Yeah. I'm pretty awesome(:>

You & You & You...Mona Lisa.

Mona Lisa...give me a smile, and I'll frown upon you, leave me alone, just run home, where the gin is waiting for your shaking fingers, the cool bottle consoles your aching hungers, thirsty for more than revenge…

Unknown to us all, you'd transform into the one thing you'd hate to love....most importantly you'll confuse and astound with your womanly wiles, and escape and enthrall with passions futile (pains) and arouse the chorus with a simple pose, (of posture.)

I'll fall to your feet, and wash them with my [faked] tears, you'll frown and entreat me, to a painful kick here, my heart in your hand, how fast did time pass? I am not a man, who believes in lies, more so I lie to you…

 I could've sworn, amidst all the wars, your long gilded hair, shaded black in despair, fulfilled the prophecy, of a woman too young to see, the ways of the world, from the viewpoint of a five-year-old.

Lisa, give me a hand, I'll keep you safe, if I were lying, we'd both be amazed.

The sinners’ church, is far more extravagant than a prince's birth, and lying here, underneath the stars, I take your neck in my mouth, and compare our scars.

Of water filled lullabies, tearing us apart, no use for grammar or even simple heart, (need,) all along, enthroned in alabaster, you were the queen.

Taken to poetry, the musical has been cancelled, the orchestra fired, the chandelier dismantled, an aura of kindle, a fire, a maze, in short simple terms, a con-tra-dict-o-ry gaze, astounded by diamonds, ambushed by coal, I stare, (unabashedly,) at your red (r/i/p/p/e/d) royal soul, kept in a jar, a jar filled with emotions, unused by all, all left unspoken.

Mona, (i) take your hand, is this your last request? Doomed to a life, filled with surgery and regret, chained to a wall, with a last hope to perfect, a blank diary, greets me, (my visage is), bandaged and broken, unknown to us all, i use this last resort, as a measure of trust, we walk the line, between roses and musk, there is no reason, i fall down this life, knowing very well what compromise (is) would ensue, i crawl, blind towards the light...[of your eyes.]

Mona Lisa, take this last impressive bow, the tragedy of romantic comedy, gone forever, the vile summary is missing vitality, the facts have all been sugar-coated, advertising companies swoop in with powder, and sable coats.

So unsure of yourself, your hair flows into the lakebed, strutted down your last runaway line, gutted with gusto and disgust evident in your noble eyes, take back the fast pace, give her back her (lovely) old face, i couldn't protect you, my iconic grief coincides with the sayings of a wise (one,) the sun is burning me, alone in a dead sky, broken like your latest jewelry de-sign,.

My mind reeling, i stumble, the storms winds' have pushed me into a better thinking position. There is no comfort believing in you, (my little one, my only one) my treasure-toy.

You've grown up, you can't keep living in this coal mine, keep running till you fit the princess's stereotype, and then dig in the dirt, for your last ruby ring, do not go (gently) into that spark of [last] light, (last night, fireflies danced and died, decayed and cried) let the foolish side take over your reasonable mind, let practicality take over your dormant frugality, buy the sun, buy everything until you're broke from the inside out (and just as dirty, slut.)

Lisa, you're pretty little head astounds me, even to this day...your sweetness makes my temperament look appalling, whisper I resent you. Never grow up is what she told you, oh she lied, isn’t life so much sweeter looking in from outside?

Why won’t you die? Your blood is fine, (ruby and) glistening, like fragile steel beams.

The telephone rings,…

 (and ) Leonardo ignores it so he can paint your brow, how lovely, it’s real.

Unlike the others of your time, you have lines, lines, lines, everywhere, …my line has disappeared, in this fast paced job, how can you overlook a weekend off? Too much, too much, too close, too close, too fast too fast (broken,dizzy,loving,crazy,slated,thirsting,jaded,bursting) I overdose on your private thoughts, the taste of your skin strikes a dull chord in me, awakening the memory of writing, sickened I lean forward, anticipating that metallic glint off of my tongue, whenever your blood meets mine,…oh, I wish we could do this all day, but night is approaching, and my social calendar is full, this voice I hear, this voice within, clouds my judgment, and I decide to spend the night.

