Check out this website
List in many key vocabulary words
key themes
key concepts
essential questions
the title, author, setting, character's names etc.
once you have finished, add your name and click create
print on the library copy machine
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
I'll Give you a topic, blog amongst yourselves! Socratic Prep Write
Choose one of the topics below, agree or disagree and use an example from the book to support your opinion. A direct quote is not necessary, instead your own thoughts are more valuable. Thanks, yo!
Trying to fit is the key to success in high school
Being competitive with your friends is dangerous
It is easy to become jealous of a humble friend
It is hard to be honest with your friend
It is really stupid to show emotions in front of your friends
The Draft during WWII was the wrong idea
The Draft today should be put in place
Kids who conform get better grades
Dialectical Journal # 2 Select one quote and write a well thought out journal response
What does this quote mean?
What is the significance of the quote?
How does this quote relate to the novel as a whole?
How does the quote connect to other ideas in and beyond the novel?
“There isn’t any question that we are conforming in every possible way to everything that’s been happening and everything that is going to happen” (p.23)
“We were careless and wild, and I suppose we could be thought of as a sign of the life the war was being fought to preserve,” (p.24).
“It was only long after that that I recognized sarcasm as the protest of the people who are weak,” (p.29).
In such a non stop game, he also had the natural advantage of a flow of energy which I never saw interrupted,” (p.39).
“He could shine at everything,” (p. 40).
“No I just wanted to see if I could do it,” (p.44)
“It was a courageous thing to say exposing a sincere emotion nakedly like that at the Devon school was the nest thing to suicide,” (p.48)
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Poetry 5 of 5
Comin Thro' The Rye
O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry:
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warl' ken?
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the grain;
Gin a body kiss a body,
The thing's a body's ain.
O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry:
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warl' ken?
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the grain;
Gin a body kiss a body,
The thing's a body's ain.
Nobel Prize winnign poetry 4 of 5
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate,
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute win reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet-and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate,
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute win reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet-and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Nobel Prize winning poetry 3 of 3
To See Him Again by Gabriela MistralNever, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?
Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?
Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?
Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!
To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his bloody neck!
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?
Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?
Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?
Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!
To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his bloody neck!
Nobel Prize winning Poetry 2 of 5
The Prodigal Son
by Rudyard Kipling
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater rest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I'm off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother's mind, you see)
But there's no reproach among swine, d'you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I'm off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be! - there's a laugh to it,
Which isn't the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler's gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I'm damned if I think it's fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there's nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there -
They hint at the pace that I went out there -
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man's son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn't give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And - I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that's around.
I'm leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I'll write to you!
I wouldn't be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
by Rudyard Kipling
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater rest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I'm off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother's mind, you see)
But there's no reproach among swine, d'you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I'm off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be! - there's a laugh to it,
Which isn't the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler's gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I'm damned if I think it's fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there's nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there -
They hint at the pace that I went out there -
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man's son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn't give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And - I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that's around.
I'm leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I'll write to you!
I wouldn't be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
Noble Prize winning Poetry 1 of 5
Going Home by Wislawa SzymborskaHe came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Respond to quote blog #2
"Loneliness the clearest of crystal insight into your own soul, its the fear of one`s own self that haunts the lonley."
Keith Haynie
Use the actions of Paul to explain this quote.
Keith Haynie
Use the actions of Paul to explain this quote.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
“Paul’s Case” Blog # 1
Respond to the quotation. Explain the quote. Analyze the quote. What does the reader learn? How does the quote relate to the theme of "fitting in"? Is there anything that you still have a question about?
"As for Paul, he ran down the hall whistling the "Soldiers' Chorus" from Faust, looking wildly behind him now and then to see whether some of his teachers were not there to writhe under his lightheartedness." (2)
“Paul’s Case” Sample Blog
Respond to the quotation. Explain the quote. Analyze the quote. What does the reader learn? How does the quote relate to the theme of "fitting in"? Is there anything that you still have a question about?
"This latter adornment the faculty somehow felt was not properly significant of the contrite spirit befitting a boy under suspension" (1)
Sample Exemplary Comment:
Cather conveys to the reader how the teachers did not appreciate the demeanor or temperament that Paul was displaying, despite being in trouble. The actual adornment was the "red carnation" that seems like a better fit if he were going to the senior prom, not the principal's office. I know of a few students in this school that seem to behave similarly when they get in trouble, and I sort of feel bad for them…if they knew the social rules of school they might not have issues with authority. IT is quite clear that Paul is having a difficult time fitting in; his social skills keeping from being accepted by his teachers. I am interested in reading on to see if he actually finds some way to belong somewhere.
How will I be assessed on My Blog?
