Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Nov 11, 2013

Happy Birthday Fyodor Dostoevsky!

To live without hope is to cease to live. 
– Fyodor Dostoevsky
Ever since we started celebrating the birthdays of beloved authors like Roald Dahl, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Shel Silverstein and T. S. Eliot in my "Famous Author Birthday" series, I've been waiting for November 11. Today, we get to celebrate the birthday of one of my all time favourite authors – Fyodor Dostoevsky. Please join me in wishing him a very С Днем Рождения (happy birthday in Russian)!

Fyodor Dostoevsky (November 11, 1821 – 9 February, 1881) was a Russian author, essayist and philosopher. His most famous works include Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, Notes from Underground and The Brothers Karamazov, all of which are amongst some of my favourite books.

Dostoevsky, along with Leo Tolstoy, is considered one of the greatest authors of the Golden Age of Russian literature. His books have been translated into more than 170 languages! Not only that, he has influenced a lot – and I mean a lot – of writers, philosophers, scientists and psychologists. Albert Einstein, Friedrich Nietzsche, Anton Chekhov, Herman Hesse, Knut Hamsun, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Franz Kafka, Sigmund Freud and Kurt Vonnegut (who incidentally shares the same birthday – happy birthday Kurt Vonnegut!) are all fans of his work!

Dostoevsky's notes for Chapter 5 of The Brothers Karamazov
Dostoevsky's novels are often very complex, and his characters very dark. He joined a lot of different points of views and voices together to explore many deep themes including religion, guilt, dreams, emotions, visions and human nature. To give an example, the picture to the left is his notes for one chapter of The Brothers Karamzov. His works encompass so many ideas and themes that I will leave it up to him to do the explaining himself with a quote.


Man is a mystery. It needs to be unravelled, and if you spend your whole life unravelling it, don't say that you've wasted time. I am studying that mystery because I want to be a human being.

Dostoevsky was the reason I fell in love with Russian literature, and I hope that one day you, my students, will get the chance to read at least one of his books and feel for yourself what a mind-blowing experience it really is! To conclude, here is some advice from the very wise man himself:

Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to live.
– The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky

P.S. To find out more about our Kurt Vonnegut, our other birthday boy, the Huffington Post wrote a wonderful post about what Vonnegut can teach us about life.

Nov 10, 2013

Join the Universe in Wishing Carl Sagan a Big Bang of a Birthday!

source
This weekend we celebrate the birthday of beloved American astronomer, astrophysicist and cosmologist Carl Sagan on November 9. Sagan was born in 1934 and died in 1996.

Carl Sagan is famous for contributing to people's understanding of the cosmos – the universe – as a whole. He is the author of the science book and TV series Cosmos. Cosmos covered many scientific topics such as the origin of life and our place in the Universe. He also wrote the novel Contact, which was made into a movie in 1997.

Because Carl Sagan was able to communicate complex ideas very easily, he helped people understand our place, as humans, in the universe. He taught us how small the Earth is compared to the Universe but at the same time emphasized the value and importance of the human race. Sagan's work helped to discover the high surface temperatures on Venus, the second planet from the sun. His research also deals with the possibilities of extraterrestrial life (aliens!).

In honour of his birthday, here, from the 11th episode of Cosmos, is a quote from Sagan about the magic of books:
What an astonishing thing a book is. It is a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.

Nov 8, 2013

Rosebud

In the two weeks leading up to Halloween, we are working together on writing a story of suspense and mystery. Each person takes turns to write a few paragraphs before passing it onto the next person. This is what we have achieved this week. This post will continue to be updated as we add to it over the next week.

Key:
Kassy
Sandy
Selina
Oscar
Vivian
Stella

It was the strangest thing I ever heard. And it was the last thing my uncle said
before he died . . .

As he lay on his death bed, his eyes fluttered open. With his last breath, he exhaled and breathed out the single, lonely word.

"Rosebud."

Then he was gone. The blood drained from his pale, sickly face, and his wrinkly hand fell, limp by his side. At that exact moment, I felt a tremor creep up my spine. I shuddered. A chill had entered the room. It was as if Death himself had entered the dirty, dim hospital room in which our entire family had been crammed in.