Little known to me, your energy, envenomates me, and I look inside myself and trust your strength, emotionless you frown at my hesitation. Right and wrong has never been so difficult for you…you just frowned that beautiful smile, and people threw themselves at your feet, and you kicked them far-away…too afraid of connecting with them, holding onto the shreds of sanity that lead to the door of your (self…, no one else could compare to the madness, the) deadliness (made it so addicting,) and here we are again, falling down this path of unmistaken misery, a journey that stabs us with confidence, and we’re learning now, how to trust yourself, and even if (I) have to [kill you, you’ll] understand, (that) nothing else is a map, save your blood, (tattooed on your back the ink moves, it’s living, poison and shaking) begin to hate me, I resist your temptations, your charms…(to my self) I’m a fool, a fool, (dastardly) thinking, it fooled me, it fooled me, it fooled me, me, me, me… oh I’m immune to your body, your voice, but those eyes alas those eyes…

Your frown makes it so much tastier, to (devour) you, (oh enslaved) I’m addicted, accomplished, sophisticated past the point of harder,better,faster,stronger, more,more,more,more the walls shake, this earthquake, binds me to you.

Once you gave everything, twice you were amazing, thrice you took my breath away…a fourth and we’ll both die.

Amazingly (I,am,powerless) to your beating, deceiving, heart…(and then…) your décolletage, (so soft, it) calls to me, (me, me, me) and I yield.

I must whisper (in your ear) all of my greatest everythings’, all my naughty little somethings’, all my tempted bless, bastard lovings, possessed, enthralled, beaten to submission, poisonous, nothings, group together, form an army, and hate you, you, you, you, with all of our mediæval hearts…

Oh, Mona Lisa, every part of you & you & you, loosens my values till I’m insane enough to anticipate killing you,…O! My lovely, dangerous, complicated, oh so amazingly sophisticated hatred, my Mona Lisa,…
I slit your throat, your smile beguiles me,…why couldn’t you stay, and never change, why couldn’t you just stay, my Mona Lisa?

Interrogations, Concerning A Bloody Beautiful Butterfly...

“I’m glad.” she said. Even in her weakened state, it wasn’t fair how benign she could look, just as a butterfly flies its ending loop, mind in awhirl, I solemnly stood watch over her body, a lone sentry, absolutely devoted to my princess, stained scarlet, with her own blood. She was even more heartbreakingly beautiful, even as she drew her last breaths; I knew, that had it been any other than I, her faithful servant, watching her, had it been anyone else, anyone the least bit sick and ungrateful, they would have ravaged my poor flowers’ body, defenselessness adding its own charm to her pale, bloodless skin.

“Hime”. What do you want me to do now?” I asked, my voice, weak and fragile,… my painful tears, freefell from a face that had shown no emotion in years, [determination, and loyalty excepted]. It was fine. I had reassured myself that it was fine, whenever she had left on her own, whenever she had said that she would patrol the western gates, (as a show of independence) I had said it would be fine. She’d never screamed. She’d sent me her position, through the link, and had let me find her. Lascar was still hovering over her. Stanley was attending her wounds. She shot me a look. One look. And I knew. She was dead. Or as good as dead. She beckoned to me.

“Rage. Rage is what you are,” she murmured softly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Rage is what you’ve been; Rage is what you will always be.”  Rage. I agreed with her. A small keening noise in the back of my throat shocked me. I was not angry, I was not rueful. I was mourning. I was mourning a princess, an idol whom had yet to die. Sick... Sickened is what I was, with every polluted breath I took, rich in health, hers were fading, gradually stopping, her fragile body, no longer possessing the amount necessary to sustain her body, and to keep her imbued with these chemical imbalances, her body, was starting to shut down. I was mourning. And she was dying.

Hello, Inspector. That brief flashback I’ve described to you, paraphrases the time I realized, that our beloved princess was a butterfly. A butterfly, that had dreamed of being a princess, and just as she escalated into climax…she was thwarted.

