Comparative Essay

Comparative Essay in 4 paragraphs total: Introduction + 2 Body paragraphs + ConclusionIn the body, write about the similarities between the two texts in one paragraph and the differences in the other. You can divide the topics between the two paragraphs; it’s not necessary to write about them all in both paragraphs.
1.And then this other little girl had taken her by the hand, and side by side the two had gone round the east corner. 
‘Now you are a naughty little girl, and telling stories,’ said I. ‘What would your good mamma, that is in heaven, and never told a story in her life, say to her little Rosamond, if she heard her—and I daresay she does—telling stories!’13 
‘Indeed, Hester,’ sobbed out my child, ‘I’m telling you true. Indeed I am.’ 
‘Don’t tell me!’ said I, very stern. ‘I tracked you by your foot-marks through the snow; there were only yours to be seen: and if you had had a little girl to go hand-in- hand with you up the hill, don’t you think the footprints would have gone along with yours?’ 
‘I can’t help it, dear, dear Hester,’ said she, crying, ‘if they did not; I never looked at her feet, but she held my hand fast and tight in her little one, and it was very, very cold. She took me up the Fell-path, up to the holly-trees; and there I saw a lady weeping and crying; but when she saw me, she hushed her weeping, and smiled very proud and grand, and took me on her knee, and began to lull me to sleep; and that’s all, Hester— but that is true; and my dear mamma knows it is,’ said she, crying. So I thought the child was in a fever, and pretended to believe her, as she went over her story—over and over again, and always the same.–from “The Old Nurse’s Story” 
2.BINGO MASTER: And now for the game you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. Now for the big game. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the BIGGEST BINGO IN THE WORLD! For the grand jackpot prize of $500,000! Full house, ladies and gentlemen, full house! Are you ready? Are you ready? Then let the game begin! 
The house lights go out. And the only lights now are on the bingo balls bouncing around in the bingo machine—an eery, surreal sort of glow—and on the seven women who are now playing bingo with a vengeance on centrestage, behind the Bingo Master, where a long bingo table has magically appeared with Zhaboonigan at the table’s centre banging a crucifix Veronique has brought along for good luck. The scene is lit so that it looks like ‘The Last Supper’. 
The women face the audience. The bingo table is covered with all the necessary accoutrements: bags of potato chips, cans of pop, ashtrays (some of the women are smoking), etc. The Bingo Master calls out number after number—but not the B 14—with the women improvising responses. These responses—Philomena has 27 cards! —grow more and more raucous: ‘B 14? Annie Cook? One more number to go! The B 14! Where is that B 14? Gimme that B 14! Where the fuck is that B 14!!!’ etc. Until the women have all risen from the table and come running downstage, attacking the bingo machine and throwing the Bingo Master out of the way. The women grab the bingo machine with shouts of: ‘Throw this fucking machine into the lake! It’s no damn good!’ etc. And they go running down centre aisle with it and out of the theatre. Bingo cards are flying like 
13 “Telling stories”, as used here, means “lying.” (J. Bell) 
confetti. Total madness and mayhem. The music is going crazy. 
And out of this chaos emerges the calm, silent image of Marie-Adele waltzing romantically in the arms of the Bingo Master. The Bingo Master says ‘Bingo’ into her ear. And the Bingo Master changes, with sudden bird-like movements, into the nighthawk, Nanabush in dark feathers. Marie-Adele meets Nanabush. 
–from The Rez Sisters 
3.I want to stay where I am, facing the wall. I’m afraid that if I turn around and go to him, I will be complicit, accepting a portion of guilt, no matter how small that piece. I do not know how to prevent this from happening again, though now I know, in the end, it will break us apart. This violence will turn all my love to shame and grief. So I stand there, not looking at him or my brother. Even my father, the magician, who can make something beautiful out of nothing, he just stands and watches. 