Blogging Rubric 5 4-3 2 1 Theme Extends the prompt through engaging details relevant to the protagonist's behavior. Develops a cohesive blog. Appropriately addresses prompt with relevant to the protagonist's behavior using details. Refers to the main idea of prompt. Just a series of ideas without any overall connecting ideas. Establish a Connection My blog shows how I have connected to the text. My blog accurately refers to and addresses a personal connection to the text. My blog somewhat refers to a personal connection. My blog does not make a personal connection. Use evidence to support your ideas Specific, interesting, sophisticated language that helps to show connection to the text Specific, interesting language that shows a connection to the text. The language is sometimes evidence to support ideas. There is no evidence from the text to support your opinion. Conventions Uses the conventions of language appropriately to enhance meaning. Few spelling, typing, punctuation, capitalization, or language errors, although the minor errors do not make it hard to understand. Manipulates conventions to enhance meaning. Some spelling, typing, punctuation, capitalization, or language errors that make it hard to understand. Attempt to manipulate conventions makes writing confusing. Has so many errors that it is hard to understand. Sign your blog first and last name Blog is signed first and last name Blog is signed last name Blog is signed first name Blog is not signed
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The symbolism in Paul's Case
http://www.uhh.hawaii.edu/academics/hohonu/writing.php?id=49
This is an interesting article that discusses the symbolism found in Paul's Case.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sample Podcast: How to cast a fishing pole
Podcast:
Now its your turn to try it out! Create a Podcast with SonicPics Application
OPTION ONE
Teach the class how to:
Grow onions, Snowboard, Play an instrument, Dance to the genre of their choice, Write lyrics to a song or how to Prepare a meal
Using two narrators, four images, narrate for one minute.
OPTION TWO
Tell the class about your family, friends, with pictures and narration. Three Pictures and ten compete sentences of narration. Two narrators. 25 seconds.
Post to http://quinnenglish.pbworks.com/
Summer Reading
Harrison High School
Summer 2010 Reading List
For Entering 10th Graders
The tenth grade English teachers have prepared this reading list to encourage you to set aside time this summer for reading. You are required to read at least one book from the following list. The Big Idea explored in each of these selections is identity. As you read, you will meet individuals like yourself who are growing up and searching for who they are. Use the following Essential Question to frame your thinking about what you read:
How do the choices we make affect who we are and how others perceive us?
You are encouraged to keep a reader response journal so that you can record your reactions to the choices made by the main characters and explore the Essential Question. The work that you will do in English the first two weeks of school will include important discussions and writing assignments that connect to your summer reading.
In selecting a summer reading list, the tenth grade English teachers have chosen books that represent a broad spectrum of themes. You are strongly encouraged to explore and select a book that is challenging and interesting to you. Please feel free to consult with your present English teacher if you would like additional guidance in selecting the right book for you. Happy reading and welcome to tenth grade!
______________________
Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens
In an overgrown churchyard, a grizzled convict springs upon an orphan named Pip. The convict terrifies the young boy and threatens to kill him unless Pip helps further his escape. Later, Pip finds himself in the ruined garden where he meets the bitter and crazy Miss Havisham and her foster child Estella, with whom he immediately falls in love. After a secret benefactor gives him a fortune, Pip moves to London, where he cultivates great expectations for a life which would allow him to discard his impoverished beginnings and socialize with the idle upper class. As Pip struggles to become a gentleman and is tormented endlessly by the beautiful Estella, he slowly learns the truth about himself and his illusions.
Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
Brave New World reveals a society where people come to love their oppression and adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think.* "Community, Identity, Stability" is the motto of the utopian World State described in this story. Here everyone consumes daily grams of “soma” to fight depression, babies are born in laboratories, and the most
popular form of entertainment is a movie that stimulates the senses of sight, hearing, and touch. Though there is no violence and everyone is provided for, Bernard Marx feels something is missing and senses his relationship with a young woman has the potential to be much more than the confines of their existence allow.
*Paraphrased from the words of Neil Postman
In the Time of Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez
This novel recounts the rebellion against Rafael Leónidas Trujillo, the dictator of the Dominican Republic. The main characters are the Mirabal sisters, who, throughout the novel, come to understand the injustices committed by Trujillo's dictatorship. The butterfly becomes their symbol, which represents independence - their main goal in their struggle against Trujillo's abusive dictatorship. Although a work of fiction, the novel was inspired by the true story of the three Mirabal sisters who, in 1960, were murdered for their part in an underground plot to overthrow the government.
Tuesdays With Morrie, by Mitch Albom
Acclaimed Detroit sportswriter, Mitch Albom, flies to Massachusetts every week to meet with his teacher, friend, and mentor, Morrie Schwartz. Over the weeks and months of their sessions, the terminally ill Morrie teaches Albom how to live.
The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie
Junior is a Spokane Indian living on a reservation. His life is tough, but he is bright and wants more out of school than the beatings and put-downs he gets. This is a story of identity and determination in the face of adversity, with a few surprises mixed in.
Bleachers, by John Grisham
When his old coach dies, high school football star Neely Crenshaw returns to his hometown after 15 years, reunites with his former teammates, and struggles to resolve his mixed feelings about the man.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)