INTRODUCTION

Literature has many different meaning. From what I understand, literature is an art which ones express their feelings, experiences, imagination, and tragedy throughout life in the form of words; it is also characteristic or essential feature in literature piece. Literature is reviewed by two parts, the language and content. There are some that have their own professional opinion about literature. Rebecca west state that literature is an imagination or creative writing,

especially of recognized artistic values. Webster stated that literature are the class of writings distinguished for beauty of style or expression, as poetry, essays, or history, in distinction from scientific treatises and works which contain positive knowledge. There are also uses of literature; offers four different ways in thinking about reason we read literature that are recognition, knowledge and shock. Studying and analyzing literature is a learning experience and a mind exercise. It can help one further their knowledge with their writing and comprehension skills. Literature also gives wide range of knowledge about culture and tradition that already exist. If we study literature with passion and determination, literature can teach us more about psychology than a psychologist capable of.

Writers biography. Edgar Allan Poe (tell-tale heart)

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809, the son of Elizabeth Arnold Poe and David Poe, both minor professional actors. Both his parents died before he was three years old, and he was subsequently raised in the home of Frances Keeling Valentine Allan and her husband John Allan, a prosperous exporter from Richmond, Virginia. As a youth, Poe attended the finest academies in Richmond, his stepfather overseeing his education, and he entered the University of Virginia at Charlottesville in 1825. He distinguished himself academically at the university but was forced to leave due to inadequate financial support from his stepfather. Poe returned to Richmond in 1827 but soon left for Boston. There he enlisted in the army and published his first collection of poetry, Tamerlane, and Other Poems. Poe was discharged from the army in 1829, the same year he published a second volume of verse. Neither of his first two collections attracted much attention. After briefly attending West Point, Poe went to New York City and soon after to Baltimore. He married his cousin Virginia Clemm in 1836 after receiving an editorship at The Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. Poe thereafter received a degree of recognition, not only for his poetry and fiction, but as an exceptional literary critic. He also occasionally achieved popular success, especially following the publication of his poem "The Raven."

Poe's wife Virginia died from tuberculosis in 1847. After a period in which he was involved in various romantic affairs, Poe planned to remarry, but in late September, 1849, he arrived in Baltimore for reasons unknown. In early October he was discovered nearly unconscious; he died on October 7, never regaining sufficient consciousness to relate the details of the final days of his life.

Since his death, Poe's work has been variously assessed, with critics disagreeing on its value. Today, however, Poe is acknowledged as a major literary figure, a master of Gothic atmosphere and interior monologue. His poems and stories have influenced the literary schools of Symbolism and Surrealism as well as the popular genres of detective and horror fiction.

THE TELL-TALE HEART

by Edgar Allan Poe 1843 TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring

how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the

unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? -now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked onceonce only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined

the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Summary Tell-tale heart by Edgar Allan Poe

This story is about a man which is the narrator that lived in a house with an old man. The narrator tells that he is nervous but not mad. He says that he is going to tell a story in which he will defend his good sense yet confess to having killed an old man. His intention was neither passion nor longing for money, but fear to the old man eye; a pale blue eye that looks like a vulture eye. He insists that he is not crazy because of his measured actions. Every night, he went to the old man apartment and secretly observed the man sleeping and slowly planning on his evil purpose. In the morning, he would behave as if everything were normal. After a week, the narrator decides that it is the right time to kill the old man.

When the narrator arrives late on the night after the week, the old man wakes up and cries out. The narrator remains still, stalking the old man as he sits awake and terrified. In a little while, the narrator hears a dull beating that he thought as the old mans frightened heartbeat. Worried that the neighbor might hear the noise, he quickly attacks and kills the old man. He then hides the pieces of the body below the floorboards in the bedroom. He is careful not to leave even a drop of blood on the floor. As he finishes his cleaning, it is already 4 oclock. At the same time, the narrator hears a knock at the street door. The police have arrived, having been called by a neighbor who heard the old man shriek. The narrator is careful to be chatty and to appear normal. He leads the officers all over the house without acting suspiciously. He even brings them into the old mans bedroom to sit down and talk at the scene crime scene. The policemen do not suspect a thing. The narrator is comfortable at the moment until he hear a thumping sound of the old man heart. He then feels afraid that the policeman might hear the sound as he does and his evil act will be discovered. Driven mad by his own guilt and the noisy sound in his eardrum, he confessed to the policeman and shrieks to open the floorboards beneath them. My opinion In my opinion, this story is about someone that has bad brain condition. Because who would kill somebody and then tells that he did it? Thats my question after finished reading this story. After reviewing some information, this happen because the guilt that he felt towards the old man that he murdered without knowing his intention for doing it and also knowing that the old man never wronged him, thus; lead him to confess his evil deeds.

