Rhetorical strategies Essay Essay Example for Free

Rhetorical strategies Essay Essay All can relate to that one special time of the year, Christmas, when whole families unite and spend hours endlessly sharing stories, making memories, and of course, opening presents! What happens though, when all of the sentimental value of Christmas is replaced solely with physical value, the gifts? What would Christmas be like then? Richard Rodriguez takes the readers through one of his annual Christmases and brings to light, through his thoughts, the disconnect that exists between himself, his siblings, and his parents. Rodriguez’ chronological presentation of events with flashbacks, short, abrupt syntax, light-hearted attention to detail and concerned tone contribute to suggest his worried attitude toward his family. Rodriguez builds a sense of the lacking sentimentality through the syntax, using short, abrupt sentences to show how the family’s Christmas is just another thing done every year and not a special time. These short, abrupt sentences are down to the basics. There is no â€Å"fluff† just like there is no sentiment in Christmas. This style of syntax mirrors the sentimentality of the family. It is nothing but another stop. â€Å"The room grows uncomfortably warm. The talk grows listless.† The family has finished the business of opening gifts and they are ready to move on to their next event. Rodriguez adds little detail at first to create a lighthearted mood associated with the positive parts of Christmas. â€Å"So you’ll have to buy me soft food and put a blue wig on my head.† Later in the prose, Rodriguez’ selection of detail is used to show the physical items that have taken over in place of sentimental things. â€Å"a shiny mink jacket,†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"†¦where expensive foreign cars idle sharply.† Details like these are used throughout the second half of the passage to add to the loss of sentimentality within the family. Rodriguez uses dialogue throughout the passage to add effects and to help  the reader to understand what the author is experiencing. Rodriguez uses interesting punctuation, parenthesis, to represent his personal thoughts as well as background conversation, where he uses both parenthesis and quotations. â€Å"(â€Å"we have to get up early tomorrow†),† â€Å"(sad that we are all going home?).† Rodriguez’ personal thoughts are crucial in helping the reader understand the narrative. Rodriguez’ use of short, abrupt syntax, specific use of details, and interesting punctuation in the dialogue makes the narrative of his annual family Christmas become much deeper with an underlying worrisome, concerned tone and an emphasis of the loss of sentimentality of not only family Christmas but of family as a whole.

A Look Back, A Spotlight on Education :: Free Essays Online

My Eighth grade English teacher walked around the classroom, in a daily ritual, glancing over pages of circled letters, occasionally muttering, "turn", in an exhausted, apathetic tone. Many of my classmates used the time she had allotted for "checking homework" to socialize, while others frantically fumbled for a pencil, asked for a neighbor’s workbook, circled, underlined, and copied while occasionally lifting their heads up to see how far down the rows she had gotten and how close she was getting to them. Needless to say, it wasn’t hard to copy another student’s homework. We had already been in this "orange vocabulary book" system for two years by the time we were in the eighth grade. The workbook called for no originality or unique thought, so all of our little workbooks were expected to look exactly alike, all the same a’s circled, the same words underlined. It was possible that on any given weeknight, ten out of the twenty-five students in class would actually bother to do the assigned vocabulary homework. A few of us would copy a friend’s answer a little before, or even during class. There were still a few students that wouldn’t even put in that much effort into the English class, and would readily take the "zero" in the grade-book for the day. After the all-important "homework checking ritual" was through with, we all reluctantly opened up the vocabulary books for the "checking the answer" ritual. Starting with the front right corner of the classroom, students began reading off answers, letters and words, and nothing else, one after another, being occasionally corrected, and fed the right answer. I can’t say I learned too much from this vocabulary practice. I sat in my desk, looking at the clock mounted on the wall, listening to a random letters and words, with no other connotation, explanation, or implication of them, occasionally checking to see how far along the line we had gotten so that I would be able to answer promptly when it was my turn. For my teacher, however, vocabulary practice time seemed like the best part of the school day, next to her lunch break. She really didn’t choose to put much effort into the practices at all. The students didn’t protest, of course. It was an easy part of the day for us too. The vocabulary quizzes, did make up a big part of our grade in the class, as the vocabulary practices did take up a great deal of class time.

