Faulkner writes in an extremely descriptive manner, describing both the essential and nonessential. His choices in wording attempts to express in the most vivid detail possible, the thoughts, feelings, emotions, and senses that flow through his mind. Although his style of writing is extremely descriptive and presses a vivid image in the reader’s mind, Faulkner uses far too many words per sentence, making the reader quickly and easily tired of the composition. Soon enough, carrying the weight of reading the composition becomes a burden to the reader, as opposed to being a joy.

Hemingway, in contrast, writes in a far clearer and more concise manner, alternating between long and descriptive sentences, to short, brief, and powerful ones that show the reader the facts. This effect produces a variance to Hemingway’s composition, creating a much more hospitable environment for the reader to delve in. This is in stark contrast to Faulkner’s protracted sentence structure. However, Hemingway still achieves the high level of detail that Faulkner does, albeit in his own unique fashion. Rather than cramming each and every sentence with as much description as possible, Hemingway splits the facts and settings up into many smaller sentences that introduce the subject, which is later described by the longer sentences. This produces a much higher degree of variety, letting the reader be easily attracted to the composition, unlike Faulkner.

Another aspect of writing in which Faulkner and Hemingway differ is in the focus of the descriptions. Faulkner tends to focus a lot on the backgrounds of his settings. Rather than focusing on the subject himself, Faulkner spends most of his composition setting the stage and the settings, describing the background, setting, and tone to the utmost detail, even at the cost of character development and interaction. In contrast, Hemingway focuses a lot on character development and interaction, whilst setting the background in the beginning.

In addition, Faulkner’s style makes it extremely hard to retain a specific tone, for instance contrasting one object’s description as morbidly dark, while another just after as vividly bright. In reading certain passages, I occasionally even forgot what was occurring halfway through the first sentence (in a particular passage, over one hundred words long). In an introductory passage, he also does not explain who the character Quentin is, jumping straight to describing Miss Coldfield’s office, and explaining why it is dark. He describes wisteria vines, and the shade of Miss Coldfield’s black. In fact, the main characters, Miss Coldfield, and Quentin themselves are never described while doing their activities. The entire section is merely a description of the characters.

In all, both Faulkner and Hemingway have distinct styles of writing, neither of which is better than the other due to their unique natures. They both are extremely descriptive in their diction, but tell the story in their own unique ways.

In the back seat of the grimy cab, I tried to think of why I felt the whole incident was so erroneous; the motive behind the purchase of those two DVD’s was simply the sympathetic nature of my human heart. But I had to think deeper. The question wasn’t why I felt as if the purchase was wrong, but the cause for the purchase itself. It was the pity that I felt for the ragged shopkeeper and his starving family. The pity that was inadvertently the collateral damage from the communist Chinese government. I realized that the deprived condition of this family was exhaust directly from the immense engine of poverty set in motion by the government. By falling into the amoral trap of these victims of such a harsh reality, I had, like many others, fueled the existence of the underground black-market out of pure sympathy. The capital gained from my purchases would ultimately promote the existence of such stores, continuing the cycle: fuel, burn, fuel, burn.

Once I understood the theory behind the mistake, I questioned the reason to which I made it in the first place. I thought back to my hometown in Southern California. Raised most of my years in the elite city of Newport Beach, I spent the majority of my childhood knowing only of the sheltered environment of my community. It never occurred to me that the destitute settings that I had only seen in movies could possibly exist in the safe world that I lived in. The ghettos where the innocent passersby could be the next victim of a fatal gunshot wound, the dark alleys that are hosts to so many drug transactions, and the hidden rooms where black-market DVD’s are sold all seemed utterly irrelevant and unrelated to my world. I was completely oblivious to reality my entire life.

During the taxi ride back to my hotel, I understood that purchasing those two DVD’s gave that family enough money to last a few weeks. But it only fueled the illegal trade. I realized with repulsion that I helped the continuation of this immoral market. I realized that I was meant for something more than just existing in the safe and censored confines of Newport. I realized that I want to go out and open my eyes to reality. I want to experience pain, sense danger and feel fear. I need to end my ignorance. I want to go out and make a difference in the world. I want to help that poor family in China and others like it. To do so, I need to break the chains of Newport’s idealistic falsehoods and find somewhere with a real view of the world.

