DEDUCTIVE SAMPLE ESSAY
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Egocentricity
in Luisa Valenzuela's "The Verb to Kill"
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Have you ever known a person who was
so self-centered that no criticism could penetrate the borders of that person's
ego? No matter what advice you gave that person or how you viewed that
individual, that person inherently knew or believed he or she was pretty,
intelligent, or incapable of doing wrong. Such overweening pride gave the
person a false sense of self-a dangerous illusion that one was always superior.
In literary form as well, we find characters incapable of self-censure; in
fact, in Luisa Valenzuela's short story "The Verb to Kill," the
narrator and her sister demonstrate the theme of egocentricity in that they
perceive the world only in relation to themselves and are unwilling to judge
other people objectively. In this essay. I will begin with a discussion of
egocentricity, then show how it is manifested in the short story in terms of
the setting, characterization of Pocha, and the seagull-eating incident.
According to Webster's New World College Dictionary, egocentrism is a philosophical concept that is based "on the belief that the world exists or can be known only in relation to the individual's mind" (Websters 434). This definition emphasizes the subjectivity involved in interpreting the world; notice how one can "only" know what the world is about posited in relation to one's own thoughts. Such egocentric thinking is clearly demonstrated by the adolescent girls in Valenzuela's short story-they exemplify egocentrism because they are unwilling to view the strange man on the beach objectively. In other words, they judge him solely from their perspective and refuse to acknowledge the man's behaviors as existing within the realm of "normal."
The isolated setting of this short story emphasizes why the girls egocentricity can be viewed as a product of where they live. We recognize from the text that the stranger on the beach is a hermit and that the two girls take an obsessive interest in the relatively mundane actions of that hermit-his collecting stones, tending to his lettuces, walking up and down the shore. I feel that such prejudice is a natural part of living in a predominantly close-knit coastal town, especially in regards to strangers. Most coastal towns, unlike land-locked cities, have only two entranceways-a seaport or a main road. In other words, a visitor can only access a coastal town via the land or sea; such limited access to the town may decrease the exposure of its inhabitants to people and events outside of the town. The girls, and in extension, the townspeople may not have been exposed to many people, which may account for their distrust of the man on the beach-in their minds, a vagrant out to rape young girls. Egocentrism, then, has been conditioned by an isolated setting, since the girls are unwilling to perceive the man in a more "global" perspective rather than their restrictive "local" world view.
The characterization of Pocha as a "pig" who would enjoy being raped and killed also demonstrates how excessively self-centered the girls are. The narrator explains that "he [the stranger] better not do any of those horrible things to her before killing her, because she'd probably like it, that pig. He ought to just kill her right away by sticking a knife in her stomach" (Valenzuela 02). The narrator's use of the word "pig" strips away any humanity from Pocha; even though she could potentially have been seen as the girls' foil (their rival/counterpart), they dehumanize her and welcome any violent acts against her. Yet such violence and cruelty necessarily stems from the girls' egocentrism. In comparing their own imagined murder to Pocha's for example, the narrator laments that the stranger "will have a lot of fun because we are pretty and he will like our bodies and our voices when we scream" (02-03). There is not a single line of text in this piece that confirms for the reader that these girls are in fact, pretty. Such a judgment exists solely in the minds of the girls; all they know is that in relation to themselves, Pocha is a disgusting and sexually-complaisant young woman who deserves to be murdered. Once again, the girls are unable to perceive things as they truly are and rely solely on the musings of their own diseased imaginations.
The bird-eating incident confirms that the girls are excessively concerned with appearing to be kind and compassionate young ladies. The following paragraph demonstrates the depths of their egocentricity:
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The other day, right after he passed us, we found an
injured gull on the
beach. Poor thing, we took it home and on the way we told it that we were good, not like him, and that there was no need to be afraid of us. We even covered it with my sweater so that the cold wind wouldn't hurt its broken wing. Afterwards, we ate it in a stew. A little tough, but very tasty. (01) |
The first two lines of this portion of the text initially emphasize the willingness of the girls to take an altruistic stance towards a helpless seagull. Nevertheless, notice the girls need to emphasize that they are "good, not like him" (01). The girls' perception of what good and evil constitute are arbitrated in their own minds-sheltering a bird is kind behavior, covering it in a sweater is also very compassionate, yet the abject horror of their devouring the seagull in a stew is not seen as a horrific act, except by the reader. Since egocentric behavior often includes a willingness to set in one's mind what exactly is "good" or "bad," we can conclude and judge as readers that the girls have a very flawed sense of ethics, especially in relation to their eating of the gull.
