Hypnotherapy Can it Stop Cigarette Addiction Essay

Hypnotherapy: Can it Stop Cigarette Addiction? â€Å"And now, when I snap my fingers, you will never smoke again! †Could there be something more useful to hypnosis than just magical entertainment? Are there applications for hypnosis in the medical realm? Hypnotherapists now advocate hypnosis as a near panacea, claiming it can help one lose weight, stop smoking, improve memory, improve athletic ability, reduce stress, build self-confidence, overcome phobias, find lost articles, and even manage chronic pain (http://sageways. com/sageline/0196/hah. html). It has been estimated that some 390,000 Americans die prematurely from cigarette smoking each year. Smoking has been linked as a major risk factor to lung cancer (and many other forms†¦show more content†¦This is something to consider before spending up to $1800 on a session of treatment. What do Hypnotherapists Say about Hypnosis and How Might it Help â€Å"Kick† the Habit? Hypnotherapist T. Joyce Caldcleugh explains that hypnosis is a â€Å"naturally occurring state† characterized by heightened â€Å"awareness and alertness† during which the subconscious mind can be accessed and focused on a particular goal (http://www. sageways. com/sageline/0169/hah. html). In their advertisement of their product, hypnotherapists are vague (almost secretive) about their methods. However, in explaining their form of alternative therapy, hypnotherapists generally center around a common rationale: hypnosis releases the powers of the subconscious mind, which entails 90% of our mental power and â€Å"contains all our emotions, memories, habits, belief systems, and controls all of our integral organs† (http://www. rogueweb. com/hypnosis/articles. html). Through hypnosis, this large amount of mental power can be unleashed as will power, which is normally held captive in the less powerful conscious mind. Thus, the ingrained desire and habit of smoking i s replaced by the will power to quit. It is for this reason that hypnotherapists boast of their treatment being a â€Å"natural† therapy in that it allows one to use his or her â€Å"natural abilities toShow MoreRelatedEssay about Sci/163 Chronic Diseases653 Words   |  3 Pages(Doherty, 2002). To prevent COPD, one must quit smoking or drastically cut back their cigarette use. Those who have smoked and quit may still never gain back their healthy lung function once the disease has set in. Yet it is possible after one stops smoking to see an improvement and can slow the rates of decline. To aid in the prevention of COPD, a healthy campaign to help persuade people not to start a cigarette addiction would be best. For those, who are addicted, helpful resources to encourage quittingRead MoreEffects Of Smoking On The United Kingdom1132 Words   |  5 PagesIt is one of the causes of people in the country falling sick apart from poor nutrition, lack of physical activity, excessive alcohol intake. In United States annually around 443000 premature deaths occur due to exposure to tobacco and cigarette smoking. In 2013, a large study of women in United Kingdom has shown that women in their 50s, 60s and 70s who are addicted to smoking, two out of three die only because of smoking. According to researchers, smokers lose 10 yearsRead MoreObesity : The Best Of Your State1281 Words   |  6 Pagesthe many causes, in any country, of people falling sick apart from poor nutrition, lack of physical activity, and excessive alcohol intake. In United States around 443000 premature deaths occur annually due to exposure to tobacco and cigarette smoking. In 2013, a large study of women in United Kingdom has shown that two out of three die only because of smoking who are in their 50s, 60s and 70s and are addicted to it. According to researchers, smokers lose 10 years of their lifespan onlyRead MoreCase Study- Quit Smoking Essay2215 Words   |  9 Pagesyears old male nurse working on a children’s ward as a temporary bank nurse at the local hospital. He heard of me through a member of our local community whereupon he phoned me towards the end of April 2012, with a long history of smoking up to 40 cigarettes daily, wishing for help to Quit Smoking due to the total ban on Smoking introduced at the hospital and other issues relating to smoking. I could not offer him any help at the time but provided him with contact details of other therapists. Read MoreSelf Defeating Behaviour2453 Words   |  10 Pagesand evaluating two approaches of the treatment of self-defeating behaviour. INTRODUCTION Self-defeating behaviour is a behaviour used to cope with a traumatic situation. It is then repeatedly used but often has a damaging effect on the person. This can be identified as being deliberate or intentional behaviour that has a clear, definite or probably negative effect. People are more likely to have a self-defeating or destructive manner when either there are threats made to their egos or when they have

Obesity Is A Major Public Health Issue - 917 Words

