(Solution) 166 CH. 4 / SETTING AMY TAN A Pair Of Tickets 167 , 1 Acterized By The Unscrupulous Cunning Described By The Italian Renaissance ,politician And... | Snapessays.com

(Solution) 166 CH. 4 / SETTING AMY TAN A Pair of Tickets 167 , 1 acterized by the unscrupulous cunning described by the Italian Renaissance ,politician and...

1. Write a brief constructed response (2 paragraphs) that discusses the differences between fables, parables and tales.2. Write a brief constructed response (2 paragraphs) that discusses the use of importance of point of view in literature, referencing Jamaica Kincaid's Girl. 3. Write a brief constructed response (2 paragraphs) that discusses the importance of setting in literature, referencing Amy Tan's A Pair of Tickets.4. Write a brief constructed response (2 paragraphs) that discusses the differences between plot and theme, referencing Kurt Vonnegut's Harrison Bergeron.5. Write a three to four paragraph extended response that creates a link between two short-stories that we have read or watched this semester. Short Story: Raymond Carver's Cathedral, Jamaica Kincaid's Girl, David Foster Wallace's Good People, Amy Tan's A Pair of Tickets, Yasunari Kawabata's The Grasshopper and the Bell Cricket, John Steinbeck's The Chrysanthemums, O. Henry's The Gift Of The Magi.Your paper should NOT give a summary, but rather an analysis of themes and literary devices. 166 CH. 4






acterized by the unscrupulous cunning described by the Italian Renaissance


,politician and writer Niccolb MachiaveIli




Ernest Hemingway's


"Hills Like White ElephantsJJ presents a realistic setting in modern Spain,


and a situation that at first seems commonplace. Yet something feels very


alien about the episode, not only because readers may never have been to


Spain. Because they are so sparse, details of the landscape and the bar at the


station are magnified in their significance, as


if setting alone tells most of


the story.


The stories that follow rely on setting in differing ways and to different


degrees, but you will see in each of them a revealing portrait of a time and


place. Just as our own memories of important experiences include complex


impressions of when and where they occurred-the weather, the shape of the


room, the music that was playing, even the fashions or the events in the news


back then-so stories rely on setting to give substance to the other elements


of fiction.














The minute our train leaves the Hong Kong border and enters Shenzhen,


China, I feel different. I can feel the skin on my forehead tingling, my blood


rushing through a new course, my bones aching with a familiar old pain.


And I think, My mother was right. I am becoming Chinese.




"Cannot be helped," my mother said when I was fifteen and had vigor-




ously denied that I had any Chinese whatsoever below my skin. I was a




sophomore at Galileo High in San Francisco, and all my Caucasian friends


agreed: I was about as Chinese as they were. But my mother had studied


at a famous nursing school in Shanghai, and she said she knew






genetics. So there was no doubt in her mind, whether I agreed or not: Once


you are born Chinese, you cannot help but feel and think Chinese.


"Someday you




see," said my mother. "It's in your blood, waiting to


be let go."


And when she said this, I saw myself transforming like a werewolf, a


mutant tag of DNA suddenly triggered, replicating itself insidiously into a




a cluster of telltale Chinese behaviors,




those things my mother


did to embarrass me-haggling with store owners, pecking her mouth with


a toothpick in public, being color-blind to the fact that lemon yellow and


pale pink are not good combinations for winter clothes.




But today I realize I've never really known what it means to be Chinese.


I am thirty-six years old. My mother is dead and I am on a train, carrying


wich me her dreams of coming home. I am going to China.


We are going to Guangzhou, my seventy-two-year-old father, Canning




Woo, and I, where we will visit his aunt, whom he has not seen since he


was ten years old. And I don't know whether it's the prospect of seeing his


aunt or if it's because he's back in China, but now he looks like he's a




A Pair of Tickets 167






young boy, so innocent and happy I want to button his sweater and pat






his head. We are sitting across from each other, separated by a little table




with two cold cups of tea For the first time I can ever remember, my father










rears in his eyes, and all he is seeing out the train window is a sectioned








field of yellow, green, and brown, a narrow canal flanking the tracks, low


rising hills, and three people in blue jackets riding an ox-driven cart on


this early October morning. And I can't help myself. I also have misty eyes,


as if I had seen this a long, long time ago, and had almost forgotten.






In less than three hours, we will be in Guangzhou, which my guidebook


tells me is how one properly refers to Canton these days. It seems all the






I have heard of, except Shanghai, have changed their spellings. I think1


they are saying China has changed in other ways as well. Chungking is


Chongqing. And Kweilin is Guilin. I have looked these names up, because,


hai, where I will meet my two half-sisters for the first time.


after we see my father's aunt in Guangzhou, we




catch a plane to S


They are my mother's twin daughters from her first marriage, lit


babies she was forced to abandon on


a road as she was fleeing Kweilin


Chungking in 1944. That was all my mother had told me about th


daughters, so they had remained babies in my mind, all these years, sitt


on the side of a road, listening to bombs whistling in the distance


sucking their patient red thumbs.


And it was only this year that someone found them and wrote




joyful news. A letter came from Shanghai, addressed to my mother.


I first heard about this, that they were alive, I imagined my identical


transforming from little babies into six-year-old girls. In my mind, they




were seated next to each other at a table, taking turns with the fountain






pen. One would write a neat row of characters:


Dearest Mama. We are dlive.4








She would brush back her wispy bangs and hand the other sister the pen,




and she would write:


Come get us. Please hurry.




Of course they could not know that my mother had died three months






before, suddenly, when a blood vessel in her brain burst. One minute she


was talking to my father, complaining about the tenants upstairs, scheming




how to evict them under the pretense that relatives from China wereaov-




ing in. The next minute she was holding her head, her eyes squeezed shut,


groping for the sofa, and then crumpling softly to the floor with fluttering






So my father had been the first one to open the letter, a long letter it


turned out. And they did call her Mama They said they always revered her


as their true mother. They kept a framed picture of her. They told her




about their life, from the time my mother last saw them on the road leaving


Kweilin to when they were finally found.






And the letter had broken my father's heart so much-these daughters




calling my mother from another life he never knew-that he gave the letter








to my mother's old friend Auntie Lindo and asked her to write back and




tell my sisters, in the gentlest way possible, that my mother was dead.


But instead Auntie Lindo took the letter to the Joy Luck Club and dis-




cussed with Auntie Ying and Auntie An-mei what should be done, because




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