In sum, the two girls in this piece live in their own isolated world of fantasy, where strange men on beaches are out to rape and kill them. Such close-minded thinking is not uncommon in smaller, rural communities where strangers are often viewed with mistrust. One lesson that one can derive from Valenzuela's piece is the importance of having a flexible ego-of letting other people into your protective identity and accepting their advice, or even their criticism. To live in a world populated by the illusions of one's greatness, beauty, or infallibility is to live in a lonely and egocentric realm indeed.
The Verb to Kill
Luisa Valenzuela Argentina, 1975
About the author
Luisa Valenzuela (b. 1938) was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. The daughter of a well-known Argentinian writer, Luisa Mercedes Levinson, she published her first short story when she was seventeen. After graduating from the University of Buenos Aires, she worked as a freelance writer and lived in France for three years. She returned to Argentina but later moved to the United States to flee the state terrorism and general paranoia that permeated Argentina in the 1970s and early 1980s. Among her awards are a Fulbright grant and a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship. Her works of fiction include a novel, The Lizard's Tail (1983), and the short-story collection, Open Door (1988).
The context of the story The story is set in Argentina.
He kills—he killed—he will kill—he has killed—he had killed—he will have killed—he would have killed—he is killing—he was killing—he has been killing—he would have been killing—he will have been killing—he will be killing—he would be killing—he may kill.
We decided that none of these tenses or moods suited him. Did he kill, will he kill, will he have killed? We think he is killing, with every step, with every breath, with every . . . We don't like him to get close to us but we come across him when we go clam-digging on the beach. We walk from north to south, and he comes from south to north, closer to the dunes, as if looking for pebbles. He looks at us and we look at him—did he kill, will he kill, would he have killed, is he killing? We put down the sack with the clams and hold each other's hand till he passes. He doesn't throw so much as one little pebble at us, he doesn't even look at us, but afterward we're too weak in the knees to go on digging clams.
The other day he walked by us and right afterward we found an injured sea gull on the beach. We took the poor thing home and on the way we told it that we were good, not like him, that it didn't have to be afraid of us, and we even covered it up with my jacket so the cold wind wouldn't hurt its broken wing. Later we ate it in a stew. A little tough, but tasty.
The next day we went back to run on the beach. We didn't see him and we didn't find a single injured sea gull. He may be bad, but he's got something that attracts animals. For example, when we were fishing: hours without a bite until he suddenly showed up and then we caught a splendid sea
Luisa Valenzuela Argentina, 1975
About the author
Luisa Valenzuela (b. 1938) was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. The daughter of a well-known Argentinian writer, Luisa Mercedes Levinson, she published her first short story when she was seventeen. After graduating from the University of Buenos Aires, she worked as a freelance writer and lived in France for three years. She returned to Argentina but later moved to the United States to flee the state terrorism and general paranoia that permeated Argentina in the 1970s and early 1980s. Among her awards are a Fulbright grant and a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship. Her works of fiction include a novel, The Lizard's Tail (1983), and the short-story collection, Open Door (1988).
The context of the story The story is set in Argentina.
He kills—he killed—he will kill—he has killed—he had killed—he will have killed—he would have killed—he is killing—he was killing—he has been killing—he would have been killing—he will have been killing—he will be killing—he would be killing—he may kill.