By whom you ask? By fate, of course. She hadn’t wavered, she hadn’t fought. She’d simply, looked at me once more, breathed a meaningful, “Adieu.”, and then,… she died. Her eyes, wide like the willow tree, filled with stars, only she could see. And I left her there. And as I turned back, I realized, I’d killed her. And that’s why we’re here today, Inspector. But to revert back, to her transformation, she positively, glowed, from the inside, and cast herself off, into a dream. A dream where a princess, was a butterfly, and that is how she, a victim, softly forced the gates of hell open, (took her potion,) and with a graceful, vengeance, admitted to herself that she was lying. But that did not stop her.

She became a butterfly. As her tears dried, in her eyes, still too unsure of herself to even cry, I cradled her beautiful, scarlet head, such a beautiful, porcelain doll. On her cheek, there was a mark, a single cut. Hope. It was the mark of a butterfly, in the throes of freedom, the mark that a butterfly makes on her chrysalis…

Fitting is it not? It wasn’t that, really, which left me with so much of an impression. Her transformation. It was not what really took my breath away. What really burned in my blood, and marked itself in me so deeply, my ashes will submit willingly to hell’s fires, still carrying that brand, was that as she, a princess, lay dying, and I, her murderer, watched over her, bleeding, (beautifully,) into hell, it was that, even as she took her last breaths’, she was pleasured. She was fulfilled, and pleasured with joy, agony, despair, all, nothing, anything, everything. Save for hope. She knew all was lost, yet she took my hand and whisper-screamed to me, “All is won.” And I, defenseless, against the onslaught of beautiful, mournful evocations (of morale) her voice inspired within me, felt my heart dream of insecurity, in lucid unwelcome backgrounds; I hovered gently between insanity and total well-being. [It was a wonderful feeling.] The insight, that I was not who I was, and that she was truly who she was meant to be, I shuddered.

My self, was filled once more with hateful, jealous, boundless [miserable] joy, exhilarated by her weakness, her surrender, everything taboo and illustrious about her, I was once again, glorious,… and humiliated. That such, power, held in her words and her rank, could submit to nothing more than the eloquence, the greed, and the strength I possessed, as nothing more than chance, you cannot own chance yet fate had decreed this! This raw onslaught that vibrated into rage was I, and I, was captivated, By this beautiful, sinless, monster, pulsing through me, this heat, this lust, inspired by her, with her, in her, because of her, it filled me to the core, and once again, I ravaged her. I plundered into her, hot and unworthy, and she, in cries of deceit, and gutlessness, forgave me.

How could she? How could she, Inspector? Words fail me, [at this moment,] I cannot describe, how holy I was, at that exact moment, at that exact occurrence.

But I digress;…It’s not really up to me now, is it? I, who in that fatal moment showed a glimmer of weakness, was dragged, by my pride, into a courtyard, and whipped by an angel. Or so, my friends would later tell me, in a drug-induced stupor, opium, if I’m to be exact, they ridiculed me for my obsession, but the light had raped me, and the darkness that had forever permeated every ounce of my being, and I, in a fit, of Rage, impregnated with narcissism, and depression, I later would presume it had been a fit of self-righteousness. Nothing malignant, or despondent about it, merely nonsensical, and hypothetical, down to the last demons’ eye.

And, if these recollection’s really are, the product, and seemingly, a side-effect of, hallucinogens, and standards, then who are you in society, too drunk on a dream, and unhealthful social orders, who are you to tell me, that I am the criminal? I murdered her that day, [yes,] I murdered my self as well, and according to myself, you can arrest me. You can finally detain me, and behead me, if need be, you see fit, or a decree commands it, but do not agree to sit here, and judge me, based on an emotionless report, and a stratagem that demands it. Although I confess, I myself have never once, forgotten the way I looked when I first slaughtered an innocent lamb.

