity – extremely dry; a lack of interest, excitement or meaning Fatigue – extreme tiredness Sham – Something false or counterfeit; pretending to be genuine. Drudgery – hard, boring work Poetic Devices: Simile: A simile is a figure of speech in which a likeness between two different things is stated in an explicit way using the words ‘as’ or ‘like.’ For instance, “Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment It is as perennial as the grass.” Here, love and grass are absolutely two different things that have been compared together. Love is compared to the perennial nature of the grass. It is meant to suggest the idea that, like grass, love grows on its own, unconditionally and selflessly. The implication is that when life becomes arid and monotonous, love will support people like the grass that grows throughout the year. Alliteration: Alliteration is the close repetition of consonant sounds, usually at the beginning of words. For instance, “Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many, many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.” Questions: 1. What does it mean to "keep peace with your soul" as mentioned in the poem? 2. How can one cultivate a life that is "gentle with yourself"? 3. Why is it important to "not compare yourself with others" and "not become vain or bitter"? 4. What does it mean to "strive to be happy" in the context of this poem? 5. How does the poem encourage one to "exercise caution in your business affairs" while also maintaining a positive outlook? 6. How does the concept of "being at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be" resonate with different belief systems and philosophies? 7. How does the poem suggest balancing "keeping interested in your own career" with "being virtuous in your business dealings"? 8. What does it mean to "nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune" and how can one cultivate such strength?  MOXTON’S MASTER Ambrose Bierce Ambrose Bierce was an American newspaperman, wit, satirist, and author of sardonic short stories based on themes of death and horror. His life ended in an unsolved mystery. Reared in Kosciusko county, Indiana, Bierce became a printer’s devil (apprentice) on a Warsaw, Indiana, paper after about a year in high school. In 1861 he enlisted in the 9th Indiana Volunteers and fought in a number of American Civil War battles, including Shiloh and Chickamauga. After being seriously wounded in the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain in 1864, he served until January 1865, and he received a merit promotion to major in 1867. Resettling in San Francisco, which was experiencing an artistic renaissance, Bierce began contributing to periodicals, particularly the News Letter, of which he became editor in 1868. He was soon the literary arbiter of the West Coast. “The Haunted Valley” (1871) was his first story. Bierce’s principal books are In the Midst of Life (1892), which includes some of his finest stories, such as “An Occurrence at Owl Creekbridge” “A Horseman in the Sky,” “The Eyes of the Panther,” and “The Boarded Window”; and Can Such Things Be? (1893), which includes “The Damned Thing” and “Moxon’s Master.” Bierce’s The Devil’s Dictionary (originally published in 1906 as The Cynic’s Word Book) is a volume of ironic, even bitter, definitions that has often been reprinted. His Collected Works was published in 12 volumes, 1909–12; it includes his two books of poetry. The Enlarged Devil’s Dictionary, edited by E.J. Hopkins, first appeared in 1967. A Sole Survivor: Bits of Autobiography, edited by S.T. Joshi and David E. Schultz, was published in 1998, and A Much Misunderstood Man: Selected Letters of Ambrose Bierce, also edited by Joshi and Schultz, was published in 2003.  Moxon’s Master Are you serious?—do you really believe that a machine thinks?” I got no immediate reply; Moxon was apparently intent upon the coals in the grate, touching them deftly here and there with the fire-poker till they signified a sense of his attention by a brighter glow. For several weeks I had been observing in him a growing habit of delay in answering even the most trivial of commonplace questions. His air, however, was that of preoccupation rather than deliberation: one might have said that he had “something on his mind.” Presently he said: “What is a ‘machine’? The word has been variously defined. Here is one definition from a popular dictionary: ‘Any instrument or organization by which power is applied and made effective, or a desired effect produced.’ Well, then, is not a man a machine? And you will admit that he thinks—or thinks he thinks.” “If you do not wish to answer my question,” I said, rather testily, “why not say so?