We decided that none of these tenses or moods suited him. Did he kill, will he kill, will he have killed? We think he is killing, with every step, with every breath, with every . . . We don't like him to get close to us but we come across him when we go clam-digging on the beach. We walk from north to south, and he comes from south to north, closer to the dunes, as if looking for pebbles. He looks at us and we look at him—did he kill, will he kill, would he have killed, is he killing? We put down the sack with the clams and hold each other's hand till he passes. He doesn't throw so much as one little pebble at us, he doesn't even look at us, but afterward we're too weak in the knees to go on digging clams.
The other day he walked by us and right afterward we found an injured sea gull on the beach. We took the poor thing home and on the way we told it that we were good, not like him, that it didn't have to be afraid of us, and we even covered it up with my jacket so the cold wind wouldn't hurt its broken wing. Later we ate it in a stew. A little tough, but tasty.
The next day we went back to run on the beach. We didn't see him and we didn't find a single injured sea gull. He may be bad, but he's got something that attracts animals. For example, when we were fishing: hours without a bite until he suddenly showed up and then we caught a splendid sea
Translated by Helen Lane.
Anthology of Short Stories
bass. He didn't look at our catch or smile, and it's good he didn't because he looked more like a murderer than ever with his long bushy hair and gleaming eyes. He just went on gathering his pebbles as though nothing were wrong, thinking about the girls that he has killed, will kill, kills.
When he passes by we're petrified—will it be our turn someday? In school we conjugate the verb to kill and the shiver that goes up our spine isn't the same as when we see him passing on the beach, all puffed up with pride and gathering his pebbles. The shiver on the beach is lower down in our bodies and more stimulating, like sea air. He gathers all those pebbles to cover up the graves of his victims—very small, transparent pebbles that he holds up to the sun and looks through from time to time so as to make certain that the sun exists. Mama says that if he spends all day looking for pebbles, it's because he eats them. Mama can't think about anything but food, but I'm sure he eats something else. The last breath of his victims, for example. There's nothing more nourishing than the last sigh, the one that brings with it everything that a person has gathered over the years. He must have some secret for trapping this essence that escapes his victims, and that's why he doesn't need vitamins. My sister and I are afraid he'll catch us some night and kill us to absorb everything that we've been eating over the last few years. We're terribly afraid because we're well nourished, Mama has always seen to it that we eat balanced meals and we've never lacked for fruit or vegetables even though they're very expensive in this part of the country. And clams have lots of iodine, Mama says, and fish are the healthiest food there is even though the taste of it bores us but why should he be bored because while he kills his victims (always girls, of course) he must do those terrible things to them that my sister and I keep imagining, just for fun. We spend hours talking about the things that he does to his victims before killing them just for fun. The papers often talk about degenerates like him but he's one of the worst because that's all he eats. The other day we spied on him while he was talking to the lettuce he has growing in his garden (he's crazy as well as degenerate). He was saying affectionate things to it and we were certain it was poisoned lettuce. For our part we don't say anything to lettuce, we have to eat it with oil and lemon even though it's disgusting, all because Mama says it has lots of vitamins. And now we have to swallow vitamins for him, what a bother, because the better fed we are the happier we'll make him and the more he'll like doing those terrible things the papers talk about and we imagine, just before killing us so as to gulp down our last breath full of vitamins in one big mouthful. He's going to do a whole bunch of things so repulsive we'll be ashamed to tell anybody, and we only say them in a whisper when we're on the beach and there's nobody within miles. He's going to take our last breath and then he'll be as strong as a bull to go kill other girls like us. I hope he catches Pocha. But I hope he doesn't do any of those repulsive things to her before killing her because she might like it, the dirty thing. I hope he kills her straightaway by plunging a knife in her belly. But he'll have his fun with us for a long time because we're pretty and he'll like our bodies and our voices when we scream. And we will
The Stories
scream and scream but nobody will hear us because he's going to take us to a place very far away and then he will put in our mouths that terrible thing we know he has. Pocha already told us about it—he must have an enormous thing that he uses to kill his victims.
An enormous one, even though we've never seen it. To show how brave we are, we tried to watch him while he made peepee, but he saw us and chased us away. I wonder why he didn't want to show it to us. Maybe it's because he wants to surprise us on our last day here and catch us while we're pure so's to get more pleasure. That must be it. He's saving himself for our last day and that's why he doesn't try to get close to us.
