Talambuhay Ni Jose P Laurel - 2316 Words

1. If you push for an hour against a stationary wall, you do no work A) on the wall. B) at all. C) both of these D) none of these 1. If you push an object twice as far while applying the same force you do E) twice as much work. F) four times as much work. G) the same amount of work. 2. If you push an object just as far while applying twice the force you do H) twice as much work. I) four times as much work. J) the same amount of work. 3. If you push an object with twice the work input for twice the time, your power input is K) twice. L) four times as much. M) the same amount as for half the work in half†¦show more content†¦B) half as much. C) the same. 19. A TV set is pushed a distance of 2 m with a force of 20 N that is in the same direction as the set moves. How much work is done on the set? ) 2 J B) 10 J C) 20 J D) 40 J E) 80 J 20. It takes 40 J to push a large box 4 m across a floor. Assuming the push is in the same direction as the move, what is the magnitude of the force on the box? ) 4 N ) 10 N ) 40 N ) 160 N ) none of these 21. A 2-kg mass is held 4 m above the ground. What is the approximate potential energy of the mass with respect to the ground? ) 20 J ) 40 J ) 60 J ) 80 J ) none of these. 22. A 2-kg mass has 40 J of potential energy with respect to the ground. Approximately how far is it located above the ground? ) 1 m ) 2 m ) 3 m ) 4 m ) none of these 23. A heavy pile driver starting from rest falls on a pile with a force that depends on ) the original height of the driver. ) the original potential energy of the driver. ) the distance the pile is moved. ) all of these. ) none of these. 24. Using 1000 J of work, a toy elevator is raised from the ground floor to the second floor in 20 seconds. How much power does the elevator use? ) 20 W B) 50 W C) 100 W D) 1000 W E) 20,000 W 25. One end of a long,

Star Basketball Player By John Updike - 1026 Words

In the poem Ex-Basketball Player, John Updike recounts the timeline of a once great basketball player named Flick Webb. The journey starts with a description of Flick’s hometown, then shares details about his current job, next it reflects on his high school basketball success, and finishes with his habits outside of work. In the first stanza, the poet is describing the town where Flick lives. Updike references trolley tracks which would imply an early 20th century setting. He also calls out the name of the garage specifically, Berth’s Garage. This implies that Flick lives in a small town because small towns named their gas stations after the owner, unlike big cities. In the third stanza, he talks about Flick playing high school basketball. Updike goes on to mention that in one season he scored three hundred and ninety points, a county record. The third stanza talks about how magnificent Flick was at basketball. The narrator indicates that he witnessed at least one such game when he noted, â€Å"I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty in one home game† (Updike, 17-18). The countermotion of the poem occurs in the fourth stanza, which starts out by stating, â€Å"He never learned a trade, he just sells gas† (19). In this line of the poem, Updike reveals the tone of the narrator as sad and disappointed. With no education to fall back on, when a professional basketball career does not come about, Flick spends his life working at a gas station. The former player’s current life is describedShow MoreRelatedJohn Updikes Poem Ex-Basketball Player1225 Words   |  5 Pages Ex-Basketball Player Most everyone has had an extraordinary dream; for some, it is to be a movie star or to be on a professional sports team. Nevertheless, while great goals they are, they are not likely. For example, about 1 and 70,000 people become a major movie star (study.com). 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In his wifes view, he was, before their early, hasty marriage, already drifting downhill. We meet him for the first time in this novel, when he is 22, and a salesman in the local department store. Married to the second best sweetheart of his high school years, he is the father

The Lost Symbol Chapter 119-121 Free Essays