As I got out of the taxi, I numbly paid the driver, closed the door, and threw the DVD’s away. I vowed to expand my narrow vision and help the people of the world, one step at a time.

It started off as a good day. I was coming home from orchestra rehearsal. The weather was sunny, warm, and bright. I dreamily watched the land fly past me in a blur as I gazed out of the window. My mom was driving the car then, and suggested to me that I go play at the park. Deciding that it was a good day, I agreed and went to the park as soon as I arrived at home.

Now, I normally go the park laden with equipment to facilitate fun. This occasion was no exception. I gathered my weapons: the kite, the ball, and the Frisbee. There is a park right next to my house. It is gigantic, lined with a double row of monumental trees lining its perimeter. A fond pastime is running in-between the two rows of trees, around the entire park. During the months of autumn, bright leaves, vivid in dying colors floated gently to the ground. I would often stop to think what it would be like to be a leaf. Living for the few short months that nature permitted, then falling, dying is a swirl of grace and beauty with all of the others. How strange it must be to give people joy as you die, observing your beautiful appearance.

Occasionally, when the weather permitted, I flew my kite. It was bigger than I, its sweeping fabric reaching up beyond my head. I loosened my grip, and let it soar through the sky, tethered only by the singular string, anchoring it to the ground, I found myself thinking about how similar the life of a kite can be to our own. Free to fly the skies, free to roam, always tethered, always restricted. We are free people bound by the laws that govern us.

As I ran around the park, dragging the stubborn and resistant kite as it buffeted in the wind, I heard and felt an odd squelch. The grass was very smooth and dry, so I noticed it immediately. As I leaned closer to inspect, the kite still urging me onwards, I noticed a small grey smear on a patch of grass. Kneeling down for a closer inspection revealed a grotesque sight. The head of a cockroach atop a puddle of grey slush across several blades of grass like chocolate fudge spread over a waffle.

My head started to pound, my heart began to race. What if someone found out that I had committed murder? What if I got sent to jail? These thoughts dashed through my head. As I ran back home, the only thing I could think of was, “I killed it. It was very clear. No doubt, no mistake. I killed a living being.”

I remember the day when my Journalism teacher pulled me out of the classroom. Normally, students get pulled out of a classroom when they are in trouble. I knew I wasn’t in trouble. I deduced that something bad must have happened. Something really bad. She was crying.

She took me to one of the lunch tables and we sat down. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she had just received news about my friend. He had committed suicide.

Allan Oakley Hunter III. We all affectionately called him “Trey.” Trey was an exceptional person. At 6’4”, his lanky frame was easily recognizable anywhere. His light brown hair was always in a tangled mess, his green eyes always sparkling behind those big black glasses. Trey and I worked together as Entertainment Editors for the school magazine. When I came into the class, he took me under his wing and taught me a lot of what I know about magazine layout. He was always filled with quirky little comments and a library full of jokes. He also had a very unique sense of style about him. One day at the beginning of the year, as we were going through the old cabinets in the classroom, he came across an old and worn fabric briefcase, filled with holes and spiders. He loved it. The second he laid eyes on it, he begged the teacher to keep it. When she agreed, he happily shook the spiders out and promptly stuffed it with his school papers. He carried that briefcase every day since then. Trey was full of life. Until now.

We were like old friends, my teacher, Trey, and I. We were a team, working together to make the best final product that would be read by the entire school. There was a bond between us that made us close. But as I sat on the bench that day, I just couldn’t believe that he was gone. I had just seen him days ago, before he left to New York University. He was as happy as ever, excited about his college journey. I sat on the bench with my teacher thinking about what could have gone wrong.

She told me that he had jumped off the roof of his dorm building. He was found the next morning, spread out and dead on the cement ground below. What would drive a brilliant and happy student such as Trey to do such a thing? I thought about this for a long time. I knew his family was having a hard time at home. Maybe he had a hard time adjusting. Maybe he couldn’t handle the friction in his family.

I sat on the bench for what seemed like hours as I thought about the death of my friend. I realized that I would never see him again. I would never be able to laugh with him, talk to him, or even be around him. It made me appreciate how precious life is. A happy person like Trey can be driven to the edge, and, in his case, over. As the class bell shattered my thoughts, I turned to my teacher, who could only say, “I’m sorry Trey.”