Oh do not feign ignorance, it was in your eyes as well. Did you pull out a looking-glass, and analyze it? Did you see in your iris, some evil; some malignant thought, that had crossed your mind seeing the (beautiful) blood gush from her neck? [Paint it in red, sign it in red, chafe your soul red…]

Did you, so much like I, obtain so much pleasure from that little event, that it sparked your instincts, primal, and delicious, and you, hunched down with your limits, and your consciences, did you, Inspector, get down on your knees, and praise evil? Did you, lean forward, thinking of that animalistic grace that we lack and possess, so in tune, with ourselves, that we forget it’s there, until that freezing, vengeful moment when blood is spilt, and you, hungry as ever, reach out with your tongue, and taste it? Did that purity, when absorbed into your organ, (much like some cruel, endangered sponge,) suck out the (life of happiness) only joy you’ve ever known? Did you, with that beatific, scarlet, essence, on your tongue, did you lick your lips?

And sub-consciously leap for joy, because you, are an animal, not a refined gentleman, not an earl, (or a kind, chauvinist pig) of any sort, did you rejoice, as the hot, deadly, poisonous taste hit you? Did you forget, for what seemed like eons, just how delicious innocence is? I for one, Inspector, I for one, know that you did.

You ask me how I know this. You ask me just exactly, how could I, a murderer, (a doctor,) a lover of arts and sciences, a man so like yourself Inspector, how could I presume to tell you what you did, how you did it, and how you were capable of doing it, not in an alternate universe, but rather as a man, in this one. How you in all ways, and oh so beautifully put, and bluntly asked, and skillfully rendered and chaotically portrayed, in your imagination, in your mind’s eye, how you can see, this is the truth, and this is the lie, and you most definitely are not insane,(but I most definitely am,) and how shivering, you sense a maddening connection with me, disgust etched in the unforgiving lines of your cold, beautiful face, shock painted in your eyelids, the deep blue of your tranquility stained with my light violet imagery…provocative, isn’t it? Those are the effects of the drug known to mankind, Inspector, as logic.

Aren’t you tired Inspector? This tirade, this rant, is tiresome isn’t it? Quite effectively boring as well, the actor has no skill at all, it’s absolutely pointless to be here, because as we all know, the whole world in fact, knows, that we two have much bigger, and better things to be doing than having this wonderful, little chat, in your parlor, no less. If I myself were to write a treaty, to your happiness, and to my submissiveness, we would find a beauteous bridge mapped out ahead of us. You see, Inspector, what you don’t know, is that my words are the beams. Your confusion is the nails. My assertiveness is the map. Your insecurity is the termites. My willpower is the maggots. Your title, Inspector, is the foundation. Mine, Murderer, is the inlay. Everything else, my inspector, is a sieve. Pretend all you like, but there is and isn’t an exact meaning to our meeting.

I was bound to tell you. And you were bound to disappoint me, your reactions far too predictable and ostentatious. You take me very seriously Inspector, but I would advise you not to. Aside, from polite greetings, and obscure conversations, coupled with certain vagueness, you, my Inspector, are a man of thinking. A man of a meticulous, perfect, demeanor. And I, Inspector, am a man of inspiration. A man, of blood. These twists, and turns, better suit my ideology, my philosophy, because, believe it or not, Inspector, I too, have values. And things I wish to protect.

So, like a beautiful caged bird, must end it’s song with death, we draw to a conclusion, I myself having occupied every angle from which I could attack my self, finally disguise myself under the guise of my self, and do find, in time, you are a moralist, a terrorist. I am a specialist, an egoist;…a romanticist.

I admit, I really do, often, forget where I am, and who I am, and why I am, but let me tell you this, Inspector, if you really must brand me a sinner, then let me harmlessly brand you a beetle.

I know this isn’t the time to debate fate, we’ve tempted subservience enough for one evening, enough as it is, adequate as it appears to be, I need to be getting on back to my cell.

But, as misleading as the truth can be: lies always lead back to the truth (and same-senescent as it must be,) truth establishes nothing but lies.

Rest well, Inspector, and although it didn't feel like this exact time was suitable to mention closure, escapism as well, there wouldn't happen to be a situation,( much like this exact occurrence,) happening anywhere elsewhere tonight, now would there?

Well, I’ll tell you, just between us.

There is.

Oh, what a grand shocking thing it is to be right, isn’t it Inspector?

