J.R.R Tolkien, Letter 2

To J.R.R. Tolkien,
* Thank you greatly for writing one of the best series I have ever read. Not just the Trilogy, but the entire host of Middle-Earth chronicles, including tales of epic heroes besides the Nine. I read The Hobbit in 5th Grade and I went on to read the Simarillion, Tales of Middle Earth, and several others. I found out my Elvish name, Elemmírë Oronrá, my hobbit name, Molly Smallburrows of the Sandydowns. I was completely taken with the books, and all I wanted was to have my own adventures.
*When Gandalf came back and told Frodo of his mission, I was ready to go. The trip from Hobbiton to Imaladris is filled with fear and new creatures, in the span of a couple descriptive chapters. I don’t see how you could fill a whole book with such descriptive narration on a few young hobbits’ tales of such an adventure! To me it seems like a long exciting trip, one of the ones where it’s so exciting, you get home and can’t find what to say. That’s how I would feel if I were in Frodo’s position, finishing There and Back Again. And how I’m feeling writing this letter, without words to express years of times reading and re-reading Lord of the Rings.
*I think in The Hobbit, I compared with Bilbo. How his longing for adventure overcame his fear of the unknown, and how he went with the dwarves to the Lone Mountain. It inspired me to come out of a timid shell, and to try new things and forget about the things I was too afraid to try. It was exciting to feel Bilbo’s response to every new thing he tried, or in each trial, how he overcame himself to help his friends.
* Though in The Lord of The Rings, I compared most to Aragorn. I am proud, but easy to anger and afraid to take power. I can, when pressed, but I’ve never been fond of it. His quiet, knowing character compares with mine, I spend hours a day reading and sitting quietly, often outside, in the woods. I can go days without feeling the need to talk, or be with people. But Aragorn overcomes this to become a great king. He taught me to take what I know and apply it to all situations, to find my courage and use it. He showed me how to be a better person in all. I also admired him, for his ruggedness, and modeled a lot of my quiet actions on his, taking time to think, and staying in the background, making myself feel noble and heroic.
* I often found myself having dreams in which I was the one that was fighting the war against Sauron and was consulting with Théoden or Ѐomer. It happened so that I explored all corners of Middle-Earth, experiencing all the same monsters and beings that Frodo and Bilbo did. I knew my weapon of choice, a bow and two single-handed swords, and I knew that I would like to be clothed in the manner of the elves, so that I could walk unseen through woods. I liked seeing this; it was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Unfortunately I couldn’t really apply this; my parents might be slightly alarmed by me taking a hand and a half sword around with me. It’s funny that this book would stay around with me through days and nights, shaping actions even when I was not aware or in control of it.
* Mr.Tolkien, your book inspired me to new heights of reading. Though I maybe can’t live like Aragorn or Legolas, I can read other books and keep dreaming. Your books have given me the gift of imagination, like that of when I was younger. I only aspire to be such a compelling writer as you have been!

Sincerely,
Eleanor Knight

Letter to J.R.R Tolkien

To J.R.R. Tolkien,
First of all, thank you greatly for writing one of the best series I have ever read. This is not just the Trilogy, but the entire host of Middle-Earth chronicles, including tales of epic heroes besides the Nine. I first saw, actually, the movie, The Fellowship of the Ring. After that I was hooked on the books (I had read The Hobbit in 5th Grade) and I went on to read the Simarillion, Tales of Middle Earth, and several others. I found out my Elvish name, Elemmírë Oronrá, my hobbit name, Molly Smallburrows of the Sandydowns. I was completely taken with the books, and all I wanted was to have my own adventures.
When Gandalf came back and told Frodo of his mission, I was ready to go. The trip from Hobbiton to Imaladris is filled with fear and new creatures, in the span of a couple descriptive chapters. I don’t see how you could fill a whole book with such descriptive narration on a few young hobbits’ tales of such an adventure! To me it seems like a long exciting trip, one of the ones where it’s so exciting, you get home and can’t find what to say. That’s how I would feel if I were in Frodo’s position, finishing There and Back Again. And how I’m feeling writing this letter, without words to express years of times reading and re-reading Lord of the Rings.
I think in The Hobbit, I compared with Bilbo. How his longing for adventure overcame his fear of the unknown, and how he went with the dwarves to the Lone Mountain. It inspired me to come out of a timid shell, and to try new things and forget about the things I was too afraid to try. It was exciting to feel Bilbo’s response to every new thing he tried, or in each trial, how he overcame himself to help his friends.
Though in The Lord of The Rings, I compared most to Aragorn. I am proud, but easy to anger and afraid to take power. I can, when pressed, but I’ve never been fond of it. His quiet, knowing character compares with mine, I spend hours a day reading and sitting quietly, often outside, in the woods. I can go days without feeling the need to talk, or be with people. But Aragorn overcomes this to become a great king. He taught me to take what I know and apply it to all situations, to find my courage and use it. He showed me how to be a better person in all.
I often found myself having dreams in which I was the one that was fighting the war against Sauron and was consulting with Théoden or Ѐomer. It happened so that I explored all corners of Middle-Earth, experiencing all the same monsters and beings that Frodo and Bilbo did. I knew my weapon of choice, a bow and two single-handed swords, and I knew that I would like to be clothed in the manner of the elves, so that I could walk unseen through woods. I liked seeing this; it was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Unfortunately I couldn’t really apply this, my parents might be slightly alarmed by me taking a hand and a half sword around with me.
Mr.Tolkien, your book inspired me to new heights of reading. Though I maybe can’t live like Aragorn or Legolas, I can read other books and keep dreaming. Your books have given me the gift of imagination, like that of when I was younger. I only aspire to be such a compelling writer as you have been!