—all that you say is mere evasion. You know well enough that when I say ‘machine’ I do not mean a man, but something that man has made and controls.” “When it does not control him,” he said, rising abruptly and looking out of a window, whence nothing was visible in the blackness of a stormy night. A moment later he turned about and with a smile said: “I beg your pardon; I had no thought of evasion. I considered the dictionary man’s unconscious testimony suggestive and worth something in the discussion. I can give your question a direct answer easily enough: I do believe that a machine thinks about the work that it is doing.” That was direct enough, certainly. It was not altogether pleasing, for it tended to confirm a sad suspicion that Moxon’s devotion to study and work in his machine-shop had not been good for him. I knew, for one thing, that he suffered from insomnia, and that is no light affliction. Had it affected his mind? His reply to my question seemed to me then evidence that it had; perhaps I should think differently about it now. I was younger then, and among the blessings that are not denied to youth is ignorance. Incited by that great stimulant to controversy, I said: “And what, pray, does it think with—in the absence of a brain?” The reply, coming with less than his customary delay, took his favorite form of counter- interrogation: “With what does a plant think—in the absence of a brain?” “Ah, plants also belong to the philosopher class! I should be pleased to know some of their conclusions; you may omit the premises.” “Perhaps,” he replied, apparently unaffected by my foolish irony, “you may be able to infer their convictions from their acts. I will spare you the familiar examples of the sensitive mimosa, the several insectivorous flowers and those whose stamens bend down and shake their pollen upon the entering bee in order that he may fertilize their distant mates. But observe this. In an open spot in my garden I planted a climbing vine. When it was barely above the surface I set a stake into the soil a yard away. The vine at once made for it, but as it was about to reach it after several days I removed it a few feet. The vine at once altered its course, making an acute angle, and again made for the stake. This manœuvre was repeated several times, but finally, as if discouraged, the vine abandoned the pursuit and ignoring further attempts to divert it traveled to a small tree, further away, which it climbed. “Roots of the eucalyptus will prolong themselves incredibly in search of moisture. A well- known horticulturist relates that one entered an old drain pipe and followed it until it came to a break, where a section of the pipe had been removed to make way for a stone wall that had been built across its course. The root left the drain and followed the wall until it found an opening where a stone had fallen out. It crept through and following the other side of the wall back to the drain, entered the unexplored part and resumed its journey.” “And all this?” “Can you miss the significance of it? It shows the consciousness of plants. It proves that they think.” “Even if it did—what then? We were speaking, not of plants, but of machines. They may be composed partly of wood—wood that has no longer vitality—or wholly of metal. Is thought an attribute also of the mineral kingdom?” “How else do you explain the phenomena, for example, of crystallization?” “I do not explain them.” “Because you cannot without affirming what you wish to deny, namely, intelligent cooperation among the constituent elements of the crystals. When soldiers form lines, or hollow squares, you call it reason. When wild geese in flight take the form of a letter V you say instinct. When the homogeneous atoms of a mineral, moving freely in solution, arrange themselves into shapes mathematically perfect, or particles of frozen moisture into the symmetrical and beautiful forms of snowflakes, you have nothing to say. You have not even invented a name to conceal your heroic unreason.” Moxon was speaking with unusual animation and earnestness. As he paused I heard in an adjoining room known to me as his “machine-shop,” which no one but himself was permitted to enter, a singular thumping sound, as of some one pounding upon a table with an open hand. Moxon heard it at the same moment and, visibly agitated, rose and hurriedly passed into the room whence it came. I thought it odd that any one else should be in there, and my interest in my friend—with doubtless a touch of unwarrantable curiosity—led me to listen intently, though, I am happy to say, not at the keyhole. There were confused sounds, as of a struggle or scuffle; the floor shook. I distinctly heard hard breathing and a hoarse whisper which said “Damn you!” Then all was silent, and presently Moxon reappeared and said, with a rather sorry smile: “Pardon me for leaving you so abruptly. I have a machine in there that lost its temper and cut up rough.” Fixing my eyes steadily upon his left cheek, which was traversed by four parallel excoriations showing blood, I said: “How would it do to trim its nails?” I could have spared myself the jest; he gave it no attention, but seated himself in the chair that he had left and resumed the interrupted monologue as if nothing had occurred: “Doubtless you do not hold with those (I need not name them to a man of your reading) who have taught that all matter is sentient, that every atom is a living, feeling, conscious being. I do. There is no such thing as dead, inert matter: it is all alive; all instinct