The Lost Symbol Chapter 76-78

CHAPTER 76 Freedom Plaza is a map. Located at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Thirteenth Street, the plaza's vast surface of inlaid stone depicts the streets of Washington as they were originally envisioned by Pierre L'Enfant. The plaza is a popular tourist destination not only because the giant map is fun to walk on, but also because Martin Luther King Jr., for whom Freedom Plaza is named, wrote much of his â€Å"I Have a Dream† speech in the nearby Willard Hotel. D.C. cabdriver Omar Amirana brought tourists to Freedom Plaza all the time, but tonight, his two passengers were obviously no ordinary sightseers. The CIA is chasing them? Omar had barely come to a stop at the curb before the man and woman had jumped out. â€Å"Stay right here!† the man in the tweed coat told Omar. â€Å"We'll be right back!† Omar watched the two people dash out onto the wide-open spaces of the enormous map, pointing and shouting as they scanned the geometry of intersecting streets. Omar grabbed his cell phone off the dashboard. â€Å"Sir, are you still there?† â€Å"Yes, Omar!† a voice shouted, barely audible over a thundering noise on his end of the line. â€Å"Where are they now?† â€Å"Out on the map. It seems like they're looking for something.† â€Å"Do not let them out of your sight,† the agent shouted. â€Å"I'm almost there!† Omar watched as the two fugitives quickly found the plaza's famous Great Seal–one of the largest bronze medallions ever cast. They stood over it a moment and quickly began pointing to the southwest. Then the man in tweed came racing back toward the cab. Omar quickly set his phone down on the dashboard as the man arrived, breathless. â€Å"Which direction is Alexandria, Virginia?† he demanded. â€Å"Alexandria?† Omar pointed southwest, the exact same direction the man and woman had just pointed toward. â€Å"I knew it!† the man whispered beneath his breath. He spun and shouted back to the woman. â€Å"You're right! Alexandria!† The woman now pointed across the plaza to an illuminated â€Å"Metro† sign nearby. â€Å"The Blue Line goes directly there. We want King Street Station!† Omar felt a surge of panic. Oh no. The man turned back to Omar and handed him entirely too many bills for the fare. â€Å"Thanks. We're all set.† He hoisted his leather bag and ran off. â€Å"Wait! I can drive you! I go there all the time!† But it was too late. The man and woman were already dashing across the plaza. They disappeared down the stairs into the Metro Center subway station. Omar grabbed his cell phone. â€Å"Sir! They ran down into the subway! I couldn't stop them! They're taking the Blue Line to Alexandria!† â€Å"Stay right there!† the agent shouted. â€Å"I'll be there in fifteen seconds!† Omar looked down at the wad of bills the man had given him. The bill on top was apparently the one they had been writing on. It had a Jewish star on top of the Great Seal of the United States. Sure enough, the star's points fell on letters that spelled MASON. Without warning, Omar felt a deafening vibration all around him, as if a tractor trailer were about to collide with his cab. He looked up, but the street was deserted. The noise increased, and suddenly a sleek black helicopter dropped down out of the night and landed hard in the middle of the plaza map. A group of black-clad men jumped out. Most ran toward the subway station, but one came dashing toward Omar's cab. He yanked open the passenger door. â€Å"Omar? Is that you?† Omar nodded, speechless. â€Å"Did they say where they were headed?† the agent demanded. â€Å"Alexandria! King Street Station,† Omar blurted. â€Å"I offered to drive, but–â€Å" â€Å"Did they say where in Alexandria they were going?† â€Å"No! They looked at the medallion of the Great Seal on the plaza, then they asked about Alexandria, and they paid me with this.† He handed the agent the dollar bill with the bizarre diagram. As the agent studied the bill, Omar suddenly put it all together. The Masons! Alexandria! One of the most famous Masonic buildings in America was in Alexandria. â€Å"That's it!† he blurted. â€Å"The George Washington Masonic Memorial! It's directly across from King Street Station!† â€Å"That it is,† the agent said, apparently having just come to the same realization as the rest of the agents came sprinting back from the station. â€Å"We missed them!† one of the men yelled. â€Å"Blue Line just left! They're not down there!† Agent Simkins checked his watch and turned back to Omar. â€Å"How long does the subway take to Alexandria?† â€Å"Ten minutes at least. Probably more.† â€Å"Omar, you've done an excellent job. Thank you.† â€Å"Sure. What's this all about?!† But Agent Simkins was already running back to the chopper, shouting as he went. â€Å"King Street Station! We'll get there before they do!† Bewildered, Omar watched the great black bird lift off. It banked hard to the south across Pennsylvania Avenue, and then thundered off into the night. Underneath the cabbie's feet, a subway train was picking up speed as it headed away from Freedom Plaza. On board, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon sat breathless, neither one saying a word as the train whisked them toward their destination. CHAPTER 77 The memory always began the same way. He was falling . . . plummeting backward toward an ice-covered river at the bottom of a deep ravine. Above him, the merciless gray eyes of Peter Solomon stared down over the barrel of Andros's handgun. As he fell, the world above him receded, everything disappearing as he was enveloped by the cloud of billowing mist from the waterfall upstream. For an instant, everything was white, like heaven. Then he hit the ice. Cold. Black. Pain. He was tumbling . . . being dragged by a powerful force that pounded him relentlessly across rocks in an impossibly cold void. His lungs ached for air, and yet his chest muscles had contracted so violently in the cold that he was unable even to inhale. I'm under the ice. The ice near the waterfall was apparently thin on account of the turbulent water, and Andros had broken directly through it. Now he was being washed downstream, trapped beneath a transparent ceiling. He clawed at the underside of the ice, trying to break out, but he had no leverage. The searing pain from the bullet hole in his shoulder was evaporating, as was the sting of the bird shot; both were blotted out now by the crippling throb