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A Drugstore In Winter Thesis Writing.

Poetry lives in the subtle expression of that which we cannot adequately define but which we know, absolutely know, deep down within by virtue of being a human being and experiencing the emotional spectra that we do. Poetry gives voice to that voiceless song which is felt as an inaudible tightening around the sternum, a twisting of the stomach, an off-beat of the pulse, a race down or up the spine; this is the poet’s gift, to find a way to state that which is so physically bound up with how we exist in the world that the term “feeling” must be wrenched out of the solely mental categorization we usually give it and stretched over the course of the whole body. A good poem finds that hidden place where head and heart meet and takes aim. We engage a poem before we understand it, for poets are well aware that . (In addition to that post of mine from earlier this year, see two of Nick’s thoughtful pieces on self-referencing in poetry and prose from our archives: and .) Consider an example from Philip Rowland’s (p. 83):

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Like the outside of the building the interior walls and ceilings of the apartment were all a sharp white that was accentuated by either a wood flooring or a really good facsimile of a wood flooring. Whichever was the case it was also glossed over and felt cool and soothing on my feet, especially after the heat of the day. To my right must have been the living room, a couple of deep upholstered chairs sat on one side and one end of a low table, opposed by a three-seater sofa of the same material. Some oil paintings by an artist that I didn’t recognize hung on the wall under a large round clock. Abstract, I guessed, all lines and shapes and bold colors that jumped right out at the viewer. Ahead of us I could see the kitchen, a typical island countertop design with the sink, oven, and burners against the back wall surrounded by cabinets above and below. I didn’t see a microwave. Next to that was a small living room table. Tomor led me through to a hallway off of which appeared to be two bedrooms and a nice bath unit.

Drugstore winter cynthia ozick summary - ABC Gas …

Megan G.'s AP English Blog: TOW #1 - "A Drugstore in Winter"

For the most part that was easier than I thought it was going to be. I wasn’t injured in any way that I could tell and aside from the ice pick jabbing away behind my eyeball I felt no pain whatsoever. I might have felt other pains had my headache not been drowning them out, but anyway nothing seemed broken, cut, scratched, or bruised. If I had fallen here then I did so somewhat remarkably, or maybe just luckily, because I didn’t seem to be any the worse for it. Still, I was the worse for not knowing where I was. And why couldn’t I understand the people around me? There were three of them now, with a fourth approaching, all wearing those same black pyjamas and rubber boots, faces shaded by their umbrella tops. I stared at them. They were staring at me so I couldn’t see the harm in it. Their facial features were mixed, quite varied within the group, and their skin tones were differing shades of a pleasant but mysterious not quite red or yellow, black or white, as that church song about Jesus loving the little children goes. It occurred to me that they really ought to retire that song; it’s racist. The two who were most animated were both men and one had a fantastic moustache of a dark brown, kind of reddish hue, while the third and – having just arrived – fourth were women who might have been quite striking had I been able to get a good look at them. For now they hung back and appeared worried.

The buildings gradually closed in on us – or us on the buildings – but there still seemed to be a heat haze hanging in front of them. That could have just been an effect of the horizon, maybe, as the road we were on appeared to go straight towards the town without any curves or bends between. I kept walking. Tomor chatted on but I tuned him out. He was really making a go of it; he must have been deathly curious. My mind turned back to our little group’s boss walking just a few paces ahead of us, the way she had looked at me, the deftness of her fingers as she examined my eye, head, chest. She had taken charge, made decisions, set us on our course, and with an efficiency and confidence that belied the massive question mark I must have represented to them. A stranger, unable to speak, dressed in his workaday costume of navy slacks, white shirt open at the collar, and coal grey sports jacket, lying there in the middle of their rice paddy like some piece of terrestrial flotsam. Women have often surprised me, in both positive and negative ways, and they have also amazed me, but the grace and self-assurance of that particular woman was almost astonishing. Of course I felt that I had to have her. Charging full-bore into that body would not only be a sexual treat, I told myself, it would prove my worth in some indefinable way: the indefinable way that drives men to chase their dicks. I had long since embraced my shallowness on that score. I reasoned too – perhaps trying to justify myself to myself – that it would also open up another side to the mind ticking away behind that picturesque face. Not that I felt a craving for pillow talk or anything, but she did strike me as the type that wouldn’t bore even once all the excitement had run its usual course. In truth I had no real reason for assuming that, or any of it really, considering the conditions under which we had just met and the thick wall of no language between us, but it fit my fantasy and I happily allowed myself to wallow in it. The other woman in our group, the one who had lent me her hat, I also would have happily done – and maybe a few times I mused – but afterwards I would immediately make my excuses and be on my way. The boss though; watch out. She was the kind a man obsessed over. Or so I enjoyed thinking anyway.