I know, because I, Inspector, I, am not really here.

Goodnight, Inspector. This is the very last time we shall meet.

Why, you ask? Because, my dear Inspector, you are dead.

San Juanita Eva Hernandez

Professor Valadez

English III

23 February 2012

The Role of Women in Uncle Tom’s Cabin

“O, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in Kentucky; but still you haven’t to know that you don’t understand business; - women never do, and never can …” –George Shelby, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

The women in Uncle Tom’s Cabin are very powerful people, whether they are changing their own lives, or the lives of the people around them, and whether they are using their power for good or to further evil. In some cases, such as Mrs. St. Clare, the women inadvertently perpetrate evil, as Mrs. St. Clare denies her dead husband’s wishes, and sells Tom to Legree, despite Mr. St. Clare’s promise of freedom. However, most women in this story take control of things when the men seem to be making the wrong decisions. Mrs. Shelby fights with her husband over the sale of the slaves in the beginning because of the promise she’d made to Eliza that she would never split her family apart. Eliza decides to run away with her child to avoid having him sold into another home. CITATION The12 \l 1033 (Thesis Statements and Important Quotes from Uncle Tom's Cabin) In what ways do the women in this story symbolize the important role of women, both in the home and in the public?

The novel, as a genre developed by women, is characterized by unchecked sentimentality and a thematic focus on love and domestic relationships. CITATION Unc \l 1033 (Mueller) Throughout Uncle Tom’s Cabin there is an underlying theme of the importance of the role of women in the mid-nineteenth century plantation culture; Stowe addresses the issue of women’s rights with the employment of strong and influential female characters.

In Uncle Tom’s Cabin, when Mrs. Shelby asks to help her husband with the plantation finances he replies, “O, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in Kentucky; but still you haven’t to know that you don’t understand business; -- women never do, and never can … You don’t know anything about business, I tell you” (Stowe, 372). Even though Mrs. Shelby is very intelligent and has “a force of character every way superior to that of her husband” (Stowe), because she is a woman her husband will not even entertain the idea of allowing her to directly help him with business affairs; her place is in the domestic affairs of their home. Although women were perceived to be insignificant and completely unattached to the business affairs of men, Stowe suggests that this was not the case. Instead, she argues that, as wives and mothers, women have the ability to shape the morals, values and actions of the men around them. CITATION Chr \l 1033 (Haug)

A woman’s influence could be felt, not only within the realms of her immediate family, but in the plantation community as well. Women’s roles in men’s lives are considered so great that “conditions that produce unwomanly women subvert the natural order of things, for without women in their proper place as administrators of the home, the rest of society cannot function” (Jenkins, 174-175). Throughout her novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Stowe draws a parallel between the plight of enslaved African Americans and the repressed women of the time; both lack the rights and social standing of white males. (Haug)

Stowe uses her novel as a venue for “converting essentially repressive concepts of femininity into a positive (and activist) alternative system of values in which women figures not merely as the moral superior of man, as his inspirer, but as the model for him in the new millennium about to dawn” CITATION Luc \l 1033 (MacKethan). This idea, that as wives and mothers women have the ability to shape the morals, values and actions of the men around them, can be seen frequently throughout Stowe’s work. (Haug)

Throughout the story Stowe uses female characters to speak about women’s rights and the roles of the men in their lives. Even though, at that time, women were viewed to be inferior and subordinate to men, they in fact shaped the men in their lives. Although Stowe does not say that Uncle Tom’s Cabin is a specifically feminist work, the novel nonetheless is regarded as an example of early feminism. Stowe’s suggestion that women retained subtle but great power and influence over their husbands was not only empowering but revolutionary; this implication provided further fuel to the feminist arguments of the time. (Haust)

Stowe wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin to protest the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. At a time when the public sphere was reserved for men and the domestic sphere for women, Stowe couldn't express her political views by voting, but she could write. What she wrote was a woman-centered novel, a novel in which women characters usually act more morally than their male counterparts and in which the narrator directly appeals to women readers in terms of their morality and motherhood. Stowe felt that women had a role to play in the slavery debate because slavery was a moral question, not just a political one. CITATION Har1 \l 1033 (Harris) Stowe had to mold her characters to fit the ''certain demands [of her novel's] intended female audience.'' CITATION EAn \l 1033 (Kaplan)