of his body going numb. The current was accelerating, slingshotting him around a bend in the river. His body screamed for oxygen. Suddenly he was tangled in branches, lodged against a tree that had fallen into the water. Think! He groped wildly at the branch, working his way toward the surface, finding the spot where the branch pierced up through the ice. His fingertips found the tiny space of open water surrounding the branch, and he pulled at the edges, trying to break the hole wider; once, twice, the opening was growing, now several inches across. Propping himself against the branch, he tipped his head back and pressed his mouth against the small opening. The winter air that poured into his lungs felt warm. The sudden burst of oxygen fueled his hope. He planted his feet on the tree trunk and pressed his back and shoulders forcefully upward. The ice around the fallen tree, perforated by branches and debris, was weakened already, and as he drove his powerful legs into the trunk, his head and shoulders broke through the ice, crashing up into the winter night. Air poured into his lungs. Still mostly submerged, he wriggled desperately upward, pushing with his legs, pulling with his arms, until finally he was out of the water, lying breathless on the bare ice. Andros tore off his soaked ski mask and pocketed it, glancing back upstream for Peter Solomon. The bend in the river obscured his view. His chest was burning again. Quietly, he dragged a small branch over the hole in the ice in order to hide it. The hole would be frozen again by morning. As Andros staggered into the woods, it began to snow. He had no idea how far he had run when he stumbled out of the woods onto an embankment beside a small highway. He was delirious and hypothermic. The snow was falling harder now, and a single set of headlights approached in the distance. Andros waved wildly, and the lone pickup truck immediately pulled over. It had Vermont plates. An old man in a red plaid shirt jumped out. Andros staggered toward him, holding his bleeding chest. â€Å"A hunter . . . shot me! I need a . . . hospital!† Without hesitation, the old man helped Andros up into the passenger seat of the truck and turned up the heater. â€Å"Where's the nearest hospital?!† Andros had no idea, but he pointed south. â€Å"Next exit.† We're not going to a hospital. The old man from Vermont was reported missing the next day, but nobody had any idea where on his journey from Vermont he might have disappeared in the blinding snowstorm. Nor did anyone link his disappearance to the other news story that dominated the headlines the next day–the shocking murder of Isabel Solomon. When Andros awoke, he was lying in a desolate bedroom of a cheap motel that had been boarded up for the season. He recalled breaking in and binding his wounds with torn bedsheets, and then burrowing into a flimsy bed beneath a pile of musty blankets. He was famished. He limped to the bathroom and saw the pile of bloody bird-shot pellets in the sink. He vaguely recalled prying them out of his chest. Raising his eyes to the dirty mirror, he reluctantly unwrapped his bloody bandages to survey the damage. The hard muscles of his chest and abdomen had stopped the bird shot from penetrating too deep, and yet his body, once perfect, was now ruined with wounds. The single bullet fired by Peter Solomon had apparently gone cleanly through his shoulder, leaving a bloody crater. Making matters worse, Andros had failed to obtain that for which he had traveled all this distance. The pyramid. His stomach growled, and he limped outside to the man's truck, hoping maybe to find food. The pickup was now covered with heavy snow, and Andros wondered how long he had been sleeping in this old motel. Thank God I woke up. Andros found no food anywhere in the front seat, but he did find some arthritis painkillers in the glove compartment. He took a handful, washing them down with several mouthfuls of snow. I need food. A few hours later, the pickup that pulled out from behind the old motel looked nothing like the truck that had pulled in two days earlier. The cab cap was missing, as were the hubcaps, bumper stickers, and all of the trim. The Vermont plates were gone, replaced by those from an old maintenance truck Andros had found parked by the motel Dumpster, into which he had thrown all the bloody sheets, bird shot, and other evidence that he had ever been at the motel. Andros had not given up on the pyramid, but for the moment it would have to wait. He needed to hide, heal, and above all, eat. He found a roadside diner where he gorged himself on eggs, bacon, hash browns, and three glasses of orange juice. When he was done, he ordered more food to go. Back on the road, Andros listened to the truck's old radio. He had not seen a television or newspaper since his ordeal, and when he finally heard a local news station, the report stunned him. â€Å"FBI investigators,† a news announcer said, â€Å"continue their search for the armed intruder who murdered Isabel Solomon in her Potomac home two days ago. The murderer is believed to have fallen through the ice and been washed out to sea.† Andros froze. Murdered Isabel Solomon? He drove on in bewildered silence, listening to the full report. It was time to get far, far away from this place. The Upper West Side apartment offered breathtaking views of Central Park. Andros had chosen it because the sea of green outside his window reminded him of his lost view of the Adriatic. Although he knew he should be happy to be alive, he was not. The emptiness had never left him, and he found himself fixated on his failed attempt to steal Peter Solomon's pyramid. Andros had spent long hours researching the Legend of the Masonic Pyramid, and although nobody seemed to agree on whether or not the pyramid was real, they all concurred on its famous promise of vast wisdom and power. The Masonic Pyramid is real, Andros told himself. My inside information is irrefutable. Fate had placed the pyramid within Andros's reach, and he knew that ignoring it was like holding a winning lottery ticket and never cashing it in. I am the only non-Mason alive who knows the pyramid is real . . . as well as the identity of the man who guards it. Months had passed, and although his body had healed, Andros was no longer the cocky specimen he had been in Greece. He had stopped working out, and he had stopped admiring himself naked in the mirror. He felt as if his body were beginning to show signs of age. His once-perfect skin was a patchwork of scars, and this only depressed him further. He still relied on the painkillers that had nursed him through his recovery, and he felt himself slipping back to the lifestyle that had put him in Soganlik Prison. He didn't care. The body craves what the body craves. One night, he was in Greenwich Village buying drugs from a man whose forearm had been tattooed with a long, jagged lightning bolt. Andros asked him about it, and the man told him the tattoo was covering a long scar he had gotten in a car accident. â€Å"Seeing the scar every day reminded me of the accident,† the dealer said, â€Å"and so I tattooed over it with a symbol of personal power. I took back control.