Blasphemy In William Faulkner's The Boxcar Children

Since 2013 when I started college, I have found a new hidden love. I love reading! I love how I’m able to pick up a book and just get lost in the reading. For that moment I don’t have a care in the world other than the material at hand. In my house I am constantly encouraging my children to read or be read to for at least thirty minutes a day. I would love them to experience a wide variety of genres, even if they sometimes disagree with a selection. Actually a majority of the time they end up enjoying the

In summary, I felt as if I changed after the fourth grade. Like video games, I could be in a fantasy and pretend I was actually in the hero’s position. I could be a part of a story. This contest of literacy competition started a passion of reading books for me. Now that I’m older if I ever want to escape the real world after having a long hard stressful day all I have to do is crack open a book a let the adventure begin. Even though my teacher never followed through on her promise of a prize I was rewarded with something so much more Important, a burning passion for

The inevitable had happened; I, as a small child, was demanded to read. A little antisocial human being launched into a world of, at first, difficult words and lengthy phrases. While words and literacy were forced into my mind, I had reluctantly begun the adventure to enjoy and accept the art of literature. Later however, my hopes and dreams were crushed to pieces by a gruesome teacher with an interesting form of a so called “grading policy.”

As a child, I read non-stop. I used to spend entire nights reading, so much so that by the age of 9, I had developed grey circles under my eyes, which I wore like a badge. In school, I would use every free second I had to get just a little closer to finishing whatever book I had on hand. Ms. Carpenter, who always seemed as though she didn’t like teaching very much, frequently yelled at me for keeping my books on my desk so I could get to them quicker whenever I finished my classwork. She insisted that they were a distraction. But I always had a book to read, because every Friday each class walked in a neat line

Richard Rodriguez, in the passage “Remedial Reading” from his autobiography “Hunger of Memory”(1982), promotes active reading as a developer of one’s mind. He justifies his position by describing his initial experiences with reading, specifically his attachment to the reading. Rodriguez’s anecdote functions as an encourager of stubborn minds trying to read and displaying its potential to change their life for the better. Rodriguez uses a very descriptive style that may be too verbose for children but compliments the verbosity with enough explanation of his purpose for his message to be known or ascertained.

As a six-month-old baby books had opened up a whole entire new world of experience for me. My inspiration to learn how to read and write was encouraged by my Mother and Grandmother. This is because they read out loud to me before bed occasionally and gave me the best time of my life by introducing me to a library. By two years of age I developed speech and other communication skills. This helped me understand and develop a favorite book, “PJ Funny Bunny,” and I would stare at the pages pretending I was reading them. I would continually pretend to read with other Dr. Seuss books, Smurf pop-up books (I imagined I was a part of these for hours), sniff & scratches, and sensory books. I had just begun

For this project, we worked with Eloise Leatham. She is a kindergartener, 5 years old, from St. Paul. She attends Saint Paul Academy, a secular private school in St. Paul. She is exposed to books on a regular basis, as she has an 8-year-old sister who loves to read. Her parents, who are both working professionals with a relatively high income, read to Eloise and her sister every night before bed. Both parents enjoy reading, and have instilled a value for reading in their girls. Eloise attended preschool for 3 years, and was exposed to reading and writing there as well. She speaks fondly of her preschool experience, and continues to enjoy going to school now that she is in kindergarten.

As a young child in the years of first to second grade I quickly developed my love for reading. I was never a big fan of the outside world. I thought the world around me was boring and tearing everything/one apart, and thought the adventure inside a book was much more exciting. In my childhood home there was a large bookshelf full of different stories. Most days when getting home I would sit by the shelves in my small pink bean bag chair with numerous children books scattered around me. By endlessly trying and sometimes failing to read my children books such as, the infinite number of Dr. Seuss rhyming stories and Winnie-the-Pooh books I felt comforted by the happy feeling the characters within the stories gave me. The pictures within