CHAPTER 119 In the chamber at the top of the House of the Temple, the one who called himself Mal’akh stood before the great altar and gently massaged the virgin skin atop his head. Verbum significatium, he chanted in preparation. Verbum omnificum. We will write a custom essay sample on The Lost Symbol Chapter 119-121 or any similar topic only for you Order Now The final ingredient had been found at last. The most precious treasures are often the simplest. Above the altar, wisps of fragrant smoke now swirled, billowing up from the censer. The suffumigations ascended through the shaft of moonlight, clearing a channel skyward through which a liberated soul could travel freely. The time had come. Mal’akh retrieved the vial of Peter’s darkened blood and uncorked it. With his captive looking on, he dipped the nib of the crow’s feather into the crimson tincture and raised it to the sacred circle of flesh atop his head. He paused a moment . . . thinking of how long he had waited for this night. His great transformation was finally at hand. When the Lost Word is written on the mind of man, he is then ready to receive unimaginable power. Such was the ancient promise of apotheosis. So far, mankind had been unable to realize that promise, and Mal’akh had done what he could to keep it that way. With a steady hand, Mal’akh touched the nib of the feather to his skin. He needed no mirror, no assistance, only his sense of touch, and his mind’s eye. Slowly, meticulously, he began inscribing the Lost Word inside the circular ouroboros on his scalp. Peter Solomon looked on with an expression of horror. When Mal’akh finished, he closed his eyes, set down the feather, and let the air out of his lungs entirely. For the first time in his life, he felt a sensation he had never known. I am complete. I am at one. Mal’akh had worked for years on the artifact that was his body, and now, as he neared his moment of final transformation, he could feel every line that had ever been inscribed on his flesh. I am a true masterpiece. Perfect and complete. â€Å"I gave you what you asked for.† Peter’s voice intruded. â€Å"Send help to Katherine. And stop that file.† Mal’akh opened his eyes and smiled. â€Å"You and I are not quite finished.† He turned to the altar and picked up the sacrificial knife, running his finger across the sleek iron blade. â€Å"This ancient knife was commissioned by God,† he said, â€Å"for use in a human sacrifice. You recognized it earlier, no?† Solomon’s gray eyes were like stone. â€Å"It is unique, and I’ve heard the legend.† â€Å"Legend? The account appears in Holy Scripture. You don’t believe it’s true?† Peter just stared. Mal’akh had spent a fortune locating and obtaining this artifact. Known as the Akedah knife, it had been crafted over three thousand years ago from an iron meteorite that had fallen to earth. Iron from heaven, as the early mystics called it. It was believed to be the exact knife used by Abraham at the Akedah–the near sacrifice of his son Isaac on Mount Moriah–as depicted in Genesis. The knife’s astounding history included possession by popes, Nazi mystics, European alchemists, and private collectors. They protected and admired it, Mal’akh thought, but none dared unleash its true power by using it for its real purpose. Tonight, the Akedah knife would fulfill its destiny. The Akedah had always been sacred in Masonic ritual. In the very first degree, Masons celebrated â€Å"the most august gift ever offered to God . . . the submission of Abraham to the volitions of the supreme being by proffering Isaac, his firstborn . . .† The weight of the blade felt exhilarating in Mal’akh’s hand as he crouched down and used the freshly sharpened knife to sever the ropes binding Peter to his wheelchair. The bonds fell to the floor. Peter Solomon winced in pain as he attempted to shift his cramped limbs. â€Å"Why are you doing this to me? What do you think this will accomplish?† â€Å"You of all people should understand,† Mal’akh replied. â€Å"You study the ancient ways. You know that the power of the mysteries relies on sacrifice . . . on releasing a human soul from its body. It has been this way since the beginning.† â€Å"You know nothing of sacrifice,† Peter said, his voice seething with pain and loathing. Excellent, Mal’akh thought. Feed your hatred. It will only make this easier. Mal’akh’s empty stomach growled as he paced before his captive. â€Å"There is enormous power in the shedding of human blood. Everyone understood that, from the early Egyptians, to the Celtic Druids, to the Chinese, to the Aztecs. There is magic in human sacrifice, but modern man has become weak, too fearful to make true offerings, too frail to give the life that is required for spiritual transformation. The ancient texts are clear, though. Only by offering what is most sacred can man access the ultimate power.† â€Å"You consider me a sacred offering?† Mal’akh now laughed out loud. â€Å"You really don’t understand yet, do you?† Peter gave him an odd look. â€Å"Do you know why I have a deprivation tank in my home?† Mal’akh placed his hands on his hips and flexed his elaborately decorated body, which was still covered only by a loincloth. â€Å"I have been practicing . . . preparing . . . anticipating the moment when I am only mind . . . when I am released from this mortal shell . . . when I have offered up this beautiful body to the gods in sacrifice. I am the precious one! I am the pure white lamb!† Peter’s mouth fell open but no words came out. â€Å"Yes, Peter, a man must offer to the gods that which he holds most dear. His purest white dove . . . his most precious and worthy offering. You are not precious to me. You are not a worthy offering.