† That night, high on his new stash of drugs, Andros staggered into a local tattoo parlor and took off his shirt. â€Å"I want to hide these scars,† he announced. I want to take back control. â€Å"Hide them?† The tattoo artist eyed his chest. â€Å"With what?† â€Å"Tattoos.† â€Å"Yes . . . I mean tattoos of what?† Andros shrugged, wanting nothing more than to hide the ugly reminders of his past. â€Å"I don't know. You choose.† The artist shook his head and handed Andros a pamphlet on the ancient and sacred tradition of tattooing. â€Å"Come back when you're ready.† Andros discovered that the New York Public Library had in its collection fifty-three books on tattooing, and within a few weeks, he had read them all. Having rediscovered his passion for reading, he began carrying entire backpacks of books back and forth between the library and his apartment, where he voraciously devoured them while overlooking Central Park. These books on tattoos had opened a door to a strange world Andros had never known existed–a world of symbols, mysticism, mythology, and the magical arts. The more he read, the more he realized how blind he had been. He began keeping notebooks of his ideas, his sketches, and his strange dreams. When he could no longer find what he wanted at the library, he paid rare-book dealers to purchase for him some of the most esoteric texts on earth. De Praestigiis Daemonum . . . Lemegeton . . . Ars Almadel . . . Grimorium Verum . . . Ars Notoria . . . and on and on. He read them all, becoming more and more certain that the world still had many treasures yet to offer him. There are secrets out there that transcend human understanding. Then he discovered the writings of Aleister Crowley–a visionary mystic from the early 1900s– whom the church had deemed â€Å"the most evil man who ever lived.† Great minds are always feared by lesser minds. Andros learned about the power of ritual and incantation. He learned that sacred words, if properly spoken, functioned like keys that opened gateways to other worlds. There is a shadow universe beyond this one . . . a world from which I can draw power. And although Andros longed to harness that power, he knew there were rules and tasks to be completed beforehand. Become something holy, Crowley wrote. Make yourself sacred. The ancient rite of â€Å"sacred making† had once been the law of the land. From the early Hebrews who made burnt offerings at the Temple, to the Mayans who beheaded humans atop the pyramids of Chichen Itza, to Jesus Christ, who offered his body on the cross, the ancients understood God's requirement for sacrifice. Sacrifice was the original ritual by which humans drew favor from the gods and made themselves holy. Sacra–sacred. Face– make. Even though the rite of sacrifice had been abandoned eons ago, its power remained. There had been a handful of modern mystics, including Aleister Crowley, who practiced the Art, perfecting it over time, and transforming themselves gradually into something more. Andros craved to transform himself as they had. And yet he knew he would have to cross a dangerous bridge to do so. Blood is all that separates the light from the dark. One night, a crow flew through Andros's open bathroom window and got trapped in his apartment. Andros watched the bird flutter around for a while and then finally stop, apparently accepting its inability to escape. Andros had learned enough to recognize a sign. I am being urged onward. Clutching the bird in one hand, he stood at the makeshift altar in his kitchen and raised a sharp knife, speaking aloud the incantation he had memorized. â€Å"Camiach, Eomiahe, Emial, Macbal, Emoii, Zazean . . . by the most holy names of the angels in the Book of Assamaian, I conjure thee that thou assist me in this operation by the power of the One True God.† Andros now lowered the knife and carefully pierced the large vein on the right wing of the panicked bird. The crow began to bleed. As he watched the stream of red liquid flowing down into the metal cup he had placed as a receptacle, he felt an unexpected chill in the air. Nonetheless, he continued. â€Å"Almighty Adonai, Arathron, Ashai, Elohim, Elohi, Elion, Asher Eheieh, Shaddai . . . be my aid, so that this blood may have power and efficacy in all wherein I shall wish, and in all that I shall demand.† That night, he dreamed of birds . . . of a giant phoenix rising from a billowing fire. The next morning, he awoke with an energy he had not felt since childhood. He went running in the park, faster and farther than he'd imagined possible. When he could run no longer, he stopped to do pushups and sit-ups. Countless repetitions. Still he had energy. That night, again, he dreamed of the phoenix. Autumn had fallen again on Central Park, and the wildlife were scurrying about searching for food for winter. Andros despised the cold, and yet his carefully hidden traps were now overflowing with live rats and squirrels. He took them home in his backpack, performing rituals of increasing complexity. Emanual, Massiach, Yod, He, Vaud . . . please find me worthy. The blood rituals fueled his vitality. Andros felt younger every day. He continued to read day and night–ancient mystical texts, epic medieval poems, the early philosophers–and the more he learned about the true nature of things, the more he realized that all hope for mankind was lost. They are blind . . . wandering aimlessly in a world they will never understand. Andros was still a man, but he sensed he was evolving into something else. Something greater. Something sacred. His massive physique had emerged from dormancy, more