Not anymore.
Papa finally lent us the rifle after we asked and asked for it to hunt rabbits. He told us we were big girls now, that we can go out alone with the rifle if we want to, but to be careful, and he said it was a reward for doing so well in school. It's true we're doing well in school. It isn't hard at all to learn to conjugate verbs:
He will be killed—he is killed—he has been killed.
Anthology of Short Stories
Girl
Jamaica Kincaid Antigua, 1978
About the author
Jamaica Kincaid (b. 1949) was born Elaine Potter Richardson in St. Johns, Antigua, in the British West Indies. At the age of sixteen, she left Antigua and took jobs in New York working as a housekeeper and then babysitter. Her attempt to study in college was unsuccessful, and instead she educated herself. By the early 1970s, Kincaid had published several articles in teen magazines and had committed herself to becoming a writer. Her first book, a collection of stories titled At the Bottom of the River, was published in 1984 and won the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. Her novels Annie John (1985) and Lucy (1990) have received high praise.
The context of the story
The story is set in Antigua. References to Antiguan life include benna (popular Calypso music); tropical plants such as dasheen and okra; and foods such as doukona (a spicy pudding) and pepper pot (a thick stew).
Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don't walk barehead in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little clothes right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn't have gum on it, because that way it won't hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday School?; always eat your food in such a way that it won't turn someone else's stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming; don't sing benna in Sunday School; you mustn't speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don't eat fruits on the street—flies will follow you; but I don't sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father's khaki shirt so that it doesn't have a crease; this is how you iron your father's khaki pants so that they don't have a crease, this is how you grow okra—far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing da-sheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard; this is how you smile to someone you don't like too much; this is how you smile to someone you
The Stories
don't like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don't know you very well, and this way they won't recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don't squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know; don't pick people's flowers—you might catch something; don't throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all; this is how to make a bread pudding; this is how to make doukona; this is how to make pepper pot; this is how to make a good medicine for a cold; this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child; this is how to catch a fish; this is how to throw back a fish you don't like, and that way something bad won't fall on you; this is how to bully a man; this is how a man bullies you; this is how to love a man, and if this doesn't work there are other ways, and if they don't work don't feel too bad about giving up; this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is how to move quick so that it doesn't fall on you; this is how to make ends meet; always squeeze bread to make sure it's fresh; but what if the baker won't let me feel the bread?; you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won't let near the bread?
Anthology of Short Stories
Anthology of Short Stories
bass. He didn't look at our catch or smile, and it's good he didn't because he looked more like a murderer than ever with his long bushy hair and gleaming eyes. He just went on gathering his pebbles as though nothing were wrong, thinking about the girls that he has killed, will kill, kills.
When he passes by we're petrified—will it be our turn someday? In school we conjugate the verb to kill and the shiver that goes up our spine isn't the same as when we see him passing on the beach, all puffed up with pride and gathering his pebbles. The shiver on the beach is lower down in our bodies and more stimulating, like sea air. He gathers all those pebbles to cover up the graves of his victims—very small, transparent pebbles that he holds up to the sun and looks through from time to time so as to make certain that the sun exists. Mama says that if he spends all day looking for pebbles, it's because he eats them. Mama can't think about anything but food, but I'm sure he eats something else. The last breath of his victims, for example. There's nothing more nourishing than the last sigh, the one that brings with it everything that a person has gathered over the years. He must have some secret for trapping this essence that escapes his victims, and that's why he doesn't need vitamins. My sister and I are afraid he'll catch us some night and kill us to absorb everything that we've been eating over the last few years. We're terribly afraid because we're well nourished, Mama has always seen to it that we eat balanced meals and we've never lacked for fruit or vegetables even though they're very expensive in this part of the country. And clams have lots of iodine, Mama says, and fish are the healthiest food there is even though the taste of it bores us but why should he be bored because while he kills his victims (always girls, of course) he must do those terrible things to them that my sister and I keep imagining, just for fun. We spend hours talking about the things that he does to his victims before killing them just for fun. The papers often talk about degenerates like him