† Mal’akh glared at him. â€Å"Don’t you see? You are not the sacrifice, Peter . . . I am. Mine is the flesh that is the offering. I am the gift. Look at me. I have prepared, made myself worthy for my final journey. I am the gift!† Peter remained speechless. â€Å"The secret is how to die,† Mal’akh now said. â€Å"Masons understand that.† He pointed to the altar. â€Å"You revere the ancient truths, and yet you are cowards. You understand the power of sacrifice and yet you keep a safe distance from death, performing your mock murders and bloodless death rituals. Tonight, your symbolic altar will bear witness to its true power . . . and its actual purpose.† Mal’akh reached down and grasped Peter Solomon’s left hand, pressing the handle of the Akedah knife into his palm. The left hand serves the darkness. This, too, had been planned. Peter would have no choice in the matter. Mal’akh could fathom no sacrifice more potent and symbolic than one performed on this altar, by this man, with this knife, plunged into the heart of an offering whose mortal flesh was wrapped like a gift in a shroud of mystical symbols. With this offering of self, Mal’akh would establish his rank in the hierarchy of demons. Darkness and blood were where the true power lay. The ancients knew this, the Adepts choosing sides consistent with their individual natures. Mal’akh had chosen sides wisely. Chaos was the natural law of the universe. Indifference was the engine of entropy. Man’s apathy was the fertile ground in which the dark spirits tended their seeds. I have served them, and they will receive me as a god. Peter did not move. He simply stared down at the ancient knife gripped in his hand. â€Å"I will you,† Mal’akh taunted. â€Å"I am a willing sacrifice. Your final role has been written. You will transform me. You will liberate me from my body. You will do this, or you will lose your sister and your brotherhood. You will truly be all alone.† He paused, smiling down at his captive. â€Å"Consider this your final punishment.† Peter’s eyes rose slowly to meet Mal’akh’s. â€Å"Killing you? A punishment? Do you think I will hesitate? You murdered my son. My mother. My entire family.† â€Å"No!† Mal’akh exploded with a force that startled even himself. â€Å"You are wrong! I did not murder your family! You did! It was you who made the choice to leave Zachary in prison! And from there, the wheels were in motion! You killed your family, Peter, not me!† Peter’s knuckles turned white, his fingers clenching the knife in rage. â€Å"You know nothing of why I left Zachary in prison.† â€Å"I know everything!† Mal’akh fired back. â€Å"I was there. You claimed you were trying to help him. Were you trying to help him when you offered him the choice between wealth or wisdom? Were you trying to help him when you gave him the ultimatum to join the Masons? What kind of father gives a child the choice between `wealth or wisdom’ and expects him to know how to handle it! What kind of father leaves his own son in a prison instead of flying him home to safety!† Mal’akh now moved in front of Peter and crouched down, placing his tattooed face only inches from his face. â€Å"But most important . . . what kind of father can look his own son in the eyes . . . even after all these years . . . and not even recognize him!† Mal’akh’s words echoed for several seconds in the stone chamber. Then silence. In the abrupt stillness, Peter Solomon seemed to have been jolted from his trance. His face clouded now with a visage of total incredulity. Yes, Father. It’s me. Mal’akh had waited years for this moment . . . to take revenge on the man who had abandoned him . . . to stare into those gray eyes and speak the truth that had been buried all these years. Now the moment was here, and he spoke slowly, longing to watch the full weight of his words gradually crush Peter Solomon’s soul. â€Å"You should be happy, Father. Your prodigal son has returned.† Peter’s face was now as pale as death. Mal’akh savored every moment. â€Å"My own father made the decision to leave me in prison . . . and in that instant, I vowed that he had rejected me for the last time. I was no longer his son. Zachary Solomon ceased to exist.† Two glistening teardrops welled suddenly in his father’s eyes, and Mal’akh thought they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Peter choked back tears, staring up at Mal’akh’s face as if seeing him for the very first time. â€Å"All the warden wanted was money,† Mal’akh said, â€Å"but you refused. It never occurred to you, though, that my money was just as green as yours. The warden did not care who paid him, only that he was paid. When I offered to pay him handsomely, he selected a sickly inmate about my size, dressed him in my clothes, and beat him beyond all recognition. The photos you saw . . . and the sealed casket you buried . . . they were not mine. They belonged to a stranger.