powerful now than ever before. He finally understood its true purpose. My body is but a vessel for my most potent treasure . . . my mind. Andros knew his true potential had not yet been realized, and he delved deeper. What is my destiny? All the ancient texts spoke of good and evil . . . and of man's need to choose between them. I made my choice long ago, he knew, and yet he felt no remorse. What is evil, if not a natural law? Darkness followed light. Chaos followed order. Entropy was fundamental. Everything decayed. The perfectly ordered crystal eventually turned into random particles of dust. There are those who create . . . and those who destroy. It was not until Andros read John Milton's Paradise Lost that he saw his destiny materialize before him. He read of the great fallen angel . . . the warrior demon who fought against the light . . . the valiant one . . . the angel called Moloch. Moloch walked the earth as a god. The angel's name, Andros later learned, when translated to the ancient tongue, became Mal'akh. And so shall I. Like all great transformations, this one had to begin with a sacrifice . . . but not of rats, nor birds. No, this transformation required a true sacrifice. There is but one worthy sacrifice. Suddenly he had a sense of clarity unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life. His entire destiny had materialized. For three straight days he sketched on an enormous sheet of paper. When he was done, he had created a blueprint of what he would become. He hung the life-size sketch on his wall and gazed into it as if into a mirror. I am a masterpiece. The next day, he took his drawing to the tattoo parlor. He was ready. CHAPTER 78 The George Washington Masonic Memorial stands atop Shuter's Hill in Alexandria, Virginia. Built in three distinct tiers of increasing architectural complexity from bottom to top–Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian–the structure stands as a physical symbol of man's intellectual ascent. Inspired by the ancient Pharos lighthouse of Alexandria, Egypt, this soaring tower is capped by an Egyptian pyramid with a flamelike finial. Inside the spectacular marble foyer sits a massive bronze of George Washington in full Masonic regalia, along with the actual trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Capitol Building. Above the foyer, nine different levels bear names like the Grotto, the Crypt Room, and the Knights Templar Chapel. Among the treasures housed within these spaces are over twenty thousand volumes of Masonic writings, a dazzling replica of the Ark of the Covenant, and even a scale model of the throne room in King Solomon's Temple. CIA agent Simkins checked his watch as the modified UH-60 chopper skimmed in low over the Potomac. Six minutes until their train arrives. He exhaled and gazed out the window at the shining Masonic Memorial on the horizon. He had to admit, the brilliantly shining tower was as impressive as any building on the National Mall. Simkins had never been inside the memorial, and tonight would be no different. If all went according to plan, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon would never make it out of the subway station. â€Å"Over there!† Simkins shouted to the pilot, pointing down at the King Street subway station across from the memorial. The pilot banked the helicopter and set it down on a grassy area at the foot of Shuter's Hill. Pedestrians looked up in surprise as Simkins and his team piled out, dashed across the street, and ran down into King Street Station. In the stairwell, several departing passengers leaped out of the way, plastering themselves to the walls as the phalanx of armed men in black thundered past them. The King Street Station was larger than Simkins had anticipated, apparently serving several different lines–Blue, Yellow, and Amtrak. He raced over to the Metro map on the wall, found Freedom Plaza and the direct line to this location. â€Å"Blue Line, southbound platform!† Simkins shouted. â€Å"Get down there and clear everyone out!† His team dashed off. Simkins rushed over to the ticket booth, flashed his identification, and shouted to the woman inside. â€Å"The next train from Metro Center–what time is it due?!† The woman inside looked frightened. â€Å"I'm not sure. Blue Line arrives every eleven minutes. There's no set schedule.† â€Å"How long since the last train?† â€Å"Five . . . six minutes, maybe? No more than that.† Turner did the math. Perfect. The next train had to be Langdon's. Inside a fast-moving subway car, Katherine Solomon shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat. The bright fluorescent lights overhead hurt her eyes, and she fought the impulse to let her eyelids close, even for a second. Langdon sat beside her in the empty car, staring blankly down at the leather bag at his feet. His eyelids looked heavy, too, as if the rhythmic sway of the moving car were lulling him into a trance. Katherine pictured the strange contents of Langdon's bag. Why does the CIA want this pyramid? Bellamy had said that Sato might be pursuing the pyramid because she knew its true potential. But even if this pyramid somehow did reveal the hiding place of ancient secrets, Katherine found it hard to believe that its promise of primeval mystical wisdom would interest the CIA. Then again, she reminded herself, the CIA had been caught several times running parapsychological or psi programs that bordered on ancient magic and mysticism. In 1995, the â€Å"Stargate/Scannate† scandal had exposed a classified CIA technology called remote viewing–a kind of telepathic mind travel that enabled a â€Å"viewer† to transport his mind's eye to any location on earth and spy there, without being physically present. Of course, the technology was nothing new. Mystics called it astral projection, and yogis called it out-of-body experience. Unfortunately, horrified American taxpayers called it absurd, and the program had been scuttled. At least publicly. Ironically, Katherine saw remarkable connections between the CIA's failed programs and her own breakthroughs in Noetic Science. Katherine felt eager to call the police and find out if they had discovered anything in Kalorama Heights, but she and Langdon were phoneless now, and making contact with the authorities would probably be a mistake anyway; there was no telling how far Sato's reach extended. Patience, Katherine. Within minutes, they would be in a safe hiding place, guests of a man who had assured them he could provide answers. Katherine hoped his answers, whatever they might be, would help her save her brother. â€Å"Robert?