In the medieval society, chivalry was a way of life. The term chivalry originated from the French word chevalier for mounted knight. Knights possessed military training, horses, and equipment that required substantial wealth and prestige to acquire. Knights were also taught to excel in weapons training, show courage, be gallant, be loyal, and swear against cowardice. This mindset was the essence of chivalry. In medieval Spain, traits expected of a Moorish knight were piety, courtesy, prowess in war, the gift of eloquence, the art of poetry, skill on horseback, dexterity with sword, lance, and bow. As the evidence dictates, the medieval world had stringent views on chivalry.

To contradict the strict chivalrous characteristics of medieval knighthood, a knave was a tricky or deceitful person. The etymology, however, comes from the Old High German word knabo meaning boy. The archaic definitions for knave include a boy servant, or of humble birth of position. In the medieval times, children were apprenticed and put to work. Children were thought of in the same line as women; under submission to men. Also, low ranking people in the society were stereotyped as dirty, filthy, low leveled, animal-like sub-people. Thus the modern definition of knavery arises; to be marked by trickery or deceit.

The idea of chivalry came out of the fundamental Western values that bind our civilization. It came out of the dark ages of fighting, first emerging from the virtues set by Charlemagne to unify Europe in the eighth century. As the feudal system was founded, warriors became important social figures, glorified as heroes. As time progressed, the church began to shape the image of knights to their own use. Knights became beacons of light in dark times; standing for all that was true, just, and virtuous. During the 12th century, the church added piety, defense of the innocent and the weak, honesty, and purity to the religious chivalry image. Out of this, secular influences arose that had an equally strong effect on the popular view of knights. Courtly love affected the strength of a knight. Out of this love, tales of romance and war came about, such as the legends of Charlemagne and Alexander. This chivalric heroism did not stop, however. A perfect example of this chivalric heroism exists in the form of a prominent British lore: the story of King Arthur of Camelot and his Knights of the Round Table. King Arthur is the epitome of a chivalrous king and knight. Due in part to the very nature of the Round Table in itself, King Arthur is often shown as an equal to his knights, rather than their ruler. In Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poems The Idylls of the King, Arthur is portrayed as the perfect king in his rule of Camelot, and the perfect husband in his marriage to Guinevere. His chivalry is so great, that when Guinevere commits adultery with Arthur’s best knight, Sir Lancelot, he is still able to forgive her. The stories of King Arthur are vast and widespread, but all of them include the chivalrous nature of King Arthur, from the earliest Celtic storytellers in Wales and Brittany, and the full account from Geoffrey of Monmouth. No matter the author, King Arthur represents the Golden Age of Chivalry.

Knavery, on the other hand is present in the play The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice by William Shakespeare. Knavery is the reason that the play is even a tragedy. The story of Othello was first coined by the Italian novelist and poet Giovanni Battista Giraldi, better known as Cinthio. The antagonist Iago is a double crossing knave that’s only goals are revenge and self-content. Iago devilishly twists and manipulates the plot, turning friends, lovers, and colleagues against each other, causing mayhem, confusion, jalousie, sadness, and death. Iago is to knavery as King Arthur is to chivalry.

As time passed, chivalry changed. Although chivalry once provided the foundation for the male code of ethics, it still had flaws. Nevertheless, its influence shaped the basic tenets for later European gentlemanly behavior. In the late 1700’s, it was embraced by the forefathers of the United States who envisioned proper social interaction as an integral part of what America was all about. The freedom that they so desperately sought took for granted personal ethics and responsibility. They knew that without a moral base, freedom easily degenerates into social liability, as opposed to serving as a source of prodigious personal inspiration. They knew that freedom without ethics is like a ship without a heading, unable to reach its final destination. Chivalry spells out this sort of code of ethics. It encompasses various morals such as truthfulness, loyalty, courtesy, justice, defense of the weak, honesty, kindness, and compassion. Chivalry today, however, is quite different from the code of ethics that was the way of life centuries ago. Chivalry has been largely overrun by the abundance of knavery in the current modern society. Capitalism dominates our lives. Our current society mandates that every person is for themselves. Unfortunately, that is temptation for knavery. Business scandals and dishonesty reigns in the financial world; finances rule the lives of the people. No longer do people care about the welfare of others, but rather for the personal survival of one’s self. However, in spite of the knaveries of the world, random acts of kindness still occur. People act chivalrously not by gallantly fighting in heraldry, but rather hold open doors, give coats to the cold, or other little things that can be called kindness.