† Peter’s tear-streaked face contorted now with anguish and disbelief. â€Å"Oh my God . . . Zachary.† â€Å"Not anymore. When Zachary walked out of prison, he was transformed.† His adolescent physique and childlike face had drastically mutated when he flooded his young body with experimental growth hormones and steroids. Even his vocal cords had been ravaged, transforming his boyish voice into a permanent whisper. Zachary became Andros. Andros became Mal’akh. And tonight . . . Mal’akh will become his greatest incarnation of all. At that moment in Kalorama Heights, Katherine Solomon stood over the open desk drawer and gazed down at what could be described only as a fetishist’s collection of old newspaper articles and photographs. â€Å"I don’t understand,† she said, turning to Bellamy. â€Å"This lunatic was obviously obsessed with my family, but–â€Å" â€Å"Keep going . . .† urged Bellamy, taking a seat and still looking deeply shaken. Katherine dug deeper into the newspaper articles, every one of which related to the Solomon family–Peter’s many successes, Katherine’s research, their mother Isabel’s terrible murder, Zachary Solomon’s widely publicized drug use, incarceration, and brutal murder in a Turkish prison. The fixation this man had on the Solomon family was beyond fanatical, and yet Katherine saw nothing yet to suggest why. It was then that she saw the photographs. The first showed Zachary standing knee-deep in azure water on a beach dotted with whitewashed houses. Greece? The photo, she assumed, could have been taken only during Zach’s freewheeling drug days in Europe. Strangely, though, Zach looked healthier than he did in the paparazzi shots of an emaciated kid partying with the drug crowd. He looked more fit, stronger somehow, more mature. Katherine never recalled him looking so healthy. Puzzled, she checked the date stamp on the photo. But that’s . . . impossible. The date was almost a full year after Zachary had died in prison. Suddenly Katherine was flipping desperately through the stack. All of the photos were of Zachary Solomon . . . gradually getting older. The collection appeared to be some kind of pictorial autobiography, chronicling a slow transformation. As the pictures progressed, Katherine saw a sudden and dramatic change. She looked on in horror as Zachary’s body began mutating, his muscles bulging, and his facial features morphing from the obvious heavy use of steroids. His frame seemed to double in mass, and a haunting fierceness crept into his eyes. I don’t even recognize this man! He looked nothing like Katherine’s memories of her young nephew. When she reached a picture of him with a shaved head, she felt her knees begin to buckle. Then she saw a photo of his bare body . . . adorned with the first traces of tattoos. Her heart almost stopped. â€Å"Oh my God . . .† CHAPTER 120 â€Å"Right turn!† Langdon shouted from the backseat of the commandeered Lexus SUV. Simkins swerved onto S Street and gunned the vehicle through a tree-lined residential neighborhood. As they neared the corner of Sixteenth Street, the House of the Temple rose like a mountain on the right. Simkins stared up at the massive structure. It looked like someone had built a pyramid on top of Rome’s Pantheon. He prepared to turn right on Sixteenth toward the front of the building. â€Å"Don’t turn!† Langdon ordered. â€Å"Go straight! Stay on S!† Simkins obeyed, driving alongside the east side of the building. â€Å"At Fifteenth,† Langdon said, â€Å"turn right!† Simkins followed his navigator, and moments later, Langdon had pointed out a nearly invisible, unpaved access road that bisected the gardens behind the House of the Temple. Simkins turned in to the drive and gunned the Lexus toward the rear of the building. â€Å"Look!† Langdon said, pointing to the lone vehicle parked near the rear entrance. It was a large van. â€Å"They’re here.† Simkins parked the SUV and killed the engine. Quietly, everyone got out and prepared to move in. Simkins stared up at the monolithic structure. â€Å"You say the Temple Room is at the top?† Langdon nodded, pointing all the way to the pinnacle of the building. â€Å"That flat area on top of the pyramid is actually a skylight.† Simkins spun back to Langdon. â€Å"The Temple Room has a skylight?† Langdon gave him an odd look. â€Å"Of course. An oculus to heaven . . . directly above the altar.† The UH-60 sat idling at Dupont Circle. In the passenger seat, Sato gnawed at her fingernails, awaiting news from her team. Finally, Simkins’s voice crackled over the radio. â€Å"Director?† â€Å"Sato here,† she barked. â€Å"We’re entering the building, but I have some additional recon for you.† â€Å"Go ahead.† â€Å"Mr. Langdon just informed me that the room in which the target is most likely located has a very large skylight.† Sato considered the information for several seconds. â€Å"Understood. Thank you.