Read the excerpt from chapter 7 of Obasan by Joy Kogawa.For the rest of the car ride home I kept quiet while Aunt Emily bulldozed on. I could see that we were in for an evening of marathon talking, whether anyone else felt up to it or not.Even before the supper dishes were cleared away, Aunt Emily was shuffling and sorting documents and conference papers on the kitchen table."Read this, Nomi,” she said from time to time, handing me papers as if they were snapshots. I sometimes managed to catch half a paragraph on a page before she gave me something else. She must have thought I was speed-reading and listening to her at the same time, like switching back and forth between movies on television. A good way to stay agitated."Give you something to chew on,” she said. She was eating a slice of Uncle’s stone bread with a slab of raw onion. You’re the one with the strong teeth, I thought to myself. She did have strong teeth. And a tough digestion.
How can diction create mood in a literary work? Select three answers.
What is syntax?
Read the excerpt from chapter 8 of Obasan by Joy Kogawa."Yasashi desho,” Obasan says. She has often spoken of my mother’s "yasashi kokoro,” her tender, kind, and thoughtful heart. She places the picture in my hand. "Here is the best letter. This is the best time. These are the best memories.” When would this be? I turn the photo around to see if there is any identification on the back, but there is none.
What is mood?
Read the excerpt from chapter 7 of Obasan by Joy Kogawa.I hurried behind her as she marched ahead to the car."What a conference! You should have been with me, Nomi,” she said. "There was so much to learn. I had no idea how much I still hurt. Just read some of these papers.” She flung open her briefcase and took out a bundle of conference notes and papers as I searched for the car keys."Ever read this?” she asked, punctuating the air with a pamphlet entitled "Racial Discrimination by Orders-in-Council.”
Read the excerpt from chapter 8 of Obasan by Joy Kogawa."Who are the letters from?” I ask loudly.She does not respond. Her face is expressionless. After a while she puts down the magnifying glass."Everyone someday dies,” she says again.By repeating this so often, I suppose she is trying to make realizable what is real. Surely that is task enough for her today. But I ask once more, "Who are the letters from?”She stares steadily at the table. The greater my urgency to know, the thicker her silences have always been. No prodding will elicit clues.Her hand moves on the table like an electrocardiograph needle, delicate and unreadable. Then, with her back bent forward, she stands up and shuffles out of the room.Today is not, I repeat, reprimanding myself—today is not the day for unnecessary questions.
Which is a mood that an author could create in a text?
Read the excerpt from chapter 8 of Obasan by Joy Kogawa.Now here I am this autumn morning, five months later, with her heavy package on my lap. Many of the conference papers she showed me last May are here as well as her diary and a bulging manila envelope full of letters. The side seam of the envelope is slightly torn and it bursts apart as I try to take out the contents. The pile cascades over my lap, falling onto the floor and into the plastic beach bottle wastebasket beside me.
What is diction?
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