Throughout the ages, the definition of chivalry has changed. Knavery has taken control of the society. Chivalry used to be honor and glory in heraldry. Knavery was looked down upon, and Chivalry was worshipped. What was once a way of life is now a forgotten remnant in the knavery of the world.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair, you can almost smell the brisk scent of the ocean, the soft sound of waves lapping on the sides of the ship, the slow rocking of the floor. Outside, the muffled shouts of men remind you of the ever-present danger in the unknown route to the end of the world.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair, you can almost hear the harsh metallic clangs of sword on sword, the glorious sound of the trumpeters sounding their song, the shouts of men dying on the blood soaked field. Looking outside, you can see smoke rising over the horizon, marking the casualties of battle, the bitter smell of ashes faint, but ever present.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair, you can almost feel the wave of disparity hit you as you watch the stock prices plummet. All around you, people collapse from shock, or just stand there, dazed. The whole world is grinding to a slow and painful halt it seems. Men who used to own the world, now barely own the clothes on their back. Men that used to own nothing are now kings of the street. The violent upheaval of world order was so sudden; no one knew what to believe. What used to be the pinnacle of society was now the ordinary scene.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair, you can almost see the excitement in the room. The men sitting on the edges of their seats staring at the screens in front of them as if they were in a trance, listening to the garbled voices on their headsets as they witnessed history in the making. They all knew that one mistake; one tiny flaw could easily kill then two men currently flying in orbit of a galactic entity besides our own. For the first time, men like themselves had been sent to the moon, fulfilling the timeless saying that the cow jumped over the moon. Men will now walk on the moon.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair, you can almost feel the erratic trembling of the earth. As you sit, men shout all around you, yelling incoherently as high pitched whines sounded through the air, followed by earth-shattering booms and violent quakes. Rapid splats of sound make talking almost impossible. Men all around are dying as shards of metal tear through their soft bodies, leaving them dead or marred for life.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair, you travel through time and space; you leaf through the crisp pages of the thousands of books stored in the room, reliving the endless stories of the past, the present, the future, and the land of the imagination, where reality has no hold.

Sitting on the smooth leather armchair in the library, you feel at home.

Everything is gray. I hear my family talk all the time about the fancy, vivid colors in life: the deep red of apples, the cool blue of the sky, the bursting yellow of sunflowers. I can’t see any of that. All I see are the shades of gray, from the dark, inky depths of black night, to the bright white of the ever-high sun.

But it doesn’t matter. I still see more.

What my family misses out on, I relish in. In the fields, I see every small wisp of grass fluttering ever so slightly in the wind. I see the insects winding through the flowers, chasing each other as they dance in the wind. I notice every detail, the subtle movements of Mother Earth as she breathes life into every living thing, every living thing expelling energy outwards, exclaiming proof of its lively existence.

I don’t need colors to see.

Slowly stretching my body, I take a deep yawn, feeling refreshed as oxygen flows into my lungs, and life surges into my body, waking it from its slumber. Right paw first, I crawl out of my soft gray blanket, tucked in a cozy corner beneath the staircase.

Padding softly into the kitchen, I raise my head slightly to take a deep breath of the wonderful concoctions my family creates in the morning. Sundays, the divine scent of warm pancakes with luscious, gooey maple syrup, to Saturdays, the succulent, crisp snaps of bacon. I don’t partake with the usual family meal, as I have my own victuals in a bowl to the side.

Oh the joy of the meal!

I can never figure out how they managed to fit such scrumptious taste into the little pellets of happiness. The divine flavors worthy of only the finest palate! In addition to the miniature delicacies, if I walk around the table enough, my family always donates a portion of their hearty food, the perfect compliment to my own tasty food.