My uncle was a nice guy when he was young. He was a police officer. The year he turned 50 years old, he got a mental problem, so he went to the hospital. Everyone in our family really liked him. One day there was a guy who called my uncle and they were talking and my uncle's face turned terrible, scary and as white as a ghost. Then he shouted loudly at the old cellphone, "DON'T COME TO ME!" 

Then the next week, there was the news on TV that there was a person who killed three people in one night. The police found out that the murderer left a note in the mouth of all three victims. On each note, there was the word "Rosebud". It was written in the blood of the victim and all the victims were cut into nice, neat pieces. The news anchor said there was a same case in 1989. And in 1989, the murderer was called Shadow. Then my uncle shouted anxiously at the TV in the hospital, "HE'S BACK." 

So I asked him, "Who is back?" Then my uncle was silent. his face had turned in the same color when he was talking on the phone. I felt interested in all the things that just happened that my uncle was so scared about. Maybe that was the thing that my uncle did at work because he never talked about it before. So I decided to ask him...

"Uncle, who exactly is Rosebud?", nothing came out of his pale, white mouth. I stared at him for a few seconds, and he slightly opened his mouth. He whispered, "Rosebud...Rosebud, she's back!" My body started shivering, he continued whispering in a nervous, and soft voice "She was the woman I loved, but I saw it with my own eyes. She died in front of me, killed by the murderer who had blue shining eyes. Rosebud got killed by an arrow, and she fell straight into my strong, tight arms. I was falling apart, tears strolled down my dark eyes." All I could hear was the sound of my heart kicking against my ribs. What was happening? Why is Rosebud alive? What's wrong with my uncle? Thump, thump....I was dizzy, my head felt like exploding, everything felt wrong. Then a sharp, high scream ended my pain...I felt unconscious, my hand gripped strongly on my uncle's bed. Slowly, every sound that's heard grew fainter, and fainter, farther, and farther away from me until I collapsed onto the cold, freezing ground.

I slightly opened my bright blue eyes, and saw myself staring at a smooth, black concrete floor. This certainly wasn't the yellow-tinged tiles inside the hospital that I had fainted on. I quickly gathered myself together and looked around bewilderedly to find myself in a dark warehouse filled with all sorts of ....

Pictures of a beautiful, elegant, and young woman. Who is she? Then I walked slowly around the room, and I couldn't help approaching a huge, crumpled map. There were tons of blue pins sticking all around the map with different faces, each had a name written. One of the pictures had a name written Rosebud, and I realize that all the other pictures around the room was Rosebud too! On the map, was another man named "Carl" I knew him by looking at the blue straight hair he had. But he was dead, and I thought what possibly can this map be. I looked again and again, then I saw my Uncle's picture up on there. He had a bright smile, and he looked healthy. My heart started to speed, suddenly the door creaked open.....

I felt cold, slowly my body become stiff, and my heart was beating, po!po!popo! my clothes became wet, drop by drop of sweat fell on the ground.

Then I heard the sound of someone walking toward to me. Suddenly I turned back so fast and my heart was jumping so fast because I saw a pair of shoes in front of me. they were dark brown, made by leather. I recognized the shoes right away. I quickly turned my head up and saw......my uncle. "Anything wrong?" asked my uncle. Then he looked at me with a strange smile. "Nothing," I said in a normal voice but I felt a little scared. "Uncle, is this you?" I pointed at a photo on the wall and asked. "No, that is just the killer I was chasing," he said. "Then what about this guy?" I asked. My uncle didn't talk. Then I saw a picture on the wall that said "ROSEBUD". I remembered that it was the word the murderer put in the mouth of the victims on the TV. "What is this? Is this yours uncle?" I said, pointing to the Rosebud poster on the wall. "STOP!!"my uncle shouted in a loud voice. I got scared, because my uncle changed attitude so much. So I chose silence. "Time to go," my uncle said, and grabbed my hand tightly and walked out silently with no expression on his face.