In the article “I Know Why the Caged Bird Cannot Read” (1999), Francine Prose asserts that high school English teachers are teaching classic novels so insultingly that their students actually end up loathing reading altogether. Prose supports her assertion by asking what it even means to be educated, informing the reader that the same boring novels are still being taught in classrooms twenty years later, and explaining how teaching methods have plummeted to the point where every teacher has their students relate experiences back to themselves. The author’s purpose is to question whether English classes are even needed anymore in order to not only understand but to enjoy classic literature. The author writes in a contemptuous tone towards parents

I spent my childhood consumed by books. I kept one in my bag and took every spare moment that I could to read, even if it was only a page. My parents made my teacher’s promise that I wouldn’t read during recess. In the mornings when they woke me up for school, they found me sleeping, still clutching my book from the night before, unable to put it down in spite of the tug of sleep.

Reading was the new outlet for my imagination and the stories I read fascinated me. They weren’t too unlike the scripts of computer games or the own stories I came up with on my own, but books actually had the action and emotional aspects written out. And again, while my peers were reading things about growing up, things that had morals and would teach valuable lessons (I remember one book about a shoplifter who had to do community service at an animal shelter), I read real fiction: Jurassic Park, Dragonriders of Pern, Lord of the Rings… Stuff of fantasy and science-fiction that let my mind stray from reality. Stuff that kept my imagination alive while I was being forced to learn multiplication and the names of countries. Of course, my teachers encouraged me to keep reading, as long as I wasn’t doing the reading in the middle of their lectures. But it wasn’t because of their influence, however, that kept me interested in books. It was because I loved it. It put pictures into my head and made me think. So I kept reading. But even then I knew reading wasn’t enough… Yes, the stories were fascinating, but they weren’t what I wanted. Back then I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but as middle school came to a close, I found it.

I remember walking into the 8th grade hating the sound of “this essay will be written on…” and “turn to this page in your books..”. The only words to describe the pathos that those phrases gave to me were ear screeching, disgusting, nails on a chalkboard, the death of me, and lastly boring. The amount of times I cringed at those words could not be counted on two hands. Writing was boring and reading was a lame waste of time. They would not help me later in life, at least that is what I had convinced myself. A shift in my attitude seemed to occur when I stepped into Mr. Kelse Harris’ room at the end of the hallway where the air seemed a little lighter. My literature fire was re-lit and a flame ignited. It

Little did we know, the reason I couldn’t read was because I had a lazy eye. My eyes instead of coming forward, they move outwards. After training my eyes with an literal eye patch, my eyes became stronger but the dame had been done. I didn’t like to read, and even the popular Harry Potter series didn’t inspire me to read. Luckily for me, my parents both English lovers, refused to give up on me. My Dad had a great idea to read graphic novels to me, like “Babymouse” and “Groo”. I loved these series, but mostly it was because my dad read it to me. He always had the funniest voices, and made the story alive for me. Eventually, I started reading “Babymouse” by myself, but my parents still wanted me to read more. Since, reading is such a great way to spend time, helps you in school, and

The more I was being forced to read, the less time I spent reading for enjoyment, until eventually I no longer spent any of my free time with a novel in hand. Reading became a chore; it became boring. Sometimes the simple act of being forced to do something makes you despise it. As a child, I enjoyed several different genres of novels and many different topics intrigued me, so it wasn’t necessarily what I was reading that disinterested me. One required novel I remember reading was The Outsiders in seventh grade. This was a type of book I feel I would normally enjoy because of the mystery and action; however, I couldn’t bring myself to truly become engaged in this novel. Reason being-it was a forced act, with multiple worksheets and homework to accompany the reading. Fast forward to high school when I’m reading my required lengths in an anatomy and physiology textbook. Science has always been an interest of mine; in fact, I’m now majoring in Human Physiology. Yet reading this text wasn’t something I enjoyed. Again, because it felt forced; it was not something I was doing simply out of interest. This is how I continue to feel about most of the reading I do today as a college student.

From an early age I loved to read. At just two years old I would beg my mother to enroll me into school. I watched as my older sister meticulously picked out her outfit each night in preparation for the next school day. At such a young age I somehow knew that this thing called “school” was the answer to something spectacular. My home was chaotic and reading became an escape and helped distract me from the unpleasant family dynamic.