Emily Dickinson (hope)

Emily Dickinson was born on 10 December 1830 in Amherst , in western Massachusetts , and died there on 15 May 1886. Her parents were Edward Dickinson (1803-1874) and Emily Norcross Dickinson (1804-1882). The family included three children: Austin (1828-1895), Emily, and Lavinia (1833-1899). Most of the family belonged to the Congregational Church , though the poet herself never became a member. The Dickinsons were well-off and welleducated. Both Edward and Austin were college graduates, leaders in the community and of Amherst College . Edward Dickinson was a Whig (later a Republican) representative to state and national legislatures. Emily had a strong secondary education and a year of college at South Hadley Female Seminary (later Mount Holyoke College ). The poet was born in, and died in, a house called the Homestead , built by her grandfather Samuel Fowler Dickinson in 1813. This house was sold out of the family, however, in 1833, and not re-purchased by Edward Dickinson till 1855; so most of the poet's younger years were lived in other houses. After her years at school, Emily Dickinson lived in the family home for the rest of her life. She cared for her parents in their later years and was a companion to her sister Lavinia, who also stayed "at home" for her entire life. Neither sister married. The extended Dickinson family included Austin's wife Susan Huntington Gilbert, who lived for many years next door in the house called The Evergreens, and Susan and Austin's three children. The myth, of course, is of Dickinson as a reclusive spinster-poet, brooding over a deep romantic mystery in her past. The realities are more mundane. Especially among relatively wealthy

families in 19th-century Massachusetts, it was far from unusual for grown women simply to keep house as a primary occupation, neither marrying nor working outside the home. The thing that sets Dickinson apart from other women of her class and generation is simply her poetic gift, something attributable more to nature and culture than to some emotional trauma. We know much of Dickinson's life through her correspondences. She maintained a lifelong correspondence with Susan Dickinson, even though they were next-door neighbors; this correspondence, preserved by Susan, is the source for many of the poet's manuscripts. But Emily Dickinson also corresponded with school friends, with her cousins Fanny and Loo Norcross, and with several people of letters, including Samuel Bowles, Dr. and Mrs. J.G. Holland, T.W. Higginson , and Helen Hunt Jackson . The central events, then, of Dickinson's life are those that are central to the lives of most writers: she wrote. She compiled a manuscript record of nearly 1,800 poems, along with many letters. In or around 1858 she began to keep manuscript books of her poetry, the "fascicles," hand-produced and hand-bound. In the early 1860s she produced hundreds of poems each year. In 1864 and 1865, failing eyesight, which impelled her to make two extended visits to Cambridge, Massachusetts for medical treatment, slowed her production of manuscript books. But her production of manuscripts continued at a slower pace until her last illnesses in 1885-86. Though she wrote hundreds of poems, Dickinson never published a book of poetry. The few poems published during her lifetime were anonymous (see Publishing History). The reasons why she never published are still unclear. A myth promoted by William Luce's play The Belle of Amherst (1976) is that Higginson discouraged her writing; however, it is probably not the case that Dickinson met with rejection from the literary world. For one thing, Higginson was instrumental in getting her poetry published soon after her death, suggesting that her reluctance and not his disapproval was the barrier to him doing this earlier. Also, both Bowles and Hunt Jackson arranged for anonymous publication of individual poems by Dickinson during the poet's lifetime. At Hunt Jackson's suggestion, Thomas Niles of Roberts Brothers publishing house tried to get the poet to submit a volume of poems for publication in 1883; she declined.

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

Summary Hope by Emily Dickinson

Describes hope as a bird (the thing with feathers) that perches in the soul. It sings wordlessly and continuous. The song of hope sounds sweetest (in the gale) and it would require a terrifying storm to ever (abash the little bird) that kept so many warm. The speaker says that she has heard the bird of hope (in the chillest land and on the strangest Sea but never), no matter how extreme and dangerous the conditions, it never ask for a single crumb from her. It means that hope does not ask for anything in return. When I read this poem, I feel so warm and peace. This poem also brought me to realize that we dont need to ask in return if we offers help to others, just like bird that resemblance hope, it never demand for nothing, for the reason that hope can stand by their own. My opinion In my opinion, I think she is saying hope is unforgiving. We go through hardship and get uncomfortable through the storm, but we will overcome and get through it all as long as we trust that things will get better. The feathers are wings, to fly through our hard time and all things does not always like we want it to be. But as long as we have hope, we can go beyond the entire negative and rise above our potential to be a better person. Hope will not judge us all, but give comfort and guide us throughout our life.

The differences and simmilarlitites between American and British literature.

Differences The most obvious difference is where the literature was written and who wrote it. Each literary art have its own different values, ideas, experiences, styles, and forms. There will be large differences between the two depending on the time period as well. English literature is known for its dry wit, emphasis on manners and differences between the classes, and stressing theme and style over plot and characterization. American literature is usually much more focus on character and the plot, and is often more realistic in its depictions of ordinary people in extraordinary conditions. It is also differentiate by its genre or the meaning of the literary art. Such as, the British literature is more at the passion of love and imagination but the Americans are more to tragedy.

Similarities There are also similarities between Americans and British literature that is the purpose let the readers mind wander into a mysterious place. The obvious similarities is; all literature is interpreted in the form of words to form a story, poem and others.

Conclusion

Literature benefits a person in many ways. Depending on how you take literature. What i can say is that, it helps us understand our being human. It allows us to experience expression of ones emotions in different ways such as through literary arts. It also helps us in the understanding of other cultures that we have no idea of or cultures that we merely don't understand or have no points of view about it. With literature, one can actually be able to travel ones own mind through series of image scanning, like imaginations. A person is capable of imagining things because he explores his mind through visual. A key cognitive benefit of reading literature is the development of reasoning skills. Teens typically believe that there is one truth in the world that is not affected by personal perspectives. Literature also aids in social and emotional development. Because literature are expression, imagination, a written words that explain about ones feelings and gradually wider the mind of the reader. To sum up everything, literature is something that gives us an idea of how we work as a person, as an artist, as a writer, as a sculpture, and or as a being.