with force, actual and potential; all sensitive to the same forces in its environment and susceptible to the contagion of higher and subtler ones residing in such superior organisms as it may be brought into relation with, as those of man when he is fashioning it into an instrument of his will. It absorbs something of his intelligence and purpose—more of them in proportion to the complexity of the resulting machine and that of its work. “Do you happen to recall Herbert Spencer’s definition of ‘Life’? I read it thirty years ago. He may have altered it afterward, for anything I know, but in all that time I have been unable to think of a single word that could profitably be changed or added or removed. It seems to me not only the best definition, but the only possible one. “‘Life,’ he says, ‘is a definite combination of heterogeneous changes, both simultaneous and successive, in correspondence with external coexistences and sequences.’” “That defines the phenomenon,” I said, “but gives no hint of its cause.” “That,” he replied, “is all that any definition can do. As Mill points out, we know nothing of cause except as an antecedent —nothing of effect except as a consequent. Of certain phenomena, one never occurs without another, which is dissimilar: the first in point of time we call cause, the second, effect. One who had many times seen a rabbit pursued by a dog, and had never seen rabbits and dogs otherwise, would think the rabbit the cause of the dog. “But I fear,” he added, laughing naturally enough, “that my rabbit is leading me a long way from the track of my legitimate quarry: I’m indulging in the pleasure of the chase for its own sake. What I want you to observe is that in Herbert Spencer’s definition of ‘life’ the activity of a machine is included—there is nothing in the definition that is not applicable to it. According to this sharpest of observers and deepest of thinkers, if a man during his period of activity is alive, so is a machine when in operation. As an inventor and constructor of machines I know that to be true.” Moxon was silent for a long time, gazing absently into the fire. It was growing late and I thought it time to be going, but somehow I did not like the notion of leaving him in that isolated house, all alone except for the presence of some person of whose nature my conjectures could go no further than that it was unfriendly, perhaps malign. Leaning toward him and looking earnestly into his eyes while making a motion with my hand through the door of his workshop, I said: “Moxon, whom have you in there?” Somewhat to my surprise he laughed lightly and answered without hesitation: “Nobody; the incident that you have in mind was caused by my folly in leaving a machine in action with nothing to act upon, while I undertook the interminable task of enlightening your understanding. Do you happen to know that Consciousness is the creature of Rhythm?” “O bother them both!” I replied, rising and laying hold of my overcoat. “I’m going to wish you good night; and I’ll add the hope that the machine which you inadvertently left in action will have her gloves on the next time you think it needful to stop her.” Without waiting to observe the effect of my shot I left the house. Rain was falling, and the darkness was intense. In the sky beyond the crest of a hill toward which I groped my way along precarious plank sidewalks and across miry, unpaved streets I could see the faint glow of the city’s lights, but behind me nothing was visible but a single window of Moxon’s house. It glowed with what seemed to me a mysterious and fateful meaning. I knew it was an uncurtained aperture in my friend’s “machine-shop,” and I had little doubt that he had resumed the studies interrupted by his duties as my instructor in mechanical consciousness and the fatherhood of Rhythm. Odd, and in some degree humorous, as his convictions seemed to me at that time, I could not wholly divest myself of the feeling that they had some tragic relation to his life and character— perhaps to his destiny—although I no longer entertained the notion that they were the vagaries of a disordered mind. Whatever might be thought of his views, his exposition of them was too logical for that. Over and over, his last words came back to me: “Consciousness is the creature of Rhythm.” Bald and terse as the statement was, I now found it infinitely alluring. At each recurrence it broadened in meaning and deepened in suggestion. Why, here, (I thought) is something upon which to found a philosophy. If consciousness is the product of rhythm all things are conscious, for all have motion, and all motion is rhythmic. I wondered if Moxon knew the significance and breadth of his thought—the scope of this momentous generalization; or had he arrived at his philosophic faith by the tortuous and uncertain road of observation? That faith was then new to me, and all Moxon’s expounding had failed to make me a convert; but now it seemed as if a great light shone about me, like that which fell upon Saul of Tarsus; and out there in the storm and darkness and solitude I experienced what Lewes calls “The endless