In Chapter IX of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the heroine of Chapter IX, Senator Byrd's wife, gently expresses her opposition to the Fugitive Slave Act by "entreaty and persuasion," and admits to her husband that “I don’t know anything about politics, but I can read my Bible; and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothe, the naked, and comfort the desolate; and that Bible I mean to follow.” (Stowe). The way in which Stowe holds up Mrs. Byrd and other pious and domestic women as models raises the question of whether Stowe's novel challenged or upheld her cultures strict gender roles. CITATION Jes \l 1033 (Sower)

Stowe's novel is considered to be a progressive text as women assert their roles as ''moral centers'' in order to cultivate social and political change. A character that powerfully demonstrates this is Mrs. Bird. Stowe is very careful in her description of Mrs. Bird, explaining that in contrast to her seemingly gentle nature, ''anything in the shape of cruelty would throw her into a passion'' (Stowe, 68). Mrs. Bird is more complex than the submissive iconic female figure. In her own home, Mrs. Bird acts as a sort of moral leader for her family and demonstrates a certain amount of control over her husband through her emotional sensitivity. CITATION Jes \l 1033 (Sower)

Mrs. Bird acts as a sort of ''moral tutor in the scene'' and ''disciplines her husband to judge with his heart rather than his head'' CITATION Mar08 \l 1033 (Wearn)This instance ultimately demonstrates Stowe's ''promotion of the nineteenth-century feminist responsibility to [right the] world's wrongs'' through the maternal instinct CITATION Mar \l 1033 (Henning).

Knowing her audience would primarily be white women, Stowe played on their feelings of uneasiness and guilt over the treatment of slaves, especially those of the Northern white women who could help with the Abolitionist movement, by introducing her readers to seemingly real characters suffering from the injustice of slavery. This can be seen even in the style in which Uncle Tom’s Cabin was written; Stowe directly addresses her readers, forcing them to consider slavery from the point of view of the enslaved. CITATION Bra \l 1033 (McCandless)

“If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning, – if you had seen the man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from twelve o'clock till morning to make good your escape, – how fast could you walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom, – the little sleepy head on your shoulder, – the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?” CITATION Har \l 1033 (Stowe)

Stowe appeals directly to her reader, whom she assumes to be a white 19th century northern Christian mother. Forcing the reader to imagine herself in Eliza’s situation strengthens the reader’s sympathetic bond with Eliza and makes her suffering even more poignant. CITATION Shm \l 1033 (Shmoop)

“Expressive of and responsible for the values of its time, it also belongs to a genre, the sentimental novel, whose chief characteristic is that it is written by, for, and about women” (Tompkins 124-25). Uncle Tom’s Cabin is a sentimental novel; it was meant to appeal to the unsettled emotions that existed in the reader’s mind, creating and sense of guilt and injustices, making them see how slavery destroys human lives and families. Through the introduction of these Southern families, Stowe demonstrates how slavery corrupts and ultimately eliminates domestic stability. CITATION Bra \l 1033 (McCandless)

“But what can any individual do? Of that, every individual can judge. There is one thing that every individual can do; -- they can see to it that they feel right. An atmosphere of sympathetic influence encircles every human being; and the man or woman who feels strongly, healthily and justly, on the great interests of humanity, is a constant benefactor to the human race. See, then, to your sympathies in this matter!” CITATION Har \l 1033 (Stowe)

Uncle Tom’s Cabin spoke to each individual Northerner who read its pages, forcing her to view slavery from a new perspective, sympathize with the slave characters, and relate the novel to things she knew all too well—family, sentimentality, and the Cult of Domesticity. Above all, Harriet Beecher Stowe wanted her white audience to take action against slavery. CITATION Bra \l 1033 (McCandless)