Sincerely,
Eleanor Knight

Writing Assignment Draft 3

Helen slid across the floor, dipping and twisting her fingers with the smooth caress of the swaying music. Her brown hair tied back in a ponytail barely brushed broad shoulders set on a thin, well-muscled body. Her partner, Rick, was a little newer to her current studio, but learning the ropes as he gently pulled her back to him. Their toes moved back and forth in rhythm, both hips swaying together, reminding Helen of leaves falling in a storm, tripping and twisting in limbo. The guitar strumming along paused, and struck it’s final chord, as Rick and Helen hit their final poses, arms up, bodies arched and sweating from the final throes of the Spanish dance. Helen smiled, panting a little from the exertion, and let her arms down.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” she shyly murmured. “I didn’t expect to be placed with someone so…well…talented.”
Rick’s ribs moved in and out as he caught his breath, holding up one finger to indicate ‘hold on’. He straightened up, saying merely ‘thanks.’
Helen was surprised, she’d expected a little more from a man who could dance beautifully, perhaps expecting his verbal charm to be guaranteed and added to the package.
Over the next couple weeks, Helen felt like she was pushed up against a brick wall with Rick. He wouldn’t communicate with her; there was no passion or character to their dance. If anything was happening, the dance was getting worse.
Helen had to confront him; finally, she did after practice. She came in from the rain, soaking wet and shivering, flipping on the fluorescent lights as she did so. They came on with a faint buzz, illuminating the mirrored walls around her. Deciding that being anti-social to avoid the problem was not the answer, she set up the CD player, and popped in a continuous CD to practice endurance dance for a while. She sat down and waited for Rick. When he came, she stood up, and turned on the music. A samba. Rick turned, long, lithe body unfolding in the doorway, then shaking rain out of his short dusty hair and scowled.
“Rick-is there something wrong with what I’m doing when we dance? Tell me please Rick, we’re not…clicking.”
He turned, looking surprised. His muddled green eyes flickered, he hadn’t been expecting that.
“No.” Another mono-syllable, it was frustrating, and Helen had heard enough of it.
“Rick, we’re not getting anywhere, and you know it. What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong? I’m a decent dancer, you don’t think so? What’s wrong with me now?” He whipped her into the dance, surliness and anger in his face, the dance increased tempo as their anger grew. Their eyes locked, they twisted across the floor, Rick exercising daring lift moves, Helen moving her feet quickly, flipping and twisting in surly rough grip. They danced through the rain, till they were exhausted, dripping with sweat, too exhausted to feel emotions.
Rick bent over, hacking with exhaustion.
“What were we arguing about again?” He laughed now.
“I was innocently asking what your problem was when you snapped on me,” Helen retorted.
Rick became grim again.
“You really want to know that?” His face was a stone, features flat, only a cool emotionless mask was in his place now.
“Yes,” the scared whisper came from Helen. She didn’t know what she needed to hear now.
Rick breathed out in a heavy sigh. He looked at her and smiled.
“Sit down.”
Helen sat obediently, shyness not preventing her sinking into the cool couch a very puzzled but curious girl.
“A week after I came here and started dancing with you, I collapsed on the way home. I was driving. I swerved off the road and hit a tree. I wasn’t over the limit, so my car wasn’t damaged. They took me to the hospital for just a check up to look for trauma or internal bleeding, and they noticed something funny with my heart. It was beating irregularly. I was diagnosed with Arrhythmia a day later.” He sat quietly then, holding his head in his hands, fingers digging into his temples in agitated circles.
Helen blew out. She had been expecting something terrible; Arrhythmia couldn’t be that bad, irregular beats and that was it. She touched his arm in an attempt to be reassuring, but not too hard, she was still a little hesitant.
“So, your heart just beats funny? Nothing will ever happen, it just feels funny?” She laughed, smiling at him.
“No,” Rick’s glance was desperate, afraid. Helen lost her smile. “having Arrhythmia means that my heart is so irregular, that I can collapse at any time, but also…Die at any moment. It could happen now. While we’re sitting here, in the middle of my sentence. I could be gone.”
The rain beat an incessant ticka-ticka-ticka against the windows, Helen sat stunned.
“But,” She started, “That doesn’t mean you’re definitely going to die does it?”
Rick smiled a twisted, rueful smile.
“No. But I don’t think I’ll live to be very old, do you?”
“Well - maybe not,” Helen murmured, looking up again she said, “is this why you were angry? These few weeks – you’ve been afraid?”
Rick looked down at his feet, hands folded in his lap.
“Yes,” the word came out, sounding like a scared little boy, afraid of the dark. “Yes. I am afraid. One day, I could get up, go somewhere, and not know it was the last time I’d ever see my friends, family, or do something. It would just end. I would never get to do the things I loved again, dance, run, football, anything.” He trailed off sadly.
Helen furrowed her brow, thinking on how to phrase her words.
“Rick, I know its’ scary, I would be terrified too! But - at the same time, you can’t let it keep you from doing the things you love, because then you can never say that you did them at all, much less for the last time. I think that right now, we can take care of the dancing part.” She grinned.
Rick smiled. Helen got up, the music was still playing.
“The music continues…It slows down for nothing, until it’s free mind decides to make a change. Not because anyone wants it to, or anything,” her voice freed Rick. “Dance?”