variety and excitement of philosophic thought.” I exulted in a new sense of knowledge, a new pride of reason. My feet seemed hardly to touch the earth; it was as if I were uplifted and borne through the air by invisible wings. Yielding to an impulse to seek further light from him whom I now recognized as my master and guide, I had unconsciously turned about, and almost before I was aware of having done so found myself again at Moxon’s door. I was drenched with rain, but felt no discomfort. Unable in my excitement to find the doorbell I instinctively tried the knob. It turned and, entering, I mounted the stairs to the room that I had so recently left. All was dark and silent; Moxon, as I had supposed, was in the adjoining room—the “machine-shop.” Groping along the wall until I found the communicating door I knocked loudly several times, but got no response, which I attributed to the uproar outside, for the wind was blowing a gale and dashing the rain against the thin walls in sheets. The drumming upon the shingle roof spanning the unceiled room was loud and incessant. I had never been invited into the machine-shop—had, indeed, been denied admittance, as had all others, with one exception, a skilled metal worker, of whom no one knew anything except that his name was Haley and his habit silence. But in my spiritual exaltation, discretion and civility were alike forgotten and I opened the door. What I saw took all philosophical speculation out of me in short order. Moxon sat facing me at the farther side of a small table upon which a single candle made all the light that was in the room. Opposite him, his back toward me, sat another person. On the table between the two was a chessboard; the men were playing. I knew little of chess, but as only a few pieces were on the board it was obvious that the game was near its close. Moxon was intensely interested—not so much, it seemed to me, in the game as in his antagonist, upon whom he had fixed so intent a look that, standing though I did directly in the line of his vision, I was altogether unobserved. His face was ghastly white, and his eyes glittered like diamonds. Of his antagonist I had only a back view, but that was sufficient; I should not have cared to see his face. He was apparently not more than five feet in height, with proportions suggesting those of a gorilla—a tremendous breadth of shoulders, thick, short neck and broad, squat head, which had a tangled growth of black hair and was topped with a crimson fez. A tunic of the same color, belted tightly to the waist, reached the seat—apparently a box—upon which he sat; his legs and feet were not seen. His left forearm appeared to rest in his lap; he moved his pieces with his right hand, which seemed disproportionately long. I had shrunk back and now stood a little to one side of the doorway and in shadow. If Moxon had looked farther than the face of his opponent he could have observed nothing now, except that the door was open. Something forbade me either to enter or to retire, a feeling—I know not how it came—that I was in the presence of an imminent tragedy and might serve my friend by remaining. With a scarcely conscious rebellion against the indelicacy of the act I remained. The play was rapid. Moxon hardly glanced at the board before making his moves, and to my unskilled eye seemed to move the piece most convenient to his hand, his motions in doing so being quick, nervous and lacking in precision. The response of his antagonist, while equally prompt in the inception, was made with a slow, uniform, mechanical and, I thought, somewhat theatrical movement of the arm, that was a sore trial to my patience. There was something unearthly about it all, and I caught myself shuddering. But I was wet and cold. Two or three times after moving a piece the stranger slightly inclined his head, and each time I observed that Moxon shifted his king. All at once the thought came to me that the man was dumb. And then that he was a machine—an automaton chess player! Then I remembered that Moxon had once spoken to me of having invented such a piece of mechanism, though I did not understand that it had actually been constructed. Was all his talk about the consciousness and intelligence of machines merely a prelude to eventual exhibition of this device—only a trick to intensify the effect of its mechanical action upon me in my ignorance of its secret? A fine end, this, of all my intellectual transports—my “endless variety and excitement of philosophic thought!” I was about to retire in disgust when something occurred to hold my curiosity. I observed a shrug of the thing’s great shoulders, as if it were irritated: and so natural was this—so entirely human—that in my new view of the matter it startled me. Nor was that all, for a moment later it struck the table sharply with its clenched hand. At that gesture Moxon seemed even more startled than I: he pushed his chair a little backward, as in alarm. Presently Moxon, whose play it was, raised his hand high above the board, pounced upon one of his pieces like a sparrow-hawk and with the exclamation “checkmate!” rose quickly to his