Obesity in the United States is a major public health issue. According to prevalence data from the National Health and Nutrition Examination Study (NHANES) 2011-2012, 34% of US adults are overweight (BMI 25-29.9), 35.1% obese (BMI 30-39.9) and 6.4% morbidly obese (BMI ≠¥40). NHANES does not include incarcerated individuals in the surveys. The 2011-2012 United States Bureau of Justice, National Inmate Survey, indicated the prevalence of overweight, obesity and morbid obesity for state and federal inmates was 45.7%, 25.5% and 2.4% respectively. Although males in prisons and jails were more likely than females to be overweight, females were more likely to be obese or morbidly obese. The health risks for individuals who are overweight or obese are clear. If obesity is not managed, chronic health conditions will develop and this will impact public health resources and communities when offenders are released. They are at increased risk for developing type 2 diabetes, hypertensio n, cardiovascular disease, cancer and mental health problems. Both state and federal inmates are known to have the following characteristics: low socioeconomic status, limited access to healthcare prior to incarceration, low health literacy, substance abuse, mental health disorders and increased probability of having chronic and infectious diseases. These characteristics make inmates a vulnerable population even prior to incarceration. Recent studies of weight change during incarceration haveShow MoreRelatedThe Battle Against Obesity Is A Health Issue Of Great Importance1237 Words   |  5 PagesFor community and public health nurses alike, the battle against obesity is a health issue of great importance. Obesity is shown to be directly responsible for many of the negative health issues we see today. It contributes to higher risk of having chronic disease and poor health (which will be explained). 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Bag of Bones CHAPTER THIRTEEN Free Essays

string(41) " there was someone standing in the hall\." I caught the measles when I was eight, and I was very ill. ‘I thought you were going to die,’ my father told me once, and he was not a man given to exaggeration. He told me about how he and my mother had dunked me in a tub of cold water one night, both of them at least half-convinced the shock of it would stop my heart, but both of them completely convinced that I’d burn up before their eyes if they didn’t do something. We will write a custom essay sample on Bag of Bones CHAPTER THIRTEEN or any similar topic only for you Order Now I had begun to speak in a loud, monotonously discursive voice about the bright figures I saw in the room angels come to bear me away, my terrified mother was sure and the last time my father took my temperature before the cold plunge, he said that the mercury on the old Johnson Johnson rectal thermometer had stood at a hundred and six degrees. After that, he said, he didn’t dare take it anymore. I don’t remember any bright figures, but I remember a strange period of time that was like being in a funhouse corridor where several different movies were showing at once. The world grew elastic, bulging in places where it had never bulged before, wavering in places where it had always been solid. People most of them seeming impossibly talldarted in and out of my room on scissoring, cartoonish legs. Their words all came out booming, with instant echoes. Someone shook a pair of baby-shoes in my face. I seem to remember my brother, Siddy, sticking his hand into his shirt and making repeated arm-fart noises. Continuity broke down. Everything came in segments, weird wieners on a poison string. In the years between then and the summer I returned to Sara Laughs, I had the usual sicknesses, infections, and insults to the body, but never anything like that feverish interlude when I was eight. I never expected to believing, I suppose, that such experiences are unique to children, people with malaria, or maybe those suffering catastrophic mental breakdowns. But on the night of July seventh and the morning of July eighth, I lived through a period of time remarkably like that childhood delirium. Dreaming, waking, moving they were all one. I’ll tell you as best I can, but nothing I say can convey the strangeness of that experience. It was as if I had found a secret passage hidden just beyond the wall of the world and went crawling along it. First there was music. Not Dixieland, because there were no horns, but like Dixieland. A primitive, reeling kind of bebop. Three or four acoustic guitars, a harmonica, a stand-up bass (or maybe a pair). Behind all of this was a hard, happy drumming that didn’t sound as if it was coming from a real drum; it sounded as if someone with a lot of percussive talent was whopping on a bunch of boxes. Then a woman’s voice joined in a contralto voice, not quite mannish, roughing over the high notes. It was laughing and urgent and ominous all at the same time, and I knew at once that I was hearing Sara Tidwell, who had never cut a record in her life. I was hearing Sara Laughs, and man, she was rocking. ‘You know we’re going back to MANderley, We’re gonna dance on the SANderley, I’m gonna sing with the BANderley, We gonna ball all we CANderley Ball me, baby, yeah!’ The basses yes, there were two broke out in a barnyard shuffle like the break in Elvis’s version of ‘Baby Let’s Play House,’ and then there was a guitar solo: Son Tidwell playing that chickenscratch thing. Lights gleamed in the dark, and I thought of a song from the fifties Claudine Clark singing ‘Party Lights.’ And here they were, Japanese lanterns hung from the trees above the path of railroad-tie steps leading from the house to the water. Party lights casting mystic circles of radiance in the dark: red blue and green. Behind me, Sara was singing the bridge to her Manderley song mama likes it nasty, mama likes it strong, mama likes to party all night long but it was fading. Sara and the Red-Top Boys had set up their bandstand in the driveway by the sound, about where George Footman had parked when he came to serve me with Max Devore’s subpoena. I was descending toward the lake through circles of radiance, past party lights surrounded by soft-winged moths. One had found its way inside a lamp and it cast a monstrous, batlike shadow against the ribbed paper. The flower-boxes Jo had put beside the steps were full of night-blooming roses. In the light of the Japanese lanterns they looked blue. Now the band was only a faint murmur; I could hear Sara shouting out the lyric, laughing her way through it as though it were the funniest thing she’d ever heard, all that Manderley-sanderley-canderley stuff, but I could no longer make out the individual words. Much clearer was the lap of the lake against the rocks at the foot of the steps, the hollow clunk of the cannisters under the swimming float, and the cry of a loon drifting out of the darkness. Someone was standing on The Street to my right, at the edge of the lake. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see the brown sportcoat and the tee-shirt he was wearing beneath it. The lapels cut off some of the letters of the message, so it looked like this: ORMA ER OUN I knew what it said anyway in dreams you almost always know, don’t you? NORMAL SPERM COUNT, a Village Cafe yuck-it-up special if ever there was one. I was in the north bedroom dreaming all this, and here I woke up enough to know I was dreaming . . . except it was like waking into another dream, because Bunter’s bell was ringing madly and there was someone standing in the hall. You read "Bag of Bones CHAPTER THIRTEEN" in category "Essay examples" Mr. Normal Sperm Count? No, not him. The shadow-shape falling on the door wasn’t quite human. It was slumped, the arms indistinct. I sat up into the silver shaking of the bell, clutching a loose puddle of sheet against my naked waist, sure it was the shroud-thing out there the shroud-thing had come out of its grave to get me. ‘Please don’t,’ I said in a dry and trembling voice. ‘Please don’t, please.’ The shadow on the door raised its arms. ‘It ain’t nuthin but a barn-dance sugar!’ Sara Tidwell’s laughing, furious voice sang. ‘It ain’t nuthin but a round-and-round!’ I lay back down and pulled the sheet over my face in a childish act of denial . . . and there I stood on our little lick of beach, wearing just my undershorts. My feet were ankle-deep in the water. It was warm the way the lake gets by midsummer. My dim shadow was cast two ways, in one direction by the scantling moon which rode low above the water, in another by the Japanese lantern with the moth caught inside it. The man who’d been standing on the path was gone but he had left a plastic owl to mark his place. It stared at me with frozen, gold-ringed eyes. ‘Hey Irish!’ I looked out at the swimming float. Jo stood there. She must have just climbed out of the water, because she was still dripping and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. She was wearing the two-piece swimsuit from the photo I’d found, gray with red piping. ‘It’s been a long time, Irish what do you say?’ ‘Say about what?’ I called back, although I knew. ‘About this!’ She put her hands over her breasts and squeezed. Water ran out between her fingers and trickled across her knuckles. ‘Come on, Irish,’ she said from beside and above me, ‘come on, you bastard, let’s go.’ I felt her strip down the sheet, pulling it easily out of my sleep-numbed fingers. I shut my eyes, but she took my hand and placed it between her legs. As I found that velvety seam and began to stroke it open, she began to rub the back of my neck with her fingers. ‘You’re not Jo,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’ But no one was there to answer. I was in the woods. It was dark, and on the lake the loons were crying. I was walking the path to Jo’s studio. It wasn’t a dream; I could feel the cool air against my skin and the occasional bite of a rock into my bare sole or heel. A mosquito buzzed around my ear and I waved it away. I was wearing Jockey shorts, and at every step they pulled against a huge and throbbing erection. ‘What the hell is this?’ I asked as Jo’s little barnboard studio loomed in the dark. I looked behind me and saw Sara on her hill, not the woman but the house, a long lodge jutting toward the nightbound lake. ‘What’s happening to me?’ ‘Everything’s all right, Mike,’ Jo said. She was standing on the float, watching as I swam toward her. She put her hands behind her neck like a calendar model, lifting her breasts more fully into the damp halter. As in the photo, I could see her nipples poking out the cloth. I was swimming in my underpants, and with the same huge erection. ‘Everything’s all right, Mike,’ Mattie said in the north bedroom, and I opened my eyes. She was sitting beside me on the bed, smooth and naked in the weak glow of the nightlight. Her hair was down, hanging to her shoulders. Her breasts were tiny, the size of teacups, but the nipples were large and distended. Between her legs, where my hand still lingered, was a powderpuff of blonde hair, smooth as down. Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth-wings, like rose-petals. There was something desperately attractive about her as she sat there she was like the prize you know you’ll never win at the carny shooting gallery or the county fair ringtoss. The one they keep on the top shelf. She reached under the sheet and folded her fingers over the stretched material of my undershorts. Everything’s all right, it ain’t nuthin but a round-and-round, said the UFO voice as I climbed the steps to my wife’s studio. I stooped, fished for the key from beneath the mat, and took it out. I climbed the ladder to the float, wet and dripping, preceded by my engorged sex is there anything, I wonder, so unintentionally comic as a sexually aroused man? Jo stood on the boards in her wet bathing suit. I pulled Mattie into bed with me. I opened the door to Jo’s studio. All of these things happened at the same time, weaving in and out of each other like strands of some exotic rope or belt. The thing with Jo felt the most like a dream, the thing in the studio, me crossing the floor and looking down at my old green IBM, the least. Mattie in the north bedroom was somewhere in between. On the float Jo said, ‘Do what you want.’ In the north bedroom Mattie said, ‘Do what you want.’ In the studio, no one had to tell me anything. In there I knew exactly what I wanted. On the float I bent my head and put my mouth on one of Jo’s breasts and sucked the cloth-covered nipple into my mouth. I tasted damp fabric and dank lake. She reached for me where I stuck out and I slapped her hand away. If she touched me I would come at once. I sucked, drinking back trickles of cotton-water, groping with my own hands, first caressing her ass and then yanking down the bottom half of her suit. I got it off her and she dropped to her knees. I did too, finally getting rid of my wet, clinging underpants and tossing them on top of her bikini panty. We faced each other that way, me naked, her almost. ‘Who was the guy at the game?’ I panted. ‘Who was he, Jo?’ ‘No one in particular, Irish. Just another bag of bones.’ She laughed, then leaned back on her haunches and stared at me. Her navel was a tiny black cup. There was something queerly, attractively snakelike in her posture. ‘Everything down there is death,’ she said, and pressed her cold palms and white, pruney fingers to my cheeks. She turned my head and then bent it so I was looking into the lake. Under the water I saw decomposing bodies slipping by, pulled by some deep current. Their wet eyes stared. Their fish-nibbled noses gaped. Their tongues lolled between white lips like tendrils of waterweed. Some of the dead trailed pallid balloons of jellyfish guts; some were little more than bone. Yet not even the sight of this floating charnel parade could divert me from what I wanted. I shrugged my head free of her hands, pushed her down on the boards, and finally cooled what was so hard and contentious, sinking it deep. Her moon-silvered eyes stared up at me, through me, and I saw that one pupil was larger than the other. That was how her eyes had looked on the TV monitor when I had identified her in the Derry County Morgue. She was dead. My wife was dead and I was fucking her corpse. Nor could even that realization stop me. ‘Who was he?’ I cried at her, covering her cold flesh as it lay on the wet boards. ‘Who was he, Jo, for Christ’s sake tell me who he was!’ In the north bedroom I pulled Mattie on top of me, relishing the feel of those small breasts against my chest and the length of her entwining legs. Then I rolled her over on the far side of the bed. I felt her hand reaching for me, and slapped it away if she touched me where she meant to touch me, I would come in an instant. ‘Spread your legs, hurry,’ I said, and she did. I closed my eyes, shutting out all other sensory input in favor of this. I pressed forward, then stopped. I made one little adjustment, pushing at my engorged penis with the side of my hand, then rolled my hips and slipped into her like a finger in a silk-lined glove. She looked up at me, wide-eyed, then put a hand on my cheek and turned my head. ‘Everything out there is death,’ she said, as if only explaining the obvious. In the window I saw Fifth Avenue between Fiftieth and Sixtieth all those trendy shops, Bijan and Bally, Tiffany and Bergdorf’s and Steuben Glass. And here came H arold Oblowski, northbound and swinging his pigskin briefcase (the one Jo and I had given him for Christmas the year before she died). Beside him, carrying a Barnes and Noble bag by the handles, was the bountiful, beauteous Nola, his secretary. Except her bounty was gone. This was a grinning, yellow-jawed skeleton in a Donna Karan suit and alligator pumps; scrawny, beringed bones instead of fingers gripped the bag-handles. Harold’s teeth jutted in his usual agent’s grin, now extended to the point of obscenity. His favorite suit, the doublebreasted charcoal-gray from Paul Stuart, flapped on him like a sail in a fresh breeze. All around them, on both sides of the street, walked the living dead mommy mummies leading baby corpses by the hands or wheeling them in expensive prams, zombie doormen, reanimated skateboarders. Here a tall black man with a last few strips of flesh hanging from his face like cured deer-hide walked his skeletal Alsatian. The cab-drivers were rottin g to raga music. The faces looking down from the passing buses were skulls, each wearing its own version of Harold’s grin Hey, how are ya, how’s the wife, how’s the kids, writing any good books lately? The peanut vendors were putrefying. Yet none of it could quench me. I was on fire. I slipped my hands under her buttocks, lifting her, biting at the sheet (the pattern, I saw with no surprise, was blue roses) until I pulled it free of the mattress to keep from biting her on the neck, the shoulder, the breasts, anywhere my teeth could reach. ‘Tell me who he was!’ I shouted at her. ‘You know, I know you do!’ My voice was so muffled by my mouthful of bed-linen that I doubted if anyone but me could have understood it. ‘Tell me, you bitch!’ On the path between Jo’s studio and the house I stood in the dark with the typewriter in my arms and that dream-spanning erection quivering below its metal bulk all that ready and nothing willing. Except maybe for the night breeze. Then I became aware I was no longer alone. The shroud-thing was behind me, called like the moths to the party lights. It laughed-a brazen, smoke-broken laugh that could belong to only one woman. I didn’t see the hand that reached around my hip to grip me the typewriter was in the way but I didn’t need to see it to know its color was brown. It squeezed, slowly tightening, the fingers wriggling. ‘What do you want to know, sugar?’ she asked from behind me. Still laughing. Still teasing. ‘Do you really want to know at all? Do you want to know or do you want to feel?’ ‘Oh, you’re killing me!’ I cried. The typewriter thirty or so pounds of IBM Selectric was shaking back and forth in my arms. I could feel my muscles twanging like guitar strings. ‘Do you want to know who he was, sugar? That nasty man?’ ‘Just do me, you bitch!’ I screamed. She laughed again that harsh laughter that was almost like a cough and squeezed me where the squeezing was best. ‘You hold still, now,’ she said. ‘You hold still, pretty boy, ‘less you want me to take fright and yank this thing of yours right out by the . . . ‘ I lost the rest as the whole world exploded in an orgasm so deep and strong that I thought it would simply tear me apart. I snapped my head back like a man being hung and ejaculated looking up at the stars. I screamed I had to and on the lake, two loons screamed back. At the same time I was on the float. Jo was gone, but I could faintly hear the sound of the band -Sara and Sonny and the Red-Top Boys tearing through ‘Black Mountain Rag.’ I sat up, dazed and spent, fucked hollow. I couldn’t see the path leading up to the house, but I could discern its switchback course by the Japanese lanterns. My underpants lay beside me in a little wet heap. I picked them up and started to put them on, only because I didn’t want to swim back to shore with them in my hand. I stopped with them stretched between my knees, looking at my fingers. They were slimed with decaying flesh. Puffing out from beneath several of the nails were clumps of torn-out hair. Corpsehair. ‘Oh Jesus,’ I moaned. The strength went out of me. I flopped into wetness. I was in the north-wing bedroom. What I had landed in was hot, and at first I thought it was come. The dim glow of the nightlight showed darker stuff, however. Mattie was gone and the bed was full of blood. Lying in the middle of that soaking pool was something I at first glance took to be a clump of flesh or a piece of organ. I looked more closely and saw it was a stuffed animal, a black-furred object matted red with blood. I lay on my side looking at it, wanting to bolt out of the bed and flee from the room but unable to do it. My muscles were in a dead swoon. Who had I really been having sex with in this bed? And what had I done to her? In God’s name, what? ‘I don’t believe these lies,’ I heard myself say, and as though it were an incantation, I was slapped back together. That isn’t exactly what happened, bur it’s the only way of saying that seems to come close to whatever did. There were three of me one on the float, one in the north bedroom, one on the path and each one felt that hard slap, as if the wind had grown a fist. There was rushing blackness, and in it the steady silver shaking of Bunter’s bell. Then it faded, and I faded with it. For a little while I was nowhere at all. I came back to the casual chatter of birds on summer vacation and to that peculiar red darkness that means the sun is shining through your closed eyelids. My neck was stiff, my head was canted at a weird angle, my legs were folded awkwardly beneath me, and I was hot. I lifted my head with a wince, knowing even as I opened my eyes that I was no longer in bed, no longer on the swimming float, no longer on the path between the house and the studio. It was floorboards under me, hard and uncompromising. The light was dazzling. I squinched my eyes closed again and groaned like a man with a hangover. I eased them back open behind my cupped hands, gave them time to adjust, then cautiously uncovered them, sat all the way up, and looked around. I was in the upstairs hall, lying under the broken air conditioner. Mrs. Meserve’s note still hung from it. Sitting outside my office door was the green IBM with a piece of paper rolled into it. I looked down at my feet and saw that they were dirty. Pine needles were stuck to my soles, and one toe was scratched. I got up, staggered a little (my right leg had gone to sleep), then braced a hand against the wall and stood steady. I looked down at myself. I was wearing the Jockeys I’d gone to bed in, and I didn’t look as if I’d had an accident in them. I pulled out the waistband and peeked inside. My cock looked as it usually did; small and soft, curled up and asleep in its thatch of hair. If Noonan’s Folly had been adventuring in the night, there was no sign of it now. ‘It sure felt like an adventure,’ I croaked. I armed sweat off my forehead. It was stifling up here. ‘Not the kind I ever read about in The Hardy Boys, though.’ Then I remembered the blood-soaked sheet in the north bedroom, and the stuffed animal lying on its side in the middle of it. There was no sense of relief attached to the memory, that thank-God-it-was-only-a-dream feeling you get after a particularly nasty nightmare. It felt as real as any of the things I’d experienced in my measles fever-delirium . . . and all those things had been real, just distorted by my overheated brain. I staggered to the stairs and limped down them, holding tight to the bannister in case my tingling leg should buckle. At the foot I looked dazedly around the living room, as if seeing it for the first time, and then limped down the north-wing corridor. The bedroom door was ajar and for a moment I couldn’t bring myself to push it all the way open and go in. I was very badly scared, and my mind kept trying to replay an old episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, the