Setting Writing Assignment (2)

Helen slid across the floor, dipping and twisting her fingers with the smooth caress of the swaying music. Her partner, Rick, was a little newer to her current studio, but learning the ropes as he gently pulled her back to him. Their toes moved back and forth in rhythm, both hips swaying together, reminding Helen of leaves falling in a storm, tripping and twisting in limbo. The guitar strumming along paused, and struck it’s final chord, as Rick and Helen hit their final poses, arms up, bodies arched and sweating from the final throes of the Spanish dance. Helen smiled, panting a little from the exertion, and let her arms down.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” she shyly murmured. “I didn’t expect to be placed with someone so…well…talented.”
Rick’s ribs moved in and out as he caught his breath, holding up one finger to indicate ‘hold on’. He straightened up, saying merely ‘thanks.’
Helen was surprised, she’d expected a little more from a man who could dance beautifully, perhaps expecting his verbal charm to be guaranteed and added to the package.
Over the next couple weeks, Helen felt like she was pushed up against a brick wall with Rick. He wouldn’t communicate with her; there was no passion or character to their dance. If anything was happening, the dance was getting worse.
Helen had to confront him; finally, she did after practice. She came in from the rain, soaking wet and shivering, flipping on the fluorescent lights as she did so. They came on with a faint buzz, illuminating the mirrored walls around her. She set up the CD player, and popped in a continuous CD to practice endurance dance for a while. She sat down and waited for Rick. When he came, she stood up, and turned on the music. A samba. Rick turned, shaking rain out of his short dusty hair and scowled.
“Rick-is there something wrong with what I’m doing when we dance? Tell me please Rick, we’re not…clicking.”
He turned, looking surprised. He hadn’t been expecting that.
“No.” Another mono-syllable, it was frustrating, and Helen had heard enough of it.
“Rick, we’re not getting anywhere, and you know it. What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong? I’m a decent dancer, you don’t think so? What’s wrong with me now?” He whipped her into the dance, surliness and anger in his face, the dance increased tempo as their anger grew. Their eyes locked, they twisted across the floor, Rick exercising daring lift moves, Helen moving her feet quickly, flipping and twisting in surly rough grip. They danced through the rain, till they were exhausted, dripping with sweat, too exhausted to feel emotions.
Rick bent over, hacking with exhaustion.
“What were we arguing about again?” He laughed now.
“I was innocently asking what your problem was when you snapped on me,” Helen retorted.
Rick became grim again.
“You really want to know that?” His face was a stone, features flat, only a cool emotionless mask was in his place now.
“Yes,” the scared whisper came from Helen. She didn’t know what she needed to hear now.
Rick breathed out in a heavy sigh. He looked at her and smiled.
“Sit down.”
Helen sat obediently, sinking into the cool couch a very puzzled but curious girl.
“A week after I came here and started dancing with you, I collapsed on the way home. I was driving. I swerved off the road and hit a tree. I wasn’t over the limit, so my car wasn’t damaged. They took me to the hospital for just a check up to look for trauma or internal bleeding, and they noticed something funny with my heart. It was beating irregularly. I was diagnosed with Arrhythmia a day later.” He sat quietly then, holding his head in his hands, fingers digging into his temples in agitated circles.
Helen blew out. She had been expecting something terrible; Arrhythmia couldn’t be that bad, irregular beats and that was it.
“So, your heart just beats funny? Nothing will ever happen, it just feels funny?” She laughed, smiling at him.
“No,” Rick’s glance was desperate, afraid. Helen lost her smile. “having Arrhythmia means that my heart is so irregular, that I can collapse at any time, but also…Die at any moment. It could happen now. While we’re sitting here, in the middle of my sentence. I could be gone.”
The rain beat an incessant ticka-ticka-ticka against the windows, Helen sat stunned.
“But,” She started, “That doesn’t mean you’re definitely going to die does it?”
Rick smiled a twisted, rueful smile.
“No. But I don’t think I’ll live to be very old, do you?”
“Well - maybe not,” Helen murmured, looking up again she said, “is this why you were angry? These few weeks – you’ve been afraid?”
Rick looked down at his feet, hands folded in his lap.
“Yes,” the word came out, sounding like a scared little boy, afraid of the dark. “Yes. I am afraid. One day, I could get up, go somewhere, and not know it was the last time I’d ever see my friends, family, or do something. It would just end. I would never get to do the things I loved again, dance, run, football, anything.” He trailed off sadly.
Helen furrowed her brow, thinking on how to phrase her words.
“Rick, I know its’ scary, I would be terrified too! But - at the same time, you can’t let it keep you from doing the things you love, because then you can never say that you did them at all, much less for the last time. I think, that right now, we can take care of the dancing part.” She grinned.
Rick smiled. Helen got up, the music was still playing.
“The music continues…It slows down for nothing, until it’s free mind decides to make a change. Not because anyone wants it to, or anything,” her voice freed Rick. “Dance?”