After the morning meal, my regular routine begins to vary. While the rest of the family goes ahead doing their own things, trekking in and out of the house, stomping up and down the stairs, I normally saunter back to my corner by the staircase, indulging myself in a post-meal respite. While dozing, I hear the ruckus that invades the house during the day, as the world around awakens from its slumber

During the day, I dabble in this and that, mainly relaxing, taking care of my fur, or advancing in my strict daily stretching regimen. At any rate, I keep myself occupied until the afternoon when most of my family is usually back.Then, it’s a repetition of the morning, albeit with the sun setting instead of rising.

Life is good as a dog. I enjoy all the little things in life, from the lazy stretching in my blanket, to the satisfying of my wanting palate. The way I see it, every moment should be looked forward to, every moment appreciated. In that way I say life truly is beautiful.

From the time when we slowly emerged from buds on the fruit farm to the time when we expire, we are always dreading the inevitable. As a matter of fact, we view life in such a sour perspective, we become sour ourselves. This bit of evolution became a lifesaver until the humans arrived. Now, our sour feelings toward them just stimulate their appetites,

I, for one, am not one to sit around feeling sorry for myself, or blaming humans for causing us so much grief. Instead, I use my time to prepare myself to live the longest. I arrived in a home after being purchased at a local grocery store. I currently reside in a small glass bowl on the top of a long wood table in a large room, amongst a few other fruits. Not that I mean any disrespect, but the other fruits are nowhere close to my intellectual league. All they do is brag about how they’ve increased their ethylene production tenfold with their new diets. The fools. They have no clue that doing so will expedite their demise. Rather than participate in that sort of intellectually degrading activity, I pride myself in extended longevity. My skin makes me look like when I was barely 20 days old. I suppose that’s why I have remained in the bowl the longest.

Now, you might be thinking, “Why is living in a bowl the longest a good thing?” Well, the first most obvious reason is that I am still alive right now. Why, the poor banana was consumed last week by some giant ape of a man right after he ate lunch! His excuse was that eating fruits late was better than never. Pathetic.

Being a rather curious individual, I also pick up on a lot of very interesting conversations that the residents I coincide with make. It differs from day to day, but patterns do occur. For instance, during the winter season, most of the conversations have to do with a fat red man by the name of “Santa Claus.” Why, they even leave out cookies and milk to attempt to entice the poor fellow to give free gifts! Other times, the conversations can be very unusual, and very emotional. Sometimes, I hear unspeakable secrets that individual do not wish to be repeated. Luckily for them, I am a very quiet and respectful audience.

What most people don’t realize is how much a lemon can be in their lives. Our role is varied, from decoration, to flavoring, to secret-keeping. If only they would allow us to live our lives out to their fullest, then we would be more than happy to provide them the services that they expect from us. There will be no bad lemon.

Spy satellites,
covert planes,
took photos of
Russia’s supply trains.

McCarthy’s raids
filled people with scare.
The paranoia often became
too much to bear.

Weapons development
grew much too fast.
Mutually Assured Destruction
made sure the world could last.

Finally in the end,
the Berlin Wall fell.
It was communism’s last breath,
ringing its last bell.

As gray and dead as a grave,
the room lays silent,
with all its possessions,
an abeyant state.

Strewn across the floor,
lie articles of days far past and gone;
splattered across the walls,
snapshots of a past life.

The serene silence does not last for long,
starting with the scratching of the key,
the creak of the knob,
soon interrupted by the abrupt slam of the door.

A lone figure enters the room,
tossing his bag upon the floor,
carelessly,
swaggering to the rumpled bed,
falling upon it,
heavily.

A faint light pours through the window,
a palpable stream of hazy illumination,
lights up the dust,
flashing,
dancing with the wind,
increased,
with the swirling blades swishing from the ceiling.

White is the color of the walls,
turned gray,
with the absence of light,
interrupted by the faint light streaming
from the hazy window.

Gray and drab are the colors of the bed,
sitting in the corner,
bordering the wall.

The carpet,
soft and worn,
frayed from years of
trampling
upon the floor.

The shelf,
smooth and amber,
hold books,
like Atlas
holds the heavens
in which are stories,
of people,
of history,
of wisdom,
of galaxies,
of faith,
of hope,
far, far away,
so close,
so near.

This place is home.
The retreat with not but the faint voices of the wind,
the sounds of music,
gently whispering.

The sun sets outside,
the amber light dimming.
He closes his eyes slowly,
breaths shallowing,
moving on,
to worlds past,
future,
present,
never.