one about the man who strangles his wife during an alcoholic blackout. He spends the whole half hour looking for her, and finally finds her in the pantry, bloated and open-eyed. Kyra Devore was the only kid of stuffed-animal age I’d met recently, but she had been sleeping peacefully under her cabbage-rose coverlet when I left her mother and headed home. It was stupid to think I had driven all the way back to Wasp Hill Road, probably wearing nothing but my Jockeys, that I had What? Raped the woman? Brought the child here? In my sleep? I got the typewriter, in my sleep, didn’t I? It’s sitting right upstairs in the goddam hallway. Big difference between going thirty yards through the woods and five miles down the road to I wasn’t going to stand out here listening to those quarrelling voices in my head. If I wasn’t crazy and I didn’t think I was listening to those contentious assholes would probably send me there, and by the express. I reached out and pushed the bedroom door open. For a moment I actually saw a spreading octopus-pattern of blood soaking into the sheet, that’s how real and focused my terror was. Then I closed my eyes tight, opened them, and looked again. The sheets were rumpled, the bottom one mostly pulled free. I could see the quilted satin hide of the mattress. One pillow lay on the far edge of the bed. The other was scrunched down at the foot. The throw rug a piece of Jo’s work was askew, and my water-glass lay overturned on the nighttable. The bedroom looked as if it might have been the site of a brawl or an orgy, but not a murder. There was no blood and no little stuffed animal with black fur. I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. Nothing there not even dust-kitties, thanks to Brenda Meserve. I looked at the ground-sheet again, first passing a hand over its rumpled topography, then pulling it back down and resecuring the elasticized corners. Great invention, those sheets; if women gave out the Medal of Freedom instead of a bunch of white politicians who never made a bed or washed a load of clothes in their lives, the guy who thought up fitted sheets would undoubtedly have gotten a piece of that tin by now. In a Rose Garden ceremony. With the sheet pulled taut, I looked again. No blood, not a single drop. There was no stiffening patch of semen, either. The former I hadn’t really expected (or so I was already telling myself), but what about the latter? At the very least, I’d had the world’s most creative wet-dream a triptych in which I had screwed two women and gotten a handjob from a third, all at the same time. I thought I had that morning-after feeling, too, the one you get when the previous night’s sex has been of the headbusting variety. But if there had been fireworks, where was the burnt gunpowder? ‘In Jo’s studio, most likely,’ I told the empty, sunny room. ‘Or on the path between here and there. Just be glad you didn’t leave it in Mattie Devore, bucko. An affair with a post-adolescent widow you don’t need.’ A part of me disagreed; a part of me thought Mattie Devore was exactly what I did need. But I hadn’t had sex with her last night, any more than I had had sex with my dead wife out on the swimming float or gotten a handjob from Sara Tidwell. Now that I saw I hadn’t killed a nice little kid either, my thoughts turned back to the typewriter. Why had I gotten it? Why bother? Oh man. What a silly question. My wife might have been keeping secrets from me, maybe even having an affair; there might be ghosts in the house; there might be a rich old man half a mile south who wanted to put a sharp stick into me and then break it off; there might be a few toys in my own humble attic, for that matter. But as I stood there in a bright shaft of sunlight, looking at my shadow on the far wall, only one thought seemed to matter: I had gone out to my wife’s studio and gotten my old typewriter, and there was only one reason to do something like that. I went into the bathroom, wanting to get rid of the sweat on my body and the dirt on my feet before doing anything else. I reached for the shower-handle, then stopped. The tub was full of water. Either I had for some reason filled it during my sleepwalk . . . or something else had. I reached for the drain-lever, then stopped again, remembering that moment on the shoulder of Route 68 when my mouth had filled up with the taste of cold water. I realized I was waiting for it to happen again. When it didn’t, I opened the bathtub drain to let out the standing water and started the shower. I could have brought the Selectric downstairs, perhaps even lugged it out onto the deck where there was a little breeze coming over the surface of the lake, but I didn’t. I had brought it all the way to the door of my office, and my office was where I’d work . . . if I could work. I’d work in there even if the temperature beneath the roofpeak built to a hundred and twenty degrees . . . which, by three in the afternoon, it just might. The paper rolled into the machine was an old pink-carbon receipt from Click!, the photo shop in Castle Rock where Jo had bought her supplies when we were down here. I’d put it in so that the blank side faced the Courier type-ball. On it I had typed the names of my little harem, as if I had tried in some struggling way to report on my three-faceted dream even while it was going on: Jo Sara Mattie Jo Sara Mattie Mattie Mattie Sara Sara Jo Johanna Sara Jo MattieSaraJo. Below this, in lower case: normal sperm count sperm norm all’s rosy I opened the office door, carried the typewriter in, and put it in its old place beneath the poster of Richard Nixon. I pulled the pink slip out of the roller, balled it up, and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then I picked up the Selectric’s plug and stuck it in the baseboard socket. My heart was beating hard and fast, the way it had when I was thirteen and climbing the ladder to the high board at the Y-pool. I had climbed that ladder three times when I was twelve and then slunk back down it again; once I turned thirteen, there could be no chickening out I really had to do it. I thought I’d seen a fan hiding in the far corner of the closet, behind the box marked GADGETS. I started in that direction, then turned around again with a ragged little laugh. I’d had moments of confidence before, hadn’t I? Yes. And then the iron bands had clamped around my chest. It would be stupid to get out the fan and then discover I had no business in this room after all. ‘Take it easy,’ I said, ‘take it easy.’ But I couldn’t, no more than that narrow-chested boy in the ridiculous purple bathing suit had been able to take it easy when he walked to the end of the diving board, the pool so green below him, the upraised faces of the boys and girls in it so small, so small. I bent to one of the drawers on the right side of the desk and pulled so hard it came all the way out. I got my bare foot out of its landing zone just in time and barked a gust of loud, humorless laughter. There was half a ream of paper in the drawer. The edges had that faintly crispy look paper gets when it’s been sitting for a long time. I no more than saw it before remembering I had brought my own supply stuff a good deal fresher than this. I left it where it was and put the drawer back in its hole. It took several tries to get it on its tracks; my hands were shaking. At last I sat down in my desk chair, hearing the same old creaks as it took my weight and the same old rumble of the casters as I rolled it forward, snugging my legs into the kneehole. Then I sat facing the keyboard, sweating hard, still remembering the high board at the Y, how springy it had been under my bare feet as I walked its length, remembering the echoing quality of the voices below me, remembering the smell of chlorine and the steady low throb of the air-exchangers: fwung-fwung-fwung-fwung, as if the water had its own secret heartbeat. I had stood at the end of the board wondering (and not for the first time!) if you could be paralyzed if you hit the water wrong. Probably not, but you could die of fear. There were documented cases of that in Ripley’s Believe It or Not, which served me as science between the ages of eight and fourteen. Go on! Jo’s voice cried. My version of her voice was usually calm and collected; this time it was shrill. Stop dithering and go on! I reached for the IBM’s rocker-switch, now remembering the day I had dropped my Word Six program into the Powerbook’s trash. Goodbye, old pal, I had thought. ‘Please let this work,’ I said. ‘Please.’ I lowered my hand and flicked the switch. The machine came on. The Courier ball did a preliminary twirl, like a ballet dancer standing in the wings, waiting to go on. I picked up a piece of paper, saw my sweaty fingers were leaving marks, and didn’t care. I rolled it into the machine, centered it, then wrote Chapter One and waited for the storm to break. How to cite Bag of Bones CHAPTER THIRTEEN, Essay examples

Courage in to Kill a Mockingbird free essay sample

One likes to think of a hero, as strong, brave, and meeting all challenges head on. All the characters in this book have a different view as to what courage is, and they all show it in different ways through their everyday lives. Younger characters, like Jem and Scout, see the physical aspect of it, whereas Atticus believes this to be an extremely weak form of courage. He believes in the mental quality of courage. The ability to be in minority and not back down and to be able to change; he admires Mrs. Dubose for her acts of courage that are against all odds. For a younger character, like Scout, courage is often associated with a physical act that is usually dangerous. It is hard for young children to realize that courage can be shown in other aspects of life. Scout sees an example of courage in her father when he shoots the mad dog Tim Johnson (pg. 101). Although Atticus does not think of it as very courageous, Jem and Scout are proud of their father and the courage he showed in this dangerous situation. Atticus views courage on a more intellectual level, as a moral thing not something that can be proved with a weapon. Later on in the story, Jem and Scout encounter the vindictive, spiteful Mrs. Dubose who often shouts out racism directed at the passing children because of Atticus’ job. At one point she proclaimed, Your fathers no better than the niggers and trash he works for! (pg. 111). When she blatantly made Atticus an object of ridicule like that, Jem decided that the best way to settle things was to ruin Mrs. Duboses camellias. Since he could not attack Mrs. Dubose directly, Jem decided to go for something close to her. He is committing a physical act of retaliation, which led to her suffering mental pain yet again. It was a cowardly act, for he dared not step up and confront her. After Atticus heard about this stunt, Jem was made to read to her every afternoon for a month. He now needed mental valour, and he did find it more difficult to source this than the physical bravery he was used to displaying. This is made apparent by him refusing to walk past her house alone, and because Jem was at first terrified of going to see her. Mrs. Dubose was a very sick woman, and had used morphine to ease her pain but was now addicted. It was her goal to leave the world beholden to nothing and nobody (pg. 120). She displayed