Setting Writing Assignment

Helen slid across the floor, dipping and twisting her fingers with the smooth caress of the swaying music. Her partner, Rick, was a little newer to her current studio, but learning the ropes as he gently pulled her back to him. Their toes moved back and forth in rhythm, both hips swaying together, reminding Helen of leaves falling in a storm, tripping and twisting in limbo. The guitar strumming along paused, and struck it’s final chord, as Rick and Helen hit their final poses, arms up, bodies arched and sweating from the final throes of the Spanish dance. Helen smiled, panting a little from the exertion, and let her arms down.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” she shyly murmured. “I didn’t expect to be placed with someone so…well…talented.”
Rick’s ribs moved in and out as he caught his breath, holding up one finger to indicate ‘hold on’. He straightened up, saying merely ‘thanks.’
Helen was surprised, she’d expected a little more of a man who could dance beautifully, perhaps expecting his verbal charm to be guaranteed and added to the package.
Over the next couple weeks, Helen felt like she was pushed up against a brick wall with Rick. He wouldn’t communicate with her; there was no passion or character to their dance. If anything was happening, the dance was getting worse.
Helen had to confront him; finally, she did after practice. She came in from the rain, soaking wet and shivering, flipping on the fluorescent lights as she did so. They came on with a faint buzz, illuminating the mirrored walls around her. She set up the CD player, and popped in a continuous CD to practice endurance dance for a while. She sat down and waited for Rick. When he came, she stood up, and turned on the music. A samba. Rick turned, shaking rain out of his short dusty hair and scowled.
“Rick-is there something wrong with what I’m doing when we dance? Tell me please Rick, we’re not…clicking.”
He turned, looking surprised. He hadn’t been expecting that.
“No.” Another mono-syllable, it was frustrating, and Helen had heard enough of it.
“Rick, we’re not getting anywhere, and you know it. What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with me now? Maybe. we. just. need. more. time!” Spitting out the words he whipped her into the dance, surliness and anger in his face, the dance increased tempo as their anger grew. Their eyes locked, they twisted across the floor, Rick exercising daring lift moves, Helen moving her feet quickly, flipping and twisting in his surly rough grip. They danced through the rain, till they were exhausted, dripping with sweat, too exhausted to feel emotions.
Rick bent over, hacking with exhaustion.
“What were we arguing about again?” He laughed now.
“I was innocently asking what your problem was when you snapped on me,” Helen retorted.
Rick became grim again.
“You really want to know that?” His face was a stone, features flat, only a cool emotionless mask was in his place now.
“Yes,” the scared whisper came from Helen. She didn’t know what she needed to hear now.
Rick breathed out in a heavy sigh. He looked at her and smiled.
“Sit down.”
Helen sat obediently, sinking into the cool couch a very puzzled but curious girl.
“A week after I came here and started dancing with you, I collapsed on the way home. I was driving. I swerved off the road and hit a tree. I wasn’t over the limit, so my car wasn’t hurt, nor was I. Still, they took me to the hospital for just a check up to look for trauma or internal bleeding, because I had been briefly knocked out. They noticed something funny with my heart. It was beating irregularly, like it had just been shocked or something. I was diagnosed with Arrhythmia a day later.” He sat quietly then, holding his head in his hands, fingers digging into his temples in agitated circles.
Helen blew out. She had been expecting something terrible; Arrhythmia couldn’t be that bad, irregular beats and that was it.
“Then that’s the last of it? You just have some irregular heart beats now and then and that’s it! I was afraid for a minute that you would keel over on me or something!” She laughed, smiling at him.
“No,” Rick’s glance was desperate, afraid. Helen lost her smile. “having Arrhythmia means that my heart is so irregular, that I can collapse once or twice, but also…Die at any moment. It could happen now. While we’re sitting here, in the middle of my sentence. I could be gone like that.”
The rain beat an incessant ticka-ticka-ticka against the windows, Helen sat stunned.
“But,” She started, “That doesn’t mean you’re definitely going to die does it?”
Rick smiled a twisted, rueful smile.
“No. But it seems somewhat unlikely that I’ll live to be very old doesn’t it?”
“Well - maybe not,” Helen murmured, looking up again she said, “is this why you were angry? These few weeks – you’ve been afraid?”
Rick looked down at his feet, hands folded in his lap.
“Yes,” the word came out, sounding like a scared little boy, afraid of the dark. “Yes. I’ve been afraid, one day, I would get up, go somewhere, and not know it was the last time I’d ever see my friends, family, or do anything exciting. It would just end. I would never get to do the things I loved again, dance, run, football, anything.” He trailed off sadly.
Helen smiled.
“You’re thinking gloomy, Rick. I know you’re new here, so maybe, we should do those things. I think you’re putting Arrhythmia to a greater threat than it is. Yes you may die. But you’re not dead now. So – live a little.” She winked.
Rick smiled. Helen got up, the music was still playing.
“The music continues…It slows down for nothing, until it’s free mind decides to make a change. Not because anyone wants it to, or anything,” her voice freed Rick. “Dance?”