† she whispered, glancing up at the subway map. â€Å"Next stop is ours.† Langdon emerged slowly from his daydream. â€Å"Right, thanks.† As the train rumbled toward the station, he collected his daybag and gave Katherine an uncertain glance. â€Å"Let's just hope our arrival is uneventful.† By the time Turner Simkins dashed down to join his men, the subway platform had been entirely cleared, and his team was fanning out, taking up positions behind the support pillars that ran the length of the platform. A distant rumble echoed in the tunnel at the other end of the platform, and as it grew louder, Simkins felt the push of stale warm air billowing around him. No escape, Mr. Langdon. Simkins turned to the two agents he had told to join him on the platform. â€Å"Identification and weapons out. These trains are automated, but they all have a conductor who opens the doors. Find him.† The train's headlamp now appeared down the tunnel, and the sound of squealing brakes pierced the air. As the train burst into the station and began slowing down, Simkins and his two agents leaned out over the track, waving CIA identification badges and straining to make eye contact with the conductor before he could open the doors. The train was closing fast. In the third car, Simkins finally saw the startled face of the conductor, who was apparently trying to figure out why three men in black were all waving identification badges at him. Simkins jogged toward the train, which was now nearing a full stop. â€Å"CIA!† Simkins shouted, holding up his ID. â€Å"Do NOT open the doors!† As the train glided slowly past him, he went toward the conductor's car, shouting in at him. â€Å"Do not open your doors! Do you understand?! Do NOT open your doors!† The train came to a full stop, its wide-eyed conductor nodding repeatedly. â€Å"What's wrong?!† the man demanded through his side window. â€Å"Don't let this train move,† Simkins said. â€Å"And don't open the doors.† â€Å"Okay.† â€Å"Can you let us into the first car?† The conductor nodded. Looking fearful, he stepped out of the train, closing the door behind him. He escorted Simkins and his men to the first car, where he manually opened the door. â€Å"Lock it behind us,† Simkins said, pulling his weapon. Simkins and his men stepped quickly into the stark light of the first car. The conductor locked the door behind them. The first car contained only four passengers–three teenage boys and an old woman–all of whom looked understandably startled to see three armed men entering. Simkins held up his ID. â€Å"Everything's fine. Just stay seated.† Simkins and his men now began their sweep, pushing toward the back of the sealed train one car at a time–â€Å"squeezing toothpaste,† as it was called during his training at the Farm. Very few passengers were on this train, and halfway to the back, the agents still had seen nobody even remotely resembling the description of Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon. Nonetheless, Simkins remained confident. There was absolutely no place to hide on a subway car. No bathrooms, no storage, and no alternative exits. Even if the targets had seen them board the train and fled to the back, there was no way out. Prying open a door was almost impossible, and Simkins had men watching the platform and both sides of the train anyway. Patience. By the time Simkins reached the second-to-last car, however, he was feeling edgy. This penultimate car had only one passenger–a Chinese man. Simkins and his agents moved through, scanning for any place to hide. There was none. â€Å"Last car,† Simkins said, raising his weapon as the threesome moved toward the threshold of the train's final section. As they stepped into the last car, all three of them immediately stopped and stared. What the . . . ?! Simkins raced to the rear of the deserted cabin, searching behind all the seats. He spun back to his men, blood boiling. â€Å"Where the hell did they go?!†

Descriptive Essay - Original Writing - 1107 Words

I woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs. I got up and I looked in the mirror. My hair is very messy so I grabbed my hairbrush and other things. I brushed my hair and then grabbed my water bottle. I went out into the living room. Isabella, Emma, and Sophia sat down in their little chairs. Jaden, Jake, and Lucas played with their toy trains. I sat across from mommy who had her hair in a bun. Destiny, we have something to tell you. We did not know when was the right time to tell you. I mean you were scared and hurt, we did not want to hurt your feelings even more. Mommy said. What is it? I said. I was curious to hear about the dreadful news. You were adopted by us. When you were ten, you wondered why you looked different from us. We†¦show more content†¦I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us. We only want you to be happy. Daddy said. I know. I forgive you. Thank you for the support. I said. Honey, you re only going to the museum. You do not need a suit. Mommy said. Mommy made some faces at daddy. He did not notice. I giggled. I know. I think this suit shrunk a bit. It was harder for me to put my arms inside the sleeves. Daddy said, while looking at the sleeves. Maybe, you are getting fatter. Mommy said. I giggled very loudly. Time out for both of you. Daddy said, playfully. I m going to get ready to go to the mall. I said. Don t forget to use sunblock and bring your sunglasses. Mommy said. It is almost winter, but the sun is still hot so I still have to use sunblock. I have to use sunblock everywhere I go. Ok. I said. I went into my room. The bathroom is right inside my bedroom. I entered the bathroom with my pink, laced dress and my headband in my left hand. I am glad I get to go outside. I can go to the mall and buy something for myself. I will surprise daddy with the newest watch in the market. I cannot wait to surprise everyone with something we all can enjoy. Maybe, a new movie to watch or something. Or maybe an ice cream maker. That sounds nice. I brushed my teeth and then I washed my face with my favorite face wash. I grabbed my dress and put on my laced headband. I went to the living room with my small, pink purse in my hand.