He grabbed my shirt as we left the house, walking toward the blue, cracky van with its engine already running. He was waiting for me. He threw me hard into the backseat as he went to the trunk and took out a brown, old painting. "You were such a young, beautiful girl. And that is why, I can't keep you." My heartbeat jumped as his words came out. "Ashley, check this out." He passed the dusty painting to me. It was a young, blond girl with a delightful smile. "Does this person seem familiar?" Uncle grinned showing his cigarette stained teeth as he gave me a mirror. My body froze, my legs were trembling. "SMASH!" The mirror dropped and broke into pieces. I screamed in horror. He was grinning with a look I've never seen on his face before. He looked like a demon. I wasn't sure what I saw but all I remembered was that I took one of the broken mirror shards and stabbed him at the chest. He screamed as the blood oozed out and stained the mirror scarlet. "I...I...I..." I was mumbling. That was not me. My uncle stared at me with his blue, huge eyes. The van door was open, so I ran and ran as long as I could until I fell at the front door of the hospital. I heard the footsteps as my heart nearly jumped out from my chest. There, was the same pair of dark brown leather shoes standing in front of me. My jaw dropped. Then it began. My heart thumped in my chest, a rapid rhythm that was echoed in my temples. A high-pitch ringing started in my ears, and my vision blurred. It couldn't be. I blinked the tears away from my eyes and checked the shoes again, and sure enough, in front of me were the shoes that I had stepped on countless times as a child as my uncle, holding my hands, swung me around the garden, teaching me how to waltz. I felt a wave of nausea come over me. I gulped. I was defeated, sitting in a heap on the grey concrete floor in front of the hospital. Trying to hide my despair, I mustered up what little energy I had left and whispered the words that I now feared, "...Uncle?"

"Ashley, what happened?" a familiar sound echoed through my ears. I looked up and saw a huge dark shadow, I wished I was dreaming but uncle was standing right in front of me. He bent down on his knees, and I could see that mirror stabbed right in his chest droplets of blood dripped slowly down towards my face. Uncle whispered softly, "Ashley you all right, let me help you." I screamed and said, "What's wrong with you, your voice.....are you even my Uncle?" "Ashley stop worrying, come on let's go inside." I was breathing heavily, and looked at Uncle as he helped me out, chills were going through my body I felt horrified. Uncle stared back at me, but is he still the person that wanted to kill me? We slowly walked in, and a nurse hurried over terrified looking at Uncle's chest. She said, "Mr. Wickham, lets get you to the emergency room and get that hell of a piece of glass out of your chest." Uncle replied, "Oh sure, I had no idea what the hell happened to me." I stared at him again, is he crazy? I stabbed him, and now he's acting all weird, and cool. Then Uncle, and the nurse walked slowly in the emergency room. As they walked towards the room, Uncle turned back and gave me an evil smile. Then he walked away. 

For the next few week I am staying at my house. I think about what happened last week. "How can my uncle change so fast in one moment?" and how the things that happened in these few weeks are so related to my uncle. Maybe my uncle really has some secrets. That night uncle called me and said "I want to go to another place tomorrow. Do you want to go with me?" "Uh............okay uncle," I said, because I want to find out what is going on even if I am really scared. But it is time for me to find out. The next morning I went to the hospital. I walked upstairs to my uncle's room. "Morning Uncle," I said. "Good morning my dear," he said with a weird smile, "We are going to the place where I was born." 

So we went in the car and drove to the place where they aren't many houses or people. We walked through a small door into an old wooden house with many tombstones around it. I looked around. There were many paintings on the wall and there was a TV in the living room. I turned on the TV. The news anchor said there was a murder yesterday in ........... I stopped listening and suddenly felt cold. "Uncle? " I said, "Can we go now?" But no one answered me. Now I am scared. I walked to the door we came through but the door was locked. I ran to the second floor. There were so many rooms and I ran to one of the doors and rattled the doorknob. The door was locked too. I ran to another and another until I ran into a room that is unlocked. I looked around. There are many words written by red ink on the wall. I looked carefully. It said "Rosebud" over and over again. I was shocked. I am sweating and I felt cold again. I stood back and walked toward the door. Suddenly my feet touched something soft. It wasn't as soft as a pillow. It felt like there were bones inside. And then when I put my foot down harder, I heard it crack. Then I turned back and my face turned white because I saw a dead body. I bit my hand so I didn't scream out loud. My legs turned weak. I couldn't believe my eyes. And then I heard a sound...