Julius Caesar Essay #3

~William Shakespeare has long been considered among the greatest playwrights of all time. His Julius Caesar is only one of his great works, but is considered to be one of the best political-drama plays ever written. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is a wonderful piece of literature because it was a large amount of vocabulary, it’s a classic tragedy and it’s a timeless book to read.

~‘Julius Caesar’ examples many diverse forms of vocabulary not used in books often nowadays. Shakespeare uses words such as, ‘encompassed,’ instead of ‘around’, and ‘colossus’ instead of ‘big’. The play uses prodigious amounts of this vocabulary, almost in every other line, for example, ‘Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?’ In other words, the play elaborates any otherwise dull sentences. ‘Caesar’ also uses the same words again seldom, so the staggering quantity of words is like a small dictionary. Most of ‘Caesars’ vocabulary is not in a positive context, as the play is prominently about an overthrow in the Roman political system.

~‘Es tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!’ is the beginning of the scene in which Emperor Julius Caesar is stabbed to death by men he thought to be comrades. Shakespeare’s classic tragedies involve a beginning in which, in the first scene, there is a dissention, foreshadowing future events. In ‘Caesar’, Flavius and Murellius begin the plot against Caesar. In the end, Caesar is not the only one to die. Several allies and many betrayers lie dead on a battlefield. This happens when the two sides, Caesar-liking and the not liking, meet. Both sides have misunderstandings, such as Cassius, believing he has sent a friend to a death (when he really met with comrades), asks Pindarus to stab him, and he dies saying, 'Caesar, thou art revenged,Even with the sword that kill'd thee.' This makes it a classic tragedy because of the elements inside the plot and deaths. Even though the story is not the most uplifting, it’s a fun read, and has been read for hundreds of years.
~‘Caesar’ is an immensely well-known play, and has been that way for over a century. Julius Caesar was first performed most likely in the court of Elizabeth I and is still being performed all over the world today. Leading up to now, several extremely famous showings of the plays have been performed. One of the most notable was in 1937 with Orson Welles at the Mercury Theatre, when he put the characters in a nazi Germany setting. Even closer to now, Denzel Washington playing Brutus in the 2005 Brodway version. All in all, Caesar is remarkably popular, and is a stunning work of Shakesperean Art.

~Julius Caesar should be considered a wonderful text by everyone. Shakespeares' diversity in vocabulary and typical tragic setting only add to the timless play, all reasons why it should be considered among hordes of classical literary pieces. Regardless of it's status as a classic read, Julius Caesar is a play that should be read by everyone.