A face changes over time, it becomes clearer. In my father’s face, I have seen everything pass. Anger that has stripped it of anything recognizable, so that it is only a face of bones and skin. And then, at other times, so much pain that it is unbearable, his face so full of grief it might dissolve. How to reconcile all that I know of him and still love him? For a long time, I thought it was not possible. When I was a child, I did not love my father because he was complicated, because he was human, because he needed me to. A child does not know yet how to love a person that way. 
How simple it should be. Warm water running over, the feel of the grains between my hands, the sound of it like stones running along the pavement. My father would rinse the rice over and over, sifting it between his fingertips, searching for the impurities, pulling them out. A speck, barely visible, resting on the tip of his finger. 
If there were some recourse, I would take it. A cupful of grains in my open hand, a smoothing out, finding the impurities, then removing them piece by piece. And then, to be satisfied with what remains. 
Somewhere in my memory, a fish in the sink is dying slowly. My father and I watch as the water runs down.–from “Simple Recipes” 
4.On the pavement outside St Xavier’s Boys School, not far from the ornate iron gates, stood two variety stalls. They were the stalls of Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu. Their real names were never known. Nor was known the exact source of the schoolboy inspiration that named them thus, many years ago, after their respective thinness and fatness. 
Before the schoolboys arrived in the morning the two would unpack their cases and set up the displays, beating the beggars to the choice positions. Occasionally, there were disputes if someone’s space was violated. The beggars did not harbour great hopes for alms from schoolboys but they stood there, nonetheless, like mute lessons in realism and the harshness of life. Their patience was rewarded when they raided the dustbins after breaks and lunches. 
At the end of the school day the pavement community packed up. The beggars shuffled off into the approaching dark. Patla Babu went home with his cases, and Jharia 
Babu slept near the school gate under a large tree to whose trunk he chained his boxes during the night. 
The two sold a variety of nondescript objects and comestibles, uninteresting to any save the eyes and stomachs of schoolboys: supari, A-1 chewing gum (which, in a most ungumlike manner, would, after a while, dissolve in one’s mouth), jeeragoli, marbles, tops, aampapud during the mango season, pens, Camel ink, pencils, rulers, and stamps in little cellophane packets. 
Patla Babhu and Jhaaria Babu lost some of their goods regularly due to theft. This was inevitable when doing business outside a large school like St. Xavier’s, with a population as varied as its was. The loss was an operating expense stoically accepted, like the success or failure of the monsoons, and they never complained to the school authorities or held it against the boys. Besides, business was good despite the losses: insignificant items like a packet of jeeragoli worth ten paise, or a marble of a kind that sold three for five paise. More often than not, the stealing went on for the excitement of it, out of a bravado or a dare.–from “The Collectors” 
5.Son. Was my father a traitor, mother?Lady Macduff. Ay, that he was.Son. What is a traitor?Lady Macduff. Why one that swears and lies.Son. And be all traitors that do so?Lady Macduff. Everyone that does so is a traitor and must be hanged.Son. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?Lady Macduff. Every one.Son. Who must hang them?Lady Macduff. Why, the honest men.Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.Lady Macduff. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? Son. If he were dead, you’d weep for him. If you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.Lady Macduff. Poor prattler, how thou talk’st! 
Enter a Messenger. 
Messenger. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect.I doubt some danger does approach you nearly:If you will take a homely man’s advice, 
Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.To fright you thus, methinks I am too savage;To do worse to you were fell cruelty,Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!I dare abide no longer. Exit Messenger. Lady Macduff. Whither should I fly? 
I have done no harm. But I remember now 
I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defense, 
To say I have done no harm—What are these faces? 
Enter Murderers. 
Murderer. Where is your husband?Lady Macduff. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him.Murderer. He’s a traitor. Son. Thou li’st, thou shag-ear’d villain!Murderer. 
[Stabbing him.] Young fry of treachery! 
Son. He has killed me, mother: Run away, I pray you! 
Exit [Lady Macduff], crying “Murder!” [followed by Murderers]. –from Macbeth