Hypotaxis in English Sentence Structure

Hypotaxis also called subordinating style, is a grammatical and rhetorical  term used to describe an arrangement of phrases or clauses in a dependent or subordinate relationship -- that is, phrases or clauses ordered one under another. In hypotactic constructions, subordinating conjunctions and relative pronouns serve to connect the dependent elements to the  main clause. Hypotaxis comes from the Greek word for subjection. In The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics,  John Burt points out that hypotaxis can also extend beyond the sentence boundary, in which case the term refers to a style in which the logical relationships among sentences are explicitly rendered. In Cohesion in English,  M.A.K. Halliday and Ruqaiya Hasan identify three primary types of hypotactic relation: Condition (expressed by clauses of condition, concession, cause, purpose, etc.); addition (expressed by the non-defining relative clause); and report They also note that hypotactic and paratactic structures may combine freely in a single clause complex. Examples and Observations on Hypotaxis One December morning near the end of the year when snow was falling moist and heavy for miles all around so that the earth and the sky were indivisible, Mrs. Bridge emerged from her home and spread her umbrella. (Evan S. Connell, Mrs. Bridge, 1959)Let the reader be introduced to Joan Didion, upon whose character and doings much will depend on whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house on Welbeck Street. (Joan Didion, Democracy,  1984)When I was around nine or ten I wrote a play which was directed by a young, white schoolteacher, a woman, who then took an interest in me, and gave me books to read, and, in order to corroborate my theatrical bent, decided to take me to see what she somewhat tactlessly referred to as real plays. (James Baldwin, Notes of a Native Son, 1955) Samuel Johnsons Hypotactic Style Among  the innumerable practices by which  interest or envy have taught those who live upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the excellence of a new composition can no longer be contested, and malice is compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded, though his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot obscure, may be set at such a distance as not to overpower our fainter lustre. This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it may be sometimes urged with probability.   (Samuel Johnson, The Rambler, July 1751) Virginia Woolfs Hypotactic Style Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to view, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us by the act of sickness, how we go down into the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist’s arm-chair and confuse his Rinse the mouth -- rinse the mouth with the greeting of the Deity stooping from the floor of Heaven to welcome us -- when we think of this, as we are so frequently forced to think of it, it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature. (Virginia Woolf, On Being Ill, New Criterion, January 1926) Oliver Wendell Holmes Use of Hypotaxis If you have advanced in line and have seen ahead of you the spot you must pass where the rifle bullets are striking; if you have ridden at night at a walk toward the blue line of fire at the dead angle of Spottsylvania, where for twenty-four hours the soldiers were fighting on the two sides of an earthwork, and in the morning the dead and dying lay piled in a row six deep, and as you rode you heard the bullets splashing in the mud and earth about you; if you have been in the picket-line at night in a black and unknown wood, have heard the splat of the bullets upon the trees, and as you moved have felt your foot slip upon a dead mans body; if you have had a blind fierce gallop against the enemy, with your blood up and a pace that left no time for fear -- if, in short, as some, I hope many, who hear me, have known, you have known the vicissitudes of terror and triumph in war; you know that there is such a thing as the faith I spoke of. (Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., The Soldiers Faith, Ma y 1895)Holmes, a thrice-wounded officer of the Twentieth Massachusetts Volunteers, knew whereof he spoke, certainly. The passage [above] is drawn up like lines of battle, if clauses (the protasis) that one has to pass one-by-one before reaching the then clause (the apodosis). The syntax is, in the literal sense of the Greek, a line of battle. The sentence ... seems to map a series of Civil War skirmish lines. This is hypotactic arrangement for certain. (Richard A. Lanham, Analyzing Prose, 2003) Parataxis and Hypotaxis Theres nothing wrong with parataxis. Its good, simple, plain, clean-living, hard-working, up-bright-and-early English. Wham. Bam. Thank you, maam.[George] Orwell liked it. [Ernest] Hemingway liked it. Almost no English writer between 1650 and 1850 liked it.The alternative, should you, or any writer of English, choose to employ it (and who is to stop you?) is, by use of subordinate clause upon subordinate clause,  which itself may be subordinated to those clauses that have gone before or after, to construct a sentence of such labyrinthine grammatical complexity that, like Theseus before you when he searched the dark Minoan mazes for that monstrous monster, half bull and half man, or rather half woman for it had been conceived from, or in, Pasiphae, herself within a Daedalian contraption of perverted invention, you must unravel a ball of grammatical yarn lest you wander forever, amazed in the maze, searching through dark eternity for a full stop.Thats hypotaxis, and it used to be eve rywhere. Its hard to say who started it, but the best candidate was a chap called Sir Thomas Browne. (Mark Forsyth, The Elements of Eloquence: Secrets of the Perfect Turn of Phrase, 2013)Classical and 18th-century hypotaxis suggests the virtues of balance and order; biblical and 20th-century parataxis (Hemingway, Salinger, McCarthy) suggest a democratic leveling and an inversion of natural power relations (the voice of the expatriate, the disillusioned, the outlaw). Hypotaxis is the structure of sober refinement and discrimination; parataxis the structure of intoxication and divinely inspired utterance. (Timothy Michael, British Romanticism and the Critique of Political Reason, 2016) Characteristics of Hypotactic Prose Hypotactic style allows syntax and structure to supply useful information. Instead of [a] simple juxtaposition of elements by way of simple and compound sentences, hypotactic structures rely more on complex sentences to establish relationships among elements. Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca (1969) observed, The hypotactic construction is the argumentative construction par excellence. Hypotaxis creates frameworks [and] constitutes the adoption of a position. (James Jasinski, Sourcebook on Rhetoric: Key Concepts in Contemporary Rhetorical Studies, 2001)The subordinating style orders its components in relationships of causality (one event or state is caused by another), temporality (events and states are prior or subsequent to one another), and precedence (events and states are arranged in hierarchies of importance). It was the books I read in high school rather than those I was assigned in college that influenced the choices I find myself making today -- two actions, one of which is prio r to the other and has more significant effects that continue into the present. (Stanley Fish, How to Write a Sentence and How to Read One,  2011)

The Importance Of Perinatal Depression A Significant...

