By Stephen Crane, Alfred Kazin
[With an advent through Alfred Kazin.]
First released in 1895, America's maximum novel of the Civil conflict was once written sooner than 21-year-old Stephen Crane had "smelled even the powder of a sham battle." yet this robust psychological study of a tender soldier's fight with the horrors, either inside and with out, that conflict moves the reader with its indisputable realism and with its masterful descriptions of the moment-by-moment riot of feelings felt via me less than fireplace.
Ernest Hemingway referred to as the unconventional an American vintage, and Crane's genius is as a lot obvious in his sharp, colorful prose as in his ironic portrayal of an episode of conflict so excessive, so instant, so genuine that the terror of conflict turns into our personal ... in a masterpiece so distinctive that many think smooth American fiction begun with Stephen Crane.
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Extra info for The Red Badge of Courage
But she loved mi'jita anyway. What I lacked in whiteness, I had in smartness. But it was too bad I was dark like an Indian. "Don't go out in the sun," my mother would tell me when I wanted to play outside. "If you get any darker, they'll mistake you for an Indian. And don't get dirt on your clothes. " It never dawned on her that, though sixth-generation American, we were still Mexican and that all Mexicans are part Indian. " La gorra-rim held firm by slats of cardboard, neck flounce flowing over my shouldersmade me feel like a horse with blinders, a member of the French Foreign Legion, or a nun bowed down by her wimple.
She shifts her bottom, the post is now on the left side of her cunt. Gently, she sways back and forth. If she does it just right she can bring herself to orgasm. Not as good as during a fast run, the wind Whipping the mare's mane, her own hair across her mouth, no one hears her. She wonders: what encircles, what excludes, what sets apart. " Her mother is walking towards her. She's dressed in a pinstriped two-piece suit, white blouse, black hat veiled at the back, white open-toed pumps. Her mother made it a point to dress better than the other women.
How many times have we let someone else carry our crosses? How still do we stand to be crucified? It is difficult for me to break free of the Chicano cultural bias into which I was born and raised, and the cultural bias of the Anglo culture that I was brainwashed into adopting. It is easier to repeat the racial patterns and attitudes, especially those of fear and prejudice, that we have inherited than to resist them. Like a favorite old shoe that no longer fits, we do not let go of our comfortable old selves so that the new self can be worn.