what Atticus refers to as real courage. (pg. 121). She showed real courage because she does not have the luxury of standing there with a gun pointed at her addiction. One single attempt could not free her from the addiction. Rather, it had to be a many staged process over an extended period of time. It was shear determination and real courage that allowed her to accomplish her goal. It was not until after she died that Atticus explained to Jem and Scout how courageous the woman was because she knew she was dying but was still determined to die free of the morphine. She fought against great odds, even though she knew that she would surely die. Atticus tells his children that he wanted them to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. He also says that she was the bravest person he ever knew. (pg. 121) Real courage is when you fight for what is right regardless of whether you win or lose. Atticus Finch demonstrates real courage several times throughout the novel, in addition to the lessons that he teaches his children. The largest and most important example would be the trial of Tom Robinson. When Atticus took the case, he went up against Maycomb, a generally prejudiced town, in order to defend Tom. He understood that taking the case would make him an object of ridicule and that no one would forgive him for believing a black mans word over a white mans. Even his own sister expresses disapproval at his decision, practically telling him he was bringing disgrace to the family. Nevertheless, no matter how much his reputation suffered, he did not change his mind. Standing up for his morals and ethics was more important than what people thought about him. From the very start Atticus knows he will not win the case however he does his job and finishes what he set out to do. Atticuss strong sense of morality and justice motivates him to defend Tom Robinson with determination, giving it all he has. He shows this when he says, Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started is no reason for us not to try and win. (pg. 82). He says this to Scout after she comes home from school angry at Cecil Jacobs for making fun of Atticus in the schoolyard. Atticus tells her to fight with her head instead of her fists. He wants the people of Maycomb to hear the truth about Tom, That boy may go to the chair, but hes not going till the truths told. (pg. 159). Atticus is putting everything a man holds dear, dignity, respect, honor and status, on the line to protect Tom. He later shows more bravery when he goes to the jailhouse to protect Tom from a mob. Without thinking twice, he rushed to Toms aid. He went willingly, knowing that if a mob did form he would be greatly outnumbered and would easily be beaten. Still, he put Toms well being ahead of his own welfare. While serving justice, Atticus also showed great courage. For example, he did not go along with Heck Tate when he told a lie about what really happened the night Bob Ewell was found stabbed to death. Atticus put his life and career on the line because he knew that, as an officer of the court, withholding information from an investigation could have gotten Mr. Tate thrown into jail. Nonetheless, like many times before, doing what was right and fair prevailed in Atticuss way of thinking. In addition, Atticus went against his moral code and principles he had always upheld before, when Atticus is faced with the decision of abiding by the law or breaking it in order to do the right thing. He knew that incarcerating a man like Arthur Radley would have been unforgivable, especially after Arthur had just performed a great deed by saving his childrens lives. He knew that exposing him would be an awful way of repaying him; it would have been like shooting a mockingbird. Therefore, Atticus chose to protect Boo from the public eye rather than abide by the law and his honest judicial ways he was so accustomed to follow. Sometimes it takes even more courage to set a new level of morals than to stay in one’s comfort zone. (pg. 297-302). The courage to change habits and thoughts is very important, because not everyone is able to do it. A very good example of this courage is when Atticus asked Scout not to fight anymore. When I committed myself to this act of cowardice. Word got around that Scout Finch wouldn’t fight anymore, her daddy wouldn’t let her. (pg. 97). That was a great act of courage because Scout used to fight a lot but as she had promised her father she would not fight anymore. Scout, like Jem does not want to disappoint Atticus, so she makes a change. In conclusion, Atticus shows praiseworthy courage and behaviour in many instances throughout the story, not by fighting or killing, but by standing up for what he believed in a civilized and determined way. His strongest motivation, however, were his children. He wants to be a good example for his kids and encourage in them a strong sense of moral value. One time Scout asks him why he had taken a case he knew he was not going to win and he responded by saying, For a number of reasons. The main one is, if I didnt I couldnt hold up my head in town, I couldnt represent this county in the legislature, I couldnt even tell you or Jem not to do something again. (pg. 82). In other words, he would not have been able to talk to his kids about justice and standing up for what one believes when he himself had not stood for what he believed in. The lessons taught by Atticus and Mrs. Dubose show Jem and Scout what it is to be courageous, to be able to change, to tell the truth and most importantly to stand up for their own beliefs. All qoutes from Lee, Harper, 1960, To kill a Mokingbird, London, Pan Books