Perinatal depression is a significant mental health and public health problem, and may be one of the most disabling disorders among women of childbearing age (Earls Committee on Psychosocial Aspects of Child and Family Health American Academy of Pediatrics, 2010). Perinatal depression is associated with a multitude of negative sequelae for women, children, and families including poor maternal-fetal attachment, adverse neonatal outcomes (e.g., low birth weight, preterm birth, small for gestational age), poor infant attachment, early childhood developmental delays, and relationship strain (Alhusen, Hayat, Gross, 2013; Grigoriadis et al., 2013; Leis, Heron, Stuart, Mendelson, 2014). The perinatal period presents an opportune time to screen, diagnose, and treat depression given most women have frequent and regular contact with perinatal health care providers. Yet, most women who present with depressive symptoms do not receive adequate treatment (Allbaugh, Marcus, Ford, Flynn, 2014 ). Extant research has identified barriers and facilitators to the successful recognition and treatment of perinatal depression. These barriers and facilitators may occur at the patient-, health care provider- and system levels of care. Critical to addressing these barriers includes timely and appropriate screening and patient-centered treatment for perinatal depression. The purpose of this manuscript is twofold. The first is to present an overview of research related to the impact ofShow MoreRelatedThe Uk System Is That Of Health Visitors1665 Words   |  7 Pagesof health visitors. Through the Healthy Child Programme and the Health Visiting Implementation Plan, the NHS provides new mothers and their families with additional support starting in the postpartum period and lasting through the child’s first five years of life (Department of Health, 2011). 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Classical Music in Pop Culture free essay sample

There may just be a glimpse of good news for the music front. Recently I’ve heard numerous television commercials using pieces of classical music to display the message. Two of them, it must be stated, were for the same product, one of those so called daily vitamins. One had a piece of Wagner the theme from Die Walkure – and the other accented a melody from Mozart’s Die Zauberflote. Actual operas, please note. And then another commercial for a table seasoning, set in a restaurant, had Bach’s BrandenBurg Concerto No. playing in the background. Could it be that a couple of advertising people have determined that pop music has lost some of its demand? I am lost in how these people go about determining what music to use, but it seems luminous that they would want whatever they choose to support the product image and not defer the people to whom they are trying to sell it. We will write a custom essay sample on Classical Music in Pop Culture or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page Yes, it is entirely possible to use music sarcastically , and perhaps that’s what is going on here. But to use a piece of Mozart sarcastically is still to expose the audience to a piece of Mozart, which in the normal way of things they may not encounter nywhere else. It’s hard to see how good this is but it can’t be that bad. Except for a single double sided cassette of Beethoven(which I accidently taped over one day) there was no classical music in the house when I was coming up. Whatever of that type of music I heard, I heard from television. And by â€Å"television† I don’t mean the likes of â€Å"Matlock. † No, my earliest introduction to music of the serious sort was from the soundtrack of cartoons. The animation studios of Walt Disney and Warner Brothers, among others drew freely on the library of fine music as background and sometimes even as foreground, as for xample when Bugs Bunny or Elmer Fudd appeared as the conductor of a symphony orchestra. Even when Bugs was the subversive rather than the highbrow, the music came through. I didnâ₠¬â„¢t hear too much in school, either which is a shame. As I recollect the musical interludes in school consisted of taking out little books of songs and singing â€Å"Jack and Jill† and other similar songs. Some kids played in the band and soaked up some music that way; being the class clown and lack of interest at the time, rendered me unfit for that path. But eventually I grew an interest in the drums and arching music, and started watching DCI(Drum Corps International), videos on YouTube. Doesn’t it seem, though, that good music is something that might be included into the school day? It does not have to be studied academically or formally â€Å"appreciated. † Just made available, as one might play little league football. Start early enough, and maybe boys won’t pretend to be sick at the sound of a violin. I’ve seen a couple of new commercials and they do succeed in making me take notice. I’m not going to buy those vitamin or the table seasonings, but I hope those who are inclined to do so wil l form a ositive association with some good music. Writing this paper I was really forced to think about classical music and not only is relevance in pop culture but also its contribution to pop culture. So I started my research and started seeing a lot about classical music and therapy. By the minute classical music is being incorporated into mainstream society. According to a research published in a alternative therapy medicine issue of the Journal of Clinical Nursing, classical music can reduce psychological stress among pregnant women. Researchers at the college nursing program at Kaohsiung Medical University conducted a study in which they randomly assigned a group of women to classical music group and another to a country music group. â€Å"the classical music group showed significant reductions in stress, anxiety, and depression after just two weeks, using three established measurement scales†(Chung-Hey). Followed by â€Å"in comparison, the country music group showed a much smaller reduction in stress while there anxiety and depression scores showed little or no improvement.