† Simkins signed off. Sato spit out a fingernail and turned to the pilot. â€Å"Take her up.† CHAPTER 121 Like any parent who had lost a child, Peter Solomon had often imagined how old his boy would be now . . . what he would look like . . . and what he would have become. Peter Solomon now had his answers. The massive tattooed creature before him had begun life as a tiny, precious infant . . . baby Zach curled up in a wicker bassinette . . . taking his first fumbling steps across Peter’s study . . . learning to speak his first words. The fact that evil could spring from an innocent child in a loving family remained one of the paradoxes of the human soul. Peter had been forced to accept early on that although his own blood flowed in his son’s veins, the heart pumping that blood was his son’s own. Unique and singular . . . as if randomly chosen from the universe. My son . . . he killed my mother, my friend Robert Langdon, and possibly my sister. An icy numbness flooded Peter’s heart as he searched his son’s eyes for any connection . . . anything familiar. The man’s eyes, however, although gray like Peter’s, were those of a total stranger, filled with a hatred and a vengefulness that were almost otherworldly. â€Å"Are you strong enough?† his son taunted, glancing at the Akedah knife gripped in Peter’s hand. â€Å"Can you finish what you started all those years ago?† â€Å"Son . . .† Solomon barely recognized his own voice. â€Å"I . . . I loved . . . you.† â€Å"Twice you tried to kill me. You abandoned me in prison. You shot me on Zach’s bridge. Now finish it!† For an instant, Solomon felt like he was floating outside his own body. He no longer recognized himself. He was missing a hand, was totally bald, dressed in a black robe, sitting in a wheelchair, and clutching an ancient knife. â€Å"Finish it!† the man shouted again, the tattoos on his naked chest rippling. â€Å"Killing me is the only way you can save Katherine . . . the only way to save your brotherhood!† Solomon felt his gaze move to the laptop and cellular modem on the pigskin chair. SENDING MESSAGE: 92% COMPLETE His mind could not shake the images of Katherine bleeding to death . . . or of his Masonic brothers. â€Å"There is still time,† the man whispered. â€Å"You know it’s the only choice. Release me from my mortal shell.† â€Å"Please,† Solomon said. â€Å"Don’t do this . . .† â€Å"You did this!† the man hissed. â€Å"You forced your child to make an impossible choice! Do you remember that night? Wealth or wisdom? That was the night you pushed me away forever. But I’ve returned, Father . . . and tonight it is your turn to choose. Zachary or Katherine? Which will it be? Will you kill your son to save your sister? Will you kill your son to save your brotherhood? Your country? Or will you wait until it’s too late? Until Katherine is dead . . . until the video is public . . . until you must live the rest of your life knowing you could have stopped these tragedies. Time is running out. You know what must be done.† Peter’s heart ached. You are not Zachary, he told himself. Zachary died long, long ago. Whatever you are . . . and wherever you came from . . . you are not of me. And although Peter Solomon did not believe his own words, he knew he had to make a choice. He was out of time. Find the Grand Staircase! Robert Langdon dashed through darkened hallways, winding his way toward the center of the building. Turner Simkins remained close on his heels. As Langdon had hoped, he burst out into the building’s main atrium. Dominated by eight Doric columns of green granite, the atrium looked like a hybrid sepulcher– Greco-Roman-Egyptian–with black marble statues, chandelier fire bowls, Teutonic crosses, double-headed phoenix medallions, and sconces bearing the head of Hermes. Langdon turned and ran toward the sweeping marble staircase at the far end of the atrium. â€Å"This leads directly to the Temple Room,† he whispered as the two men ascended as quickly and quietly as possible. On the first landing, Langdon came face-to-face with a bronze bust of Masonic luminary Albert Pike, along with the engraving of his most famous quote: WHAT WE HAVE DONE FOR OURSELVES ALONE DIES WITH US; WHAT WE HAVE DONE FOR OTHERS AND THE WORLD REMAINS AND IS IMMORTAL. Mal’akh had sensed a palpable shift in the atmosphere of the Temple Room, as if all the frustration and pain Peter Solomon had ever felt was now boiling to the surface . . . focusing itself like a laser on Mal’akh. Yes . . . it is time. Peter Solomon had risen from his wheelchair and was standing now, facing the altar, gripping the knife. â€Å"Save Katherine,† Mal’akh coaxed, luring him toward the altar, backing up, and finally laying his own body down on the white shroud he had prepared. â€Å"Do what you need to do.