Julius Caesar Essay 2nd draft

William Shakespeare has long been considered among the greatest playwrights of all time. His Julius Caesar is only one of his great works, but is considered to be one of the best political-drama plays ever written. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is a wonderful piece of literature because it was a large amount of vocabulary, it’s a classic tragedy and it’s a timeless and fun book to read.
‘Julius Caesar’ examples many diverse forms of vocabulary not used in books often nowadays. Shakespeare uses words such as, ‘encompassed,’ instead of ‘around’, and ‘colossus’ instead of ‘big’. The play uses prodigious amounts of this vocabulary, almost in every other line, for example, ‘Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?’ In other words, the play elaborates any otherwise dull sentences. ‘Caesar’ also uses the same words again seldom, so the staggering quantity of words is like a small dictionary. Most of ‘Caesars’ vocabulary is not in a positive context, as the play is prominently about an overthrow in the Roman political system.
‘Es tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!’ is the beginning of the scene in which Emperor Julius Caesar is stabbed to death by men he thought to be comrades. Shakespeare’s classic tragedies involve a beginning in which, in the first scene, there is a dissention, foreshadowing future events. In ‘Caesar’, Flavius and Murellius begin the plot against Caesar. In the end, Caesar is not the only one to die. Several allies and many betrayers lie dead on a battlefield. This happens when the two sides, Caesar-liking and the not liking, meet. Both sides have misunderstandings, such as Cassius, believing he has sent a friend to a death (when he really met with comrades), asks Pindarus to stab him, and he dies saying, 'Caesar, thou art revenged,Even with the sword that kill'd thee.' This makes it a classic tragedy because of the elements inside the plot and deaths. Even though the story is not the most uplifting, it’s a fun read, and has been read for hundreds of years.
‘Caesar’ is an immensely well-known and exciting book to read, and has been that way for over a century. Julius Caesar was first performed most likely in the court of Elizabeth I and is still being performed all over the world today. It’s not only an exciting play to watch, but also to read. Deciphering the phrases to discover hidden insults and messages is always rewarding. When Cassius dies, who would know that Titinius would be next to go in honor of his friend? ‘Caesar’ is also one of the best known tragedies ever (except maybe Romeo and Juliet) and most people have read it over their lifetime, or seen it. While this is only one reason for ‘Julius Caesar’ being a great piece of literature, the other reasons all add to the tide.
Julius Caesar should be considered a wonderful text by everyone, and also read at least once by all people. Because Julius Caesar exhibits prodigious amounts of vocabulary, is a classic tragedy and is fun to read are several great reasons for the play to be considered a great piece of literature. Regardless of status as a superb write, it is still a play that can be shared and read by all.

Julius Caesar Essay

William Shakespeare has long been considered among the greatest playwrights of all time. His Julius Caesar is only one of his great works, but is considered to be one of the best political-drama plays ever written. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is a wonderful piece of literature because it was a large amount of vocabulary, it’s a classic tragedy and it’s a timeless and fun book to read.
‘Julius Caesar’ examples many diverse forms of vocabulary not used in books often nowadays. Shakespeare uses words such as, ‘encompassed,’ instead of ‘around’, and ‘colossus’ instead of ‘big’. The play uses prodigious amounts of this vocabulary, almost in every other line, for example, ‘Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?’ In other words, the play elaborates any otherwise dull sentences. ‘Caesar’ also uses the same words again seldom, so the staggering quantity of words is like a small dictionary. Most of ‘Caesars’ vocabulary is not in a positive context, as the play is really about an overthrow in the Roman political system.
‘Es tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!’ is the beginning of the scene in which Emperor Julius Caesar is stabbed to death by men he thought to be comrades. Shakespeare’s classic tragedies involve a beginning in which, in the first scene, there is a dissention, foreshadowing future events. In ‘Caesar’, Flavius and Murellius begin the plot against Caesar. In the end, Caesar is not the only one to die. Several allies and many betrayers lie dead on a battlefield. This makes it a classic tragedy because of the elements inside the plot and deaths. Even though the story is not the most uplifting, it’s a fun read, and has been read for hundreds of years.
‘Caesar’ is an extremely well-known and exciting book to read, and has been that way for over a century. Julius Caesar was first performed most likely in the court of Elizabeth I and is still being performed all over the world today. It’s not only an exciting play to watch, but also to read. Deciphering the phrases to discover hidden insults and messages is always rewarding. ‘Caesar’ is also one of the best known tragedies ever (except maybe Romeo and Juliet) and most people have read it over their lifetime, or seen it. While this is only one reason for ‘Julius Caesar’ being a great piece of literature, the other reasons all add to the tide.
Julius Caesar should be considered a wonderful piece of literature by everyone, and also read at least once by all people. Because Julius Caesar exhibits prodigious amounts of vocabulary, is a classic tragedy and is fun to read are several great reasons for the play to be considered a great piece of literature. Regardless of status as a good piece of literature, it is still a play that can be shared and read by all.

