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Discuss the themes of apocalyptic literature
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Recommended: Discuss the themes of apocalyptic literature
Nyarlathotep . . . the crawling chaos . . . I am the last . . . I will tell the audient void. . . . I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men …show more content…
And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about “imposture” and “static electricity”, Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We sware to one another that the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we …show more content…
Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was
The author illustrates the “dim, rundown apartment complex,” she walks in, hand and hand with her girlfriend. Using the terms “dim,” and “rundown” portrays the apartment complex as an unsafe, unclean environment; such an environment augments the violence the author anticipates. Continuing to develop a perilous backdrop for the narrative, the author describes the night sky “as the perfect glow that surrounded [them] moments before faded into dark blues and blacks, silently watching.” Descriptions of the dark, watching sky expand upon the eerie setting of the apartment complex by using personification to give the sky a looming, ominous quality. Such a foreboding sky, as well as the dingy apartment complex portrayed by the author, amplify the narrator’s fear of violence due to her sexuality and drive her terror throughout the climax of the
When the Little Birds came down people and cars began to scatter. Some people were gesturing eagerly. The Black Hawks would move in next. People began poring into the streets with weapons. Others were building barricades or lighting fires.
It is divided into five parts ‘The Encounter’, ‘Philemon’, ‘The Shore’, ‘The Woods’, and ‘The Lost Children’, These profoundly crafted rhythmic lines will endure and resonate forever in the souls who read it. Rarely does a reader encounter such sheer beauty of timeless and compelling imagery in her debut book to stand apart as foremost publication in English literature.
With the roots taking hold, an avalanche of accusations followed for the next few months. The beliefs that helped trigger the accusation that left men, women and children abused, murdered, or left to rot in jail came from false hearsay. Arthur Miller says, it is widely assumed that hysteria approximately close to what was seen 308 years ago could never again effect out government system. Today some events call assumptions to question; in some cases we see sticking similari...
The poem is launched by a protracted introduction during which the speaker indulges in descriptions of landscape and local color, deferring until the fifth stanza the substantive statement regarding what is happening to whom: "a bus journeys west." This initial postponement and the leisurely accumulation of apparently trivial but realistic detail contribute to the atmospheric build-up heralding the unique occurrence of the journey. That event will take place as late as the middle of the twenty-second stanza, in the last third of the text. It is only in retrospect that one realizes the full import of that happening, and it is only with the last line of the final stanza that the reader gains the necessary distance to grasp entirely the functional role of the earlier descriptive parts.
Wall, Aron, ed. Spirits Who Dwel in Suspense. N.p., n.d. Web. 8 Dec. 2013. .
The snow floats down from the heavens on to earth painting it glistening white. Just like the named implies whitechapel is covered in a blanket of white snow. Catherine Eddowes walks home then she spots the local newspaper boy “Hey Missus, care for this morning's paper?” “Yes, boy, how many pounds will this be?” ”Just one pound, Missus.” “Thank you, boy,” she throws a coin to the young boy. The boy hides the coin in his hat and scurries off into the shadows of a dark alleyway. Catherine sits down on a bench nearby. One of the articles state that a woman’s body has been found on Bucks Row in Whitechapel. Her throat had been slit twice from left to right, her abdomen mutilated with one deep wound. A chill runs down Catherine's spine, she is not sure if it is from the cold or from the article she just read. She puts down the newspaper and rushes off to her quarters. She takes out a bottle of whiskey when she gets home to calm herself from the stressful day at work and the article she just read. She sits down at the counter taking out a glass to pour the whiskey in she drinks glass after glass. Her hands start to shake rapidly she taps the table repeatedly the melody of her fingernail hitting the wood echos throughout the house like a ticking clock. Tick, tick, tick the sound echos until it finally stops. The whiskey is starting to take effect on her. She feels dizzy. She decides to take her medication to stop the throbbing pain in her head. Catherine makes haste towards the restroom but, upon opening the medicine cabinet she finds that her pill bottle is lacking the pills. Clutching her head and moaning in pain she decides to go to the pharmacy. She walks through the crowd of people swaying side to side through the waves of pedestr...
As the journey to the destination begun the atmosphere is horrid as they passed cheap motels half deserted streets and sawdust motels it all set a very bleak tone of lifelessness, to support this claim, “like a patient etherized upon a table.” (Eliot 368) although they also encountered a yellow fog most likely caused by industrialism it took a form of animal imagery finding comfort in its surroundings to support this claim, “The yellow fog that rubs t back upon the window-panes, the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.” (Eliot
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
In combinations of words and shouts, I heard an indistinct cry “Robbery! Someone robbed me.” Out of total curiosity, I followed the path to the shop that got robbed. Pieces of shattered glass were spread unequally on the floor, jewels that were supposed to be stacked properly vanished. In an instant, the black figure sprinted over me, with a large crowd of visitors chasing him. The sound of heavy steps and fierce yells were groups of elephant crossing the river. Frightened, I cried with all my strength. “Help me! Save me!” There was no reply. In an impulse, I ran to the nearest pillar for cover, on the verge of tears. Out of nowhere, the black figure caught my collar and lifted me up. I was scared to death, no words, no tears could come out. A pointed, cold thing was on my neck. “Back up, all of you!” the man wearing black said. There was a complete silence in the mall as the black man shuffled backwards, toward the exit. The crowd followed him slowly, trying to create as less motion as possible. My heart was pounding fast, it felt like an undetonated bomb that may explode at any instant. Sweats were pouring out from my body, like a huge waterfall. Still, I was motionless and did not dare to speak anything. After he got the exit, the crowd was still nervous. Muted mutterings and small gestures lingered between the people in the crowd. Out of everyone
Uninterrupted, I felt like floating all night. Just before the light of the day presented itself, I was staring from the terrace of the plaza that housed the temple and its stupa at the visible dense fog below that was pierced by the sporadic lights of the village that was waking up. While the day made its timid, slow entrance, the dissipating fog revealed the roofs of the houses below and the chanting inhabitants, who were walking up the 365 steps. Their voices gradually grew louder step by step until it reached and permeated the square where I was temporarily residing.
“The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky – seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.” (96)
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
As the story ends the setting on the Thames river is once again described by the unseen narrator. "The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky-seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness."
Each year the two neighbors meet annually at the adjoining wall. Both men walk the length of the wall to assess and repair the year’s wear and tear. Frost’ writing style invites the reader to probe the need for communication or, more precisely, the way people put up walls to create barriers between themselves. The visual imagery of the wall helps the reader to shift from just seeing the wall as a basic, natural setting to an abstract consideration of human behavior. In the first stanza of the poem it establishes the sense of mystery, a true color of atmosphere, “something” that does not want the wall to be there. Whatever it is, it’s a powerful force and it creates a “ frozen ground swell” that disrupts the wall from underneath, forcing stones on top to tumble off.