† As if moving through a nightmare, Peter inched forward. Mal’akh reclined fully now onto his back, gazing up through the oculus at the wintry moon. The secret is how to die. This moment could not be any more perfect. Adorned with the Lost Word of the ages, I offer myself by the left hand of my father. Mal’akh drew a deep breath. Receive me, demons, for this is my body, which is offered for you. Standing over Mal’akh, Peter Solomon was trembling. His tear-soaked eyes shone with desperation, indecision, anguish. He looked one last time toward the modem and laptop across the room. â€Å"Make the choice,† Mal’akh whispered. â€Å"Release me from my flesh. God wants this. You want this.† He laid his arms at his side and arched his chest forward, offering up his magnificent double-headed phoenix. Help me shed the body that clothes my soul. Peter’s tearful eyes seemed to be staring through Mal’akh now, not even seeing him. â€Å"I killed your mother!† Mal’akh whispered. â€Å"I killed Robert Langdon! I’m murdering your sister! I’m destroying your brotherhood! Do what you have to do!† Peter Solomon’s visage now contorted into a mask of absolute grief and regret. He threw his head back and screamed in anguish as he raised the knife. Robert Langdon and Agent Simkins arrived breathless outside the Temple Room doors as a bloodcurdling scream erupted from within. It was Peter’s voice. Langdon was certain. Peter’s cry was one of absolute agony. I’m too late! Ignoring Simkins, Langdon seized the handles and yanked open the doors. The horrific scene before him confirmed his worst fears. There, in the center of the dimly lit chamber, the silhouette of a man with a shaved head stood at the great altar. He wore a black robe, and his hand was clutching a large blade. Before Langdon could move, the man was driving the knife down toward the body that lay outstretched on the altar. Mal’akh had closed his eyes. So beautiful. So perfect. The ancient blade of the Akedah knife had glinted in the moonlight as it arched over him. Scented wisps of smoke had spiraled upward above him, preparing a pathway for his soon-to-be- liberated soul. His killer’s lone scream of torment and desperation still rang through the sacred space as the knife came down. I am besmeared with the blood of human sacrifice and parents’ tears. Mal’akh braced for the glorious impact. His moment of transformation had arrived. Incredibly, he felt no pain. A thunderous vibration filled his body, deafening and deep. The room began shaking, and a brilliant white light blinded him from above. The heavens roared. And Mal’akh knew it had happened. Exactly as he had planned. Langdon did not remember sprinting toward the altar as the helicopter appeared overhead. Nor did he remember leaping with his arms out-stretched . . . soaring toward the man in the black robe . . . trying desperately to tackle him before he could plunge the knife down a second time. Their bodies collided, and Langdon saw a bright light sweep down through the oculus and illuminate the altar. He expected to see the bloody body of Peter Solomon on the altar, but the naked chest that shone in the light had no blood on it at all . . . only a tapestry of tattoos. The knife lay broken beside him, apparently having been driven into the stone altar rather than into flesh. As he and the man in the black robe crashed together onto the hard stone floor, Langdon saw the bandaged nub on the end of the man’s right arm, and he realized to his bewilderment that he had just tackled Peter Solomon. As they slid together across the stone floor, the helicopter’s searchlights blazed down from above. The chopper thundered in low, its skids practically touching the expansive wall of glass. On the front of the helicopter, a strange-looking gun rotated, aiming downward through the glass. The red beam of its laser scope sliced through the skylight and danced across the floor, directly toward Langdon and Solomon. No! But there was no gunfire from above . . . only the sound of the helicopter blades. Langdon felt nothing but an eerie ripple of energy that shimmered through his cells. Behind his head, on the pigskin chair, the laptop hissed strangely. He spun in time to see its screen suddenly flash to black. Unfortunately, the last visible message had been clear. SENDING MESSAGE: 100% COMPLETE Pull up! Damn it! Up! The UH-60 pilot threw his rotors into overdrive, trying to keep his skids from touching any part of the large glass skylight. He knew the six thousand pounds of lift force that surged downward from his rotors was already straining the glass to its breaking point. Unfortunately, the incline of the pyramid beneath the helicopter was efficiently shedding the thrust sideways, robbing him of lift. Up! Now! He tipped the nose, trying to skim away, but the left strut hit the center of the glass. It was only for an instant, but that was all it took. The Temple Room’s massive oculus exploded in a swirl of glass and wind . . . sending a torrent of jagged shards plummeting into the room below. Stars falling from