Final Happy Mud

Our counselors called it Mud Day. We had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, until they asked us to wear our old bathingsuits and shorts. We had an inkling then, but surely no, they wouldn't ask us to do that?!? I wasn't so sure myself, I wasn't a big fan of rolling in mud and other things unimaginable. Then the wheelbarrow full of mud rolled up, toted by my personal favorite councellor Joey. His long blonde ponytail was covered in dry cracking mud, including the rest of his body, giving him the appearance of a large, human-shaped, cracking clay pot. He smelled earthy, more so than ususal, maybe with even a hint of some small animal. We collapsed with giggles, not believing they would ask us to do such a thing. To demonstrate, Joey slaps a handful of mud onto another councellors back, grins, and says, "Who's first?"
Twenty minutes later, still giggling, a little harder this time, we were lathering eachother with mud. It squelched between fingertips and got into every crevice imaginable. The most annoying was getting under our nails, and it would crack and itch. Everywhere, our whole bodies were covered with mud and old grass that we had rolled in before the mud dried. We looked something like cavemen from the Neolithic age if you can imagine them tossing handfuls of mud and taking photographs for the 'rents.
Joey called over to the campfire circle, and started to talk about our afternoon.Joey explained that we were going to play a little game. It involved crouching along roadsides and hiding from passerby as much as we could. We weren't supposed to be seen by anyone in cars, on bikes, or anything else. They would probably honk or yell if they saw us, he said. 'I don't blame 'em,' somebody muttered, 'bunch of loonies we look.' They taught us sink and fade, a tactic to melt into brush if passerby happened by us. It was harder than it looked, and it took a couple tries seeing as primeval instict was to panic and drop flat. When we saw the signal ::wild arm waving by Joey:: we were to slowly sink down into the brush and blend in. The mud really helped y'know.
We started moving out, and Joey did a few test signals just to try our skill. Then he announced we were ready for the real deal, and we started out along the road.So we get about 200 feet from camp, in a very low brush area next to a bridge out at Sugar Hollow, the location of our camp. Joey starts signaling frantically. Whatever it is, it's close. But we're exposed. We can't get to the other side of the bridge in time. We have no idea what to do. We'll be spotted if we stay where we are, but we'll be spotted if we try to sprint across the bridge too. We hear the rumble of an engine getting closer to the bridge. Last second, we instinctively sink, then...well...don't really fade. The weeds aren't high enough to make us completly vanish. There are odd little mudballs crouched in the weeds, and it looks like someone took mud and made human statues.
We hear raucous laughter, then tires making a rapid raca-taca-taca across the bridge. Tires squeal on asphalt, and the car backs up. Damn. We've been spotted by a red jeep with two somewhat tipsy looking gents in it."What 'choo all doin' down in that brush?" a voice calls down to us.
"We see you!!! C'mawn out naw. We see yo' campfar over there! Ya'll could start a fire! Don't make us call yo' mammies kids!"Giggles break out all over. We peer up through the brush so we can get a better view without them seeing our faces. My face was stricken in the frown of surprise, when you've not really been expecting something, and the muscles in the face are still registering the situation. Whoever it is, they're perhaps drunk and don't know we have two 30+ adults with us with camp knives. The men continue to yell as we cover our mouths in the weeds, torn between fear of these morons and the desire to burst out laughing. I was giggling now, with weeds scratching the cracked mud on my arms. I could feel thorns somewhere down by my feet, and since the grass was about a foot and a half higher than our heads when laying down, it was shaking with our bodies as we held in laughter.
"Don't make us come dawn ther!!!"At a nod from Joey, the counsellors stand up, still covered in mud and looking like imposing cave creatures, or bigfoot relatives from the smaller side.Obscenities are yelled from the Jeep as it peels out, screeching and weaving off. We really do burst out laughing now, and the counsellors join in. I laughed until tears started making the mud on my cheeks run, almost like a bad make-up job, then we got up to keep going. Fifteen mud-garbed indians made their way across the now safe bridge, and along the side of the road. We got some queer glances at the swimming hole as we washed off, and all in all, it was a terrific day.