Then I hear footsteps. For a sudden, I couldn't move. I held my breath. Just when I was going to turn back my head, my sight went black. I screamed. But all the sound was muffled by something over my lips. My lips were stuck together. Someone must've blindfolded me. I was grabbed roughly to a corner. I felt something was beside me. I used my hands to make sure, the answer made my hands start shivering. It was some liquid, and by the moment I realized, I smelled...blood. I kept kicking into the air as I heard footsteps getting closer. Just when the footsteps got even closer, I heard noises outside the room door, then "BAMMM" the wooden floor moved as something heavy fell down. I heard another footsteps coming by, closer, and closer...

Someone grabbed me and pushed me into a corner. I felt my body hit the wall. My teeth trembled, and my arm lost its consciousness. I heard the door smash and lock. The footsteps were becoming smaller and smaller, and I could hear nothing more than my breath. Again, it is silent. I started to feel pain in my arms. Even though I was blindfolded, I could still imagine that my body was covered with dark dried up blood. I laid on the floor lifelessly. Tiredness came over me, and soon, I closed my eyes and began my nightmare.

I don't know what time it was when I woke up. It felt like it had been a year already but I know it's not true. I tried to get the rope off my wrists but it is too tight. Suddenly I remembered that something fell down so I try to stand up and walk to where I heard the sound. "I got it" I said. It felt like some sharp broken glass I try to reach it "ouch" I shouted loudly in my brain it is a sharp pain coming right away in to my brain.I know I cut my finger and cut it really deep. But I can't give up so I try to reach it carefully again. before I can reach it there was a sound from the door. "oh s..." I thought it was uncle I was so scared that I nervously crawl back try to reach the same corner where I was. "Police, is anyone inside?" I am so happy to heard that sound that I try to scream as loud as I could but actually couldn't. so I kicked the wooden floor as hard as I could. 

Oct 31, 2013

Halloween Roundup: Mystery, Suspense & All Things Spooktacular!

source
Hehehe, Halloween has arrived! For the past two weeks, we have been working on an array of Halloween-related activities, and now that the actual day is here, we can finally take a look back at some of the most spine-chilling, hair-raising and blood-curdling things that everyone has been doing this past week, which also happened to be midterms week. Boo! (Pun intended).

Alice has finally published to her blog! Her second blog post is her own version of George's Marvellous Medicine, complete with doses of wine, human eyes, stinky socks and creepy crawlies. If you are thinking of cooking up a witch's brew this Halloween, click here for instructions on how you can remake Alice's Fantastic Medicine*.

Coco has written a spooky story about a sweet old lady who really was not so sweet...

Sandy, who loves scary stories, has started working on her own story about a group of teenage computer geniuses who hack for the state. One day when our protagonist was on a covert hacking mission, a mysterious message appears on the screen...





Selina and I spent some time last week reading some Edgar Allan Poe, the master of mystery and macabre and the inventor of detective fiction. After we explored themes of madness and guilt in The Tell-Tale Heart, we watched this excellently creepy UPA animation of the story.





On the note of detective fiction, Selina and I also started reading something a little more challenging but very, very exciting and mysterious and intelligent and wonderful and all the rest (Can you tell I'm a big fan?) – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tales of the eccentric yet fantastic consulting detective who lives on 221B Baker Street that is, none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. After reading The Red-Headed League, Selina has written her thoughts up in a post. Our next mystery will be A Study in Scarlet, as well as other Sherlock Holmes short stories. In the mean time, we have begun watching Sherlock, the BBC's wonderful modern adaptation of the stories and one of my favourite TV shows.

source
Finally, we have been collectively working on a tale of mystery and suspense titled Rosebud. I did borrow the word from Citizen Kane but our story turned out quite differently, and thanks to the weird inner workings of the minds of everyone (myself included), much, much more scary. It is still a work-in-progress so keep an eyeball out for how the mystery unravels...


*We are in no way responsible for any injuries that may occur as a result of consuming the fantastic medicine. We also will not be able to help people clean up any vomit (or dead bodies).

Sep 26, 2013

Happy Birthday William Faulkner & Shel Silverstein!

source
There's no shortage of famous author birthdays this week. Besides F. Scott Fitzgerald, who was born on September 23, September 25 is the birthday of American authors William Faulkner and Shel Silverstein.
Faulkner, who was born in 1897, won a Nobel Prize in Literature in 1949 for his "powerful and artistically unique contribution to the modern American novel" and is most famous for the books The Sound and the Fury and As I Lay Dying. 