but he's one of the worst because that's all he eats. The other day we spied on him while he was talking to the lettuce he has growing in his garden (he's crazy as well as degenerate). He was saying affectionate things to it and we were certain it was poisoned lettuce. For our part we don't say anything to lettuce, we have to eat it with oil and lemon even though it's disgusting, all because Mama says it has lots of vitamins. And now we have to swallow vitamins for him, what a bother, because the better fed we are the happier we'll make him and the more he'll like doing those terrible things the papers talk about and we imagine, just before killing us so as to gulp down our last breath full of vitamins in one big mouthful. He's going to do a whole bunch of things so repulsive we'll be ashamed to tell anybody, and we only say them in a whisper when we're on the beach and there's nobody within miles. He's going to take our last breath and then he'll be as strong as a bull to go kill other girls like us. I hope he catches Pocha. But I hope he doesn't do any of those repulsive things to her before killing her because she might like it, the dirty thing. I hope he kills her straightaway by plunging a knife in her belly. But he'll have his fun with us for a long time because we're pretty and he'll like our bodies and our voices when we scream. And we will
The Stories
scream and scream but nobody will hear us because he's going to take us to a place very far away and then he will put in our mouths that terrible thing we know he has. Pocha already told us about it—he must have an enormous thing that he uses to kill his victims.
An enormous one, even though we've never seen it. To show how brave we are, we tried to watch him while he made peepee, but he saw us and chased us away. I wonder why he didn't want to show it to us. Maybe it's because he wants to surprise us on our last day here and catch us while we're pure so's to get more pleasure. That must be it. He's saving himself for our last day and that's why he doesn't try to get close to us.
Not anymore.
Papa finally lent us the rifle after we asked and asked for it to hunt rabbits. He told us we were big girls now, that we can go out alone with the rifle if we want to, but to be careful, and he said it was a reward for doing so well in school. It's true we're doing well in school. It isn't hard at all to learn to conjugate verbs:
He will be killed—he is killed—he has been killed.
Anthology of Short Stories
Girl
Jamaica Kincaid Antigua, 1978
About the author
Jamaica Kincaid (b. 1949) was born Elaine Potter Richardson in St. Johns, Antigua, in the British West Indies. At the age of sixteen, she left Antigua and took jobs in New York working as a housekeeper and then babysitter. Her attempt to study in college was unsuccessful, and instead she educated herself. By the early 1970s, Kincaid had published several articles in teen magazines and had committed herself to becoming a writer. Her first book, a collection of stories titled At the Bottom of the River, was published in 1984 and won the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. Her novels Annie John (1985) and Lucy (1990) have received high praise.
The context of the story
The story is set in Antigua. References to Antiguan life include benna (popular Calypso music); tropical plants such as dasheen and okra; and foods such as doukona (a spicy pudding) and pepper pot (a thick stew).
Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don't walk barehead in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little clothes right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn't have gum on it, because that way it won't hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday School?; always eat your food in such a way that it won't turn someone else's stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming; don't sing benna in Sunday School; you mustn't speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don't eat fruits on the street—flies will follow you; but I don't sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father's khaki shirt so that it doesn't have a crease; this is how you iron your father's khaki pants so that they don't have a crease, this is how you grow okra—far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing da-sheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard; this is how you smile to someone you don't like too much; this is how you smile to someone you
The Stories
don't like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don't know you very well, and this way they won't recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don't squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know; don't pick people's flowers—you might catch something; don't throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all; this is how to make a bread pudding; this is how to make doukona; this is how to make pepper pot; this is how to make a good medicine for a cold; this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child; this is how to catch a fish; this is how to throw back a fish you don't like, and that way something bad won't fall on you; this is how to bully a man; this is how a man bullies you; this is how to love a man, and if this doesn't work there are other ways, and if they don't work don't feel too bad about giving up; this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is how to move quick so that it doesn't fall on you; this is how to make ends meet; always squeeze bread to make sure it's fresh; but what if the baker won't let me feel the bread?; you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won't let near the bread?
Anthology of Short Stories
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