heaven. Mal’akh stared up into the beautiful white light and saw a veil of shimmering jewels fluttering toward him . . . accelerating . . . as if racing to shroud him in their splendor. Suddenly there was pain. Everywhere. Stabbing. Searing. Slashing. Razor-sharp knives piercing soft flesh. Chest, neck, thighs, face. His body tightened all at once, recoiling. His blood-filled mouth cried out as the pain ripped him from his trance. The white light above transformed itself, and suddenly, as if by magic, a dark helicopter was suspended above him, its thundering blades driving an icy wind down into the Temple Room, chilling Mal’akh to the core and dispersing the wisps of incense to the distant corners of the room. Mal’akh turned his head and saw the Akedah knife lying broken by his side, smashed upon the granite altar, which was covered in a blanket of shattered glass. Even after everything I did to him . . . Peter Solomon averted the knife. He refused to spill my blood. With welling horror, Mal’akh raised his head and peered down along the length of his own body. This living artifact was to have been his great offering. But it lay in tatters. His body was drenched in blood . . . huge shards of glass protruding from his flesh in all directions. Weakly, Mal’akh lowered his head back to the granite altar and stared up through the open space in the roof. The helicopter was gone now, in its place a silent, wintry moon. Wide-eyed, Mal’akh lay gasping for breath . . . all alone on the great altar. How to cite The Lost Symbol Chapter 119-121, Essay examples

Critical Analysis of Daddy by Sylvia Plath Essay Sample free essay sample

The first 12 stanzas of the verse form uncover the extent of the speaker’s ownership by what. in psychoanalytic footings. is the imago of the father—a childhood version of the male parent which persists into maturity. This imago is an merger of existent experience and archetypical memories wherein the speaker’s ain psychic subjugation is represented in the more general symbol of the Nazi subjugation of the Jews. For illustration. the adult male at the chalkboard in the image of the existent male parent is transformed symbolically into the â€Å"man in black with a Meinkampf expression. † The connecting nexus. of class. between each of these associations is the word â€Å"black. † which besides relates to the shoe in which the talker has lived and the swastika â€Å"So black no sky could whine through. † Therefore the particular and personal remembrances ignite powerful associations with culturally important symbols. The fact that the miss is herself â€Å"a spot of a Jew† and a spot of a German intensifies her emotional palsy before the imago of an Aryan male parent with whom she is both affiliated and at hostility. Commenting on the character in a BBC interview. Plath herself suggests that the two strains of Nazi and Jew unite in the girl â€Å"and paralyze each other† so the miss is double incapacitated to cover with her sense of her male parent. both by virtuousness of her assorted ethnicity and her infantile position. As the character recalls the male parent of her early old ages. she emphasizes and blends the two positions of powerlessness: that of the kid before its male parent and of the Jew before the Nazi. The child’s bullying is clear. for illustration. in â€Å"I neer could speak to you. / The lingua stuck in my Jaw† ; but the sense of the childhood panic melds into a suggestion of the Judaic persecution and panic with the following line: â€Å"It stuck in a shot wire trap. † What Plath accomplishes by the more or less chronological sequencing of these remembrances of childhood. and on through the 20 twelvemonth old’s attempted self-destruction to the point at 30 when the adult female tries to untangle herself from her image of dada. is a dramatisation of the procedure of psychic catharsis in the talker. The persona’s systematic remembrance of all the mental projections of her male parent sums to an effort at eviction through direct confrontation with a devil produced in her imaginativeness. Both depth psychology and the spiritual rite of dispossession have regarded this procedure of confrontation with the â€Å"trauma† or the â€Å"demon† as potentially healing ; and from whichever perspective Plath viewed the procedure. she has her character confront—in a manner about relive—her childhood panic of a male parent whose existent being is every bit indistinct as the towns with which the miss tries to tie in him. Pla th besides accentuates linguistically the speaker’s re-experiencing of her childhood. Using the heavy meters of babys room rime and babe words such as â€Å"Chuffing. † â€Å"Achoo. † and â€Å"gobbledygoo. † she employs a proficient device similar to Joyce’s in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. where the child’s simple position is reflected through linguistic communication. Like Joyce. Plath