Like Fitzgerald, Faulkner also had a lot to say about writing. Here are some of the best quotes about how to be a writer from an article published in the Huffington Post for his birthday. 

The best writers are insatiable 
Ninety-nine percent talent... ninety-nine percent discipline... ninety-nine percent work. He must never be satisfied with what he does. It never is as good as it can be done. Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do. Don't bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself.

A writer must be a reader 
Read, read, read. Read everything – trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it. Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window. 



Shel Silverstein, who you may also know as Uncle Shelby, was also born on September 25, but in 1930. To celebrate Shel Silverstein's birthday, here is a video of him narrating his most famous book, The Giving Tree, in 1973.

Sep 25, 2013

F. Scott Fitzgerald on Great Writing

Just last week we celebrated our beloved Roald Dahl's birthday. This week, it's American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald's birthday. Born on September 24, 1896, F. Scott Fitzgerald is often considered one of the greatest American writers in the 20th Century. He is the known for Tender is the Night, The Beautiful and the Damned, the short story The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and his most famous work, The Great Gatsby, which was recently made into a film.


He wrote most of his greatest work during the 1920s, a period he coined as "The Jazz Age". As depicted in the film Midnight in Paris, during the twenties, he frequently visited Paris with his wife Zelda and became good friends with fellow American author Ernest Hemingway. 

To celebrate F. Scott Fitzgerald's birthday, blogger Maria Popova dug up some letters written by F. Scott Fitzgerald to a family friend and his daughter, Scottie, that offer some advice about what makes great writing.

Here are some excerpts from his letters, for all my aspiring student writers:
"You've got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly, the little experiences that you might tell at dinner. This is especially true when you begin to write, when you have not yet developed the tricks of interesting people on paper, when you have none of the techniques which it takes time to learn. When, in short, you have only your emotions to sell . . . [Literature] is one of those professions that wants the 'works.' You wouldn't be interested in a soldier who was only a little brave."
– Letter to Frances, November 9, 1938

"Nobody ever became a writer just by wanting to be one. If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter – as indissolubly as if they were conceived together."
– Letter to Scottie, October 20, 1936


Sep 12, 2013

The Treasure of Kassy C.

On Tuesday, Selina and I read Walter Dean Myers' short story called The Treasure of Lemon Brown. Selina then wrote a wonderful blog post about what she learnt from the story, going onto discuss her own treasures – her books – and how special they are to her.

Just like Lemon Brown says, "Every man got a treasure." But not every man is a pirate with an old wooden treasure chest overbrimming with all the stolen riches in the world. Our treasures are not things that have monetary value but sentimental value. Indeed, even William Shakespeare, the greatest writer in the English language, believed so; one of the most famous quotes from his play The Merchant of Venice is "All that glitters is not gold."

Like Selina, my treasure also has to do with books. However, it is a very specific book – my well-worn copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, which is my all-time favourite novel. My mum bought my copy for me from Whitcoulls, a bookstore in New Zealand. This book has travelled with me everywhere – from New Zealand to Taiwan to Los Angeles.

Others may think that my copy of Pride and Prejudice is outdated and insignificant, and indeed, there are many much nicer hardcover versions out there. But little do they know that the creases on the spine correspond directly with my favourite pages in the book, meaning if you were to pick up my book, it will almost always open to the part I love best. To me, these bends and cracks are not the signs of deterioration; they are the marks of love.

I once thought I lost the book when we moved from one city to another. I scoured the house and ransacked through dozens of boxes in search of the book, but all to no avail. I was so upset that my parents conceded and bought me a new and much nicer copy. It just didn't feel the same though. This wasn't the copy that I had held in my hands the first time I read it and fell in love with Mr. Darcy, and it certainly wasn't the copy I proudly carried everywhere as I declared I wanted to be just like its heroine, Lizzie Bennett.

Luckily, I did end up finding my old copy, and now I have two copies of Pride and Prejudice. Even though the stories are exactly the same, you can guess which copy I love more.

What is your treasure and why is it valuable to you?