Happy Mud2

Our counselors called it Mud Day. We had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, until they asked us to wear our old bathingsuits and shorts. We had an inkling then, but surely no, they wouldn't ask us to do that?!? Then the wheelbarrow full of mud rolled up, toted by my personal favorite councellor Joey. His long blonde ponytail was covered in dry cracking mud, including the rest of his body, giving him the appearance of a large, human-shaped, cracking clay pot. We collapsed with giggles, not believing they would ask us to do such a thing. To demonstrate, Joey slaps a handful of mud onto another councellors back, grins, and says, "Who's first?"
Twenty minutes later, still giggling, a little harder this time, we were lathering eachother with mud. Everywhere, our whole bodies were covered with mud and old grass that we had rolled in before the mud dried. We looked something like cavemen from the Neolithic age if you can imagine them tossing handfuls of mud and taking photographs for the 'rents. Joey called over to the campfire circle, and started to talk about our afternoon.
Joey explained that we were going to play a little game. It involved crouching along roadsides and hiding from passerby as much as we could. We weren't supposed to be seen by anyone in cars, on bikes, or anything else. They would probably honk or yell if they saw us, he said. 'I don't blame 'em,' somebody muttered, 'bunch of loonies we look.' They taught us sink and fade, a tactic to melt into brush if passerby happened by us. When we saw the signal ::wild arm waving by Joey:: we were to slowly sink down into the brush and blend in. The mud really helped y'know. We started moving out, and Joey did a few test signals just to try our skill. Then he announced we were ready for the real deal, and we started out along the road.
So we get about 200 feet from camp, in a very low brush area next to a bridge out at Sugar Hollow, the location of our camp. Joey starts signaling frantically. Whatever it is, it's close. But we're exposed. We can't get to the other side of the bridge in time. We have no idea what to do. We'll be spotted if we stay where we are, but we'll be spotted if we try to sprint across the bridge too. We hear the rumble of an engine getting closer to the bridge. Last second, we instinctively sink, then...well...don't really fade. There are odd little mudballs crouched in the weeds, and it looks silly. We hear raucous laughter, then tires across the bridge. Tires squeal on asphalt, and the car backs up. Damn. We've been spotted by a red jeep with two somewhat tipsy looking gents in it.
"What 'choo all doin' down in that brush?" a voice calls down to us.
"We see you!!! C'mawn out naw. We see yo' campfar over there! Ya'll could start a fire! Don't make us call yo' mammies kids!"Giggles break out all over. Whoever it is, they're perhaps drunk and don't know we have two 30+ adults with us with camp knives. The men continue to yell as we cover our mouths in the weeds, torn between fear of these morons and the desire to burst out laughing.
"Don't make us come dawn ther!!!"At a nod from Joey, the counsellors stand up, still covered in mud and looking like cave creatures, or bigfoot relatives from the smaller side.Obscenities are yelled from the Jeep as it peels out, screeching and weaving off. We really do burst out laughing now, and the counsellors join in. Dried mud turns wet as we laugh till tears come out, and we get up to keep going. Fifteen mud-garbed indians made their way across the now safe bridge, and along the side of the road. We got some queer glances at the swimming hole as we washed off, but all in all, that was a pretty satisfying time.

Happy Mud

Our counselors called it Mud Day. We had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, until they asked us to wear our old bathingsuits and shorts. We had an inkling then, but surely no, they wouldn't ask us to do that?!? Then the wheelbarrow full of mud rolled up, toted by my personal favorite councellor Joey. His long blonde ponytail was covered in dry cracking mud, including the rest of his body, giving him the appearance of a large, human-shaped, cracking clay pot. We collapsed with giggles, not believing they would ask us to do such a thing.
Twenty minutes later, still giggling, a little harder this time, we were lathering eachother with mud. Everywhere, our whole bodies were covered with mud and old grass that we had rolled in before the mud dried. We looked something like cavemen from the Neolithic age if you can imagine them tossing handfuls of mud and taking photographs for the 'rents.
Joey explained that we were going to play a little game. It involved crouching along roadsides and hiding from passerby as much as we could. We weren't supposed to be seen by anyone in cars, on bikes, or anything else. They would probably honk or yell if they saw us, he said. 'I don't blame 'em,' somebody muttered, 'bunch of loonies we look.' They taught us sink and fade, a tactic to melt into brush if passerby happen by us. When we saw the signal ::wild arm waving by Joey:: we were to slowly sink down into the brush and blend in. The mud really helped y'know.
So we get about 200 feet from camp, in a very low brush area next to a bridge out at Sugar Hollow, the location of our camp. Joey starts signaling frantically. Whatever it is, it's close. But we're exposed. We can't get to the other side of the bridge in time. We have no idea what to do. We'll be spotted if we stay where we are, but we'll be spotted if we try to sprint across the bridge too. We hear the rumble of an engine getting closer to the bridge. Last second, we instinctively sink, then...well...don't really fade. There are odd little mudballs crouched in the weeds, and it looks silly. We hear raucous laughter, then tires across the bridge. Tires squeal on asphalt, and the car backs up. Damn. We've been spotted by a red jeep with two somewhat tipsy looking gents in it.
"What 'choo all doin' down in that brush?" a voice calls down to us. "We see you!!! C'mawn out naw. We see yo' campfar over there! Ya'll could start a fire! Don't make us call yo' mammies kids!"
Giggles break out all over. Whoever it is, they're perhaps drunk and don't know we have two 30+ adults with us with camp knives. The men continue to yell as we cover our mouths in the weeds, torn between fear of these morons and the desire to burst out laughing.
"Don't make us come dawn ther!!!"
At a nod from Joey, the counsellors stand up, still covered in mud and looking like cave creatures, or bigfoot relatives from the smaller side.
Obscenities are yelled from the Jeep as it peels out, screeching and weaving off. We really do burst out laughing now, and the counsellors join in. Dried mud turns wet as we laugh till tears come out, and we get up to keep going. Fifteen mud-garbed indians made their way across the now safe bridge, and along the side of the road. We got some queer glances at the swimming hole as we washed off, but all in all, that was a pretty satisfying time.