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Neha's AP English Blog: A Drugstore in Winter: Cynthia Ozick

But then what is good and who am I to even raise the question? A light read for the train is considered by many to be a much better book than a ponderous tome by a Nobel winner. And fair enough, really, as all readers approach their chosen fare in their own way and whatever the content. Still, as a writer who has very painfully learned the drill, a part of me does wonder how much heart can go into something that took maybe a couple, maybe a few, weeks to complete.

I realize of course that everyone writes at a different pace, and I recognize too that when one’s career is actually writing a project is able to be finished much more efficiently than when it has to be balanced and measured out against the demands of other work. Do the math though, six hundred books, even in fifty years’ time, means cranking titles out at a faster rate than some magazines. As a mystery writer formulae are no doubt a big part of the man’s practice (and he continues to write, the main part of the news segment was on his recently released autobiography), and again that eases the load somewhat, but I have to wonder just how good – on average – the works in question are.

More brainstorming: Drugstore In the Winter | …
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Reading “A Drugstore in Winter,” Sven Birkerts.

To me it seems that kids like you and the other infants “arguing about the “wrong price” of such developments” should grow up and pay a certain price for their education instead of spamming this and other pages with presumptuous, naïve and ignorant comments that have little to do with reality and add nothing to our knowledge of the subject. Every country that builds armoured vehicles has produced a number of experimental weapons that were considered to be too complicated for mass production or proven to be not effective enough. The United States, for example, built two prototypes of the 100-ton T28 Super Heavy Tank that never went into service but nonetheless served as a good experience for the tank designers that created them.

A Work in Progress: A Drugstore in Winter by Cynthia Ozick

Ahearn, Kerry. Understanding a writer "who has defeated a High Culture bias against the novel of manners by restricting himself to the supposedly barren settings of America's middle-class cultural homogeneity." 34, 1 (Spring 1988) pp 62-83 [free at jstor, click "Preview" or "Read Online"].

03/02/2010 · A Drugstore in Winter by Cynthia Ozick

After the Corps dammed Old River, in 1963, the engineers could not just walk away, like roofers who had fixed a leak. In the early planning stages, they had considered doing that, but there were certain effects they could not overlook. The Atchafalaya, after all, was a distributary of the Mississippi—the major one, and, as it happened, the only one worth mentioning that the Corps had not already plugged. In time of thundering flood, the Atchafalaya was used as a safety valve, to relieve a good deal of pressure and help keep New Orleans from ending up in Yucatán. The Atchafalaya was also the source of the water in the swamps and bayous of the Cajun world. It was the water supply of small cities and countless towns. Its upper reaches were surrounded by farms. The Corps was not in a political or moral position to kill the Atchafalaya. It had to feed it water. By the principles of nature, the more the Atchafalaya was given, the more it would want to take, because it was the steeper stream. The more it was given, the deeper it would make its bed. The difference in level between the Atchafalaya and the Mississippi would continue to increase, magnifying the conditions for capture. The Corps would have to deal with that. The Corps would have to build something that could give the Atchafalaya a portion of the Mississippi and at the same time prevent it from taking all. In effect, the Corps would have to build a Fort Laramie: a place where the natives could buy flour and firearms but where the gates could be closed if they attacked.

Examples of Images in Poetry, Fiction, and Nonfiction

Jaffe, the salesman from McKesson & Robbins, arrives, trailing two mists: winter steaminess and the animal fog of his cigar, which melts into the coffee smell, the tarpaper smell, the eerie honeyed tangled drugstore smell."
(Cynthia Ozick, "A Drugstore in Winter." Art & Ardor, 1983)

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