wants to animate with immediateness the child’s position. But whereas Joyce evolves his Stephen Dedalus from the â€Å"baby tuckoo† and the â€Å"moocow† phase into adulthood. she has her talker psychically regress to her childhood phantasies. where every German is potentially her male parent and the German linguistic communication seems to be an engine â€Å"chuffing† her off to Dachau. Because the persona’s yesteryear is pathologically connected to her present. this arrested development requires minimum distance for the grownup adult female who has been unable to release the infantile position. As the linguistic communication of the verse form begins to except babe talk and to develop more entirely the vocabulary of venom. it signals a alteration in the persona’s method of covering with this image of the male parent. She moves from confrontation with her childhood projections to an retraction of the entire psychic image of the male parent in an effort at dispossession. Sounding more like Clytemnestra than a small girl playing Electra. she renounces the divinity turned demon with a retribution in the declaration. â€Å"Daddy. dada. you bastard. I’m through. † The virulency of this and the statements instantly predating it indicates a ritualistic effort to transform the small girl’s love into the adult’s hatred and thereby kill the image which has preyed upon her. The turning point in the verse form and in the speaker’s attempts to purge herself of the psychological significance of the male parent image occurs in the undermentioned stanza: But they pulled me out of the poke.And they stuck me together with gum.And so I knew what to make.I made a theoretical account of you. The statement. â€Å"I made a theoretical account of you. † suggests several degrees of significance. On the most obvious degree. the talker implies that she made of her male parent a paradigm of all work forces ; and this is borne out in the meeting of the male parent with the adult male to whom she says â€Å"I do. I do. † Her image of the â€Å"man in black with a Meinkampf look† is superimposed upon the hubby so that alternatively of holding one unreality to destruct. she has two—the prototypic male parent and the hubby who is fashioned in his similitude. The verse form â€Å"Stings† establishes a similar relationship between the dead-imaginary male parent and the life but spectral hubby: A 3rd individual is watching.He has nil to make with the bee-seller or me.Now he is gone in eight great bounds. a great whipping boy. A more complicated deduction of the speaker’s action in doing a theoretical account of the male parent. but one which is besides harmonic with the allusions to folklore in the ulterior mentions to vampirism. concerns the persona’s usage of thaumaturgy to free herself of the mental feelings associated with her male parent. The devising of a theoretical account. image. or effigy suggests symbolically a reaction non so much to the existent male parent but to the imago. or projection of his image in the head of the character. She employs what Fraser in The Golden Bough refers to as â€Å"sympathetic magic†Ã¢â‚¬â€a generic term for assorted signifiers of thaumaturgy which are based on the premiss that a correspondence exists between animate and inanimate objects. One signifier. homeopathic thaumaturgy. is predicated on the belief that any representation may impact what it depicts. For illustration. a image of a individual. a voodoo doll. or any other kind of portrait ure can. when acted upon. influence its paradigm. In â€Å"Daddy. † it is the theoretical account of the male parent that the character destroys ; and the solution suggested in the devising of the theoretical account seems to happen as a effect of its association with the speaker’s ain Reconstruction after her attempted self-destruction. when she is â€Å"stuck. . . together with gum. † Her remodeling. described in a manner that recalls the collection of a montage. seems to be the associatory stimulation for the thought of building the theoretical account through which to consequence her eviction. It is this theoretical account. a fancied representation of a deformed vision of the father—a hodgepodge mental feeling of him—that she seeks to destruct. The tenseness between metempsychosis and obliteration pervades the Ariel verse form and seems to be a effect of unreconciled relationships. Plath recognizes her Nazis and lamias to be mental images of her ain creative activity. but she persists in associating to them as if they were existent. Here. as in the other verse forms. when she lets go of the image. there is nil left and she is finished. â€Å"through. † Paradoxically. the job with the dispossession in â€Å"Daddy† is non that it fails to work. but that it does work. She roots out the old arrested developments. but without them she is psychically empty. effaced—as many of the late verse forms suggest.