feet and stepped behind his chair. The automaton sat motionless. The wind had now gone down, but I heard, at lessening intervals and progressively louder, the rumble and roll of thunder. In the pauses between I now became conscious of a low humming or buzzing which, like the thunder, grew momentarily louder and more distinct. It seemed to come from the body of the automaton, and was unmistakably a whirring of wheels. It gave me the impression of a disordered mechanism which had escaped the repressive and regulating action of some controlling part—an effect such as might be expected if a pawl should be jostled from the teeth of a ratchet-wheel. But before I had time for much conjecture as to its nature my attention was taken by the strange motions of the automaton itself. A slight but continuous convulsion appeared to have possession of it. In body and head it shook like a man with palsy or an ague chill, and the motion augmented every moment until the entire figure was in violent agitation. Suddenly it sprang to its feet and with a movement almost too quick for the eye to follow shot forward across table and chair, with both arms thrust forth to their full length—the posture and lunge of a diver. Moxon tried to throw himself backward out of reach, but he was too late: I saw the horrible thing’s hands close upon his throat, his own clutch its wrists. Then the table was overturned, the candle thrown to the floor and extinguished, and all was black dark. But the noise of the struggle was dreadfully distinct, and most terrible of all were the raucous, squawking sounds made by the strangled man’s efforts to breathe. Guided by the infernal hubbub, I sprang to the rescue of my friend, but had hardly taken a stride in the darkness when the whole room blazed with a blinding white light that burned into my brain and heart and memory a vivid picture of the combatants on the floor, Moxon underneath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron hands, his head forced backward, his eyes protruding, his mouth wide open and his tongue thrust out; and —horrible contrast!—upon the painted face of his assassin an expression of tranquil and profound thought, as in the solution of a problem in chess! This I observed, then all was blackness and silence. Three days later I recovered consciousness in a hospital. As the memory of that tragic night slowly evolved in my ailing brain I recognized in my attendant Moxon’s confidential workman, Haley. Responding to a look he approached, smiling. “Tell me about it,” I managed to say, faintly—“all about it.” “Certainly,” he said; “you were carried unconscious from a burning house—Moxon’s. Nobody knows how you came to be there. You may have to do a little explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious, too. My own notion is that the house was struck by lightning.” “And Moxon?” “Buried yesterday—what was left of him.” Apparently this reticent person could unfold himself on occasion. When imparting shocking intelligence to the sick he was affable enough. After some moments of the keenest mental suffering I ventured to ask another question: “Who rescued me?” “Well, if that interests you—I did.” “Thank you, Mr. Haley, and may God bless you for it. Did you rescue, also, that charming product of your skill, the automaton chess-player that murdered its inventor?” The man was silent a long time, looking away from me. Presently he turned and gravely said: “Do you know that?” “I do,” I replied; “I saw it done.” That was many years ago. If asked to-day I should answer less confidently. Vocabulary: Evasion - the act of avoiding something or someone. Preoccupation - the state of being absorbed in thought. Sentient – capable of feeling or perceiving things Inert – lacking the ability to move or act; inactive Excoriate – to damage or remove the skin; to criticise severely Enigmatic – mysterious and difficult to understand Questions: 1. What is the significance of Moxon's belief that a machine can "think" about its work? How does this reflect his broader philosophical views? 2. How does the discussion of consciousness in plants relate to the broader question of whether machines can be conscious? 3. In what ways does the automaton chess player serve as a representation of Moxon's philosophical theories about machine intelligence? 4. How does the story explore the potential dangers of advanced technology through the character of Moxon and the automaton? 5. What does the story suggest about the relationship between human intellectual pursuits and their potential consequences? 6. How does Moxon's preoccupation with his work and philosophical inquiries impact his interactions with others and his personal well-being? 7. What might be the reason behind Moxon’s apparent agitation and the mysterious noises coming from his workshop? How does this foreshadow the final events? 8. What is the role of the stormy night and the setting in the passage? How does the weather and the atmosphere contribute to the story’s mood and tension? 9. In what ways does the story explore the theme of the limits of human knowledge and control over technology?