“And you, mothers of America, – you who have learned, by the cradles of your own children, to love and feel for all mankind, – by the sacred love you bear your child; by your joy in his beautiful, spotless infancy; by the motherly pity and tenderness with which you guide his growing years; by the anxieties of his education; by the prayers you breathe for his soul's eternal good; – I beseech you, pity the mother who has all your affections, and not one legal right to protect, guide, or educate, the child of her bosom! By the sick hour of your child; by those dying eyes, which you can never forget; by those last cries, that wrung your heart when you could neither help nor save; by the desolation of that empty cradle, that silent nursery, – I beseech you, pity those mothers that are constantly made childless by the American slave-trade! And say, mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended, sympathized with, and passed over in silence? “(Stowe) Unsurprisingly, Stowe ends Uncle Tom’s Cabin with special appeals to free mothers to sympathize with slaves and to raise their children as abolitionists. CITATION Shm \l 1033 (Shmoop)

The important role of women, both in the home and in the public is widely expanded upon in Stowe’s novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The inner themes of love, domestic relationship, and the importance of women in mid-nineteenth century plantation culture appeal the novel to the women of the times,

Works Cited

Baym, Nina. Woman’s Fiction: A Guide to Novels by and about Women in America, 1820-1870. New York: Cornell UP, 1978.

Brown, Gillian. “Sentimental Possession.” Domestic Individualism: Imagining Self in Nineteenth-Century America. Berkeley: U of California P, 1990. 39-60.

Brown, Gillian. “Getting in the Kitchen with Dinah: Domestic Politics in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” American Quarterly 36 (Fall 1984): 503-523.

Davidson, Kathy N. “Preface: No more separate spheres!” American Literature 70 (September 1998): 443-454.

Eagleton, Mary. “Genre and Gender.” Modern Genre Theory. Ed. David Duff. London: Longman. 250-262.

Works Cited

BIBLIOGRAPHY Harris. Teaching Unle Tom's Cabin: Women Characters and Readers. .

Haug, Christine. Beyond Hearth and Home. .

Henning, Martha L. Beyond Understanding: Appeals to the Imagination, Passions, and Will in Mid-Nineteenth-Century American Woman's Fiction. n.d.

Kaplan, E. Ann. "Motherhood and Representation ." (n.d.).

MacKethan, Lucinda H. "Domesticity in Dixie: The Plantation Novel and Uncle Tom’s Cabin."

McCandless, Brandi. Slavery's Destruction of Domestic Life. .

Mueller, Hannah. Uncle Tom’s Cabin: Breaking Down a Gendered Genre and a Genre of Gender. 25 03 2008. 22 02 2012 .

Shmoop. .

Sower, Jessy. "The Changing Role of Women in America." (n.d.).

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. Uncle Tom's Cabin. n.d.

Thesis Statements and Important Quotes from Uncle Tom's Cabin. 22 02 2012 .

Wearn, Mary McCartin. Negotiating Motherhood in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. New York: Jerome Nadelhaft, Routledge , 2008.

Bookmarks to Remember(:

1. http://www.career-intelligence.com/management/10-Classic-Clothing-Pieces.asp
2. http://www.webmd.com/parenting/baby/infant-development-9/brain-development?page=4
3. http://womenshistory.about.com/od/quotes/a/sylvia_plath.htm
4. http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/199607/the-creative-personality
5. http://www.smosh.com/smosh-pit/photos/wisest-philosoraptor-quotes
6. http://www.squidoo.com/colormeaning
7. http://mylanguages.org/easy_languages.php
8. http://www.missselfridge.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/TopCategoriesDisplay?storeId=12554&catalogId=33055
9. http://www.thechicfashionista.com/hourglass-body-shape.html
10. http://www.questionablecontent.net/
11. http://klassyp.tumblr.com/
12. http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2342/is_n3_v29/ai_18096758/pg_3/?tag=content;col1
13. http://www.abundancetapestry.com/10-inspiring-facebook-banner-quotes/
14. http://www.mangafox.com/manga/glamorous_lip/c004/13.html
15. http://my.hgtv.com/style-finder/transition.esi?style=RetroArtDeco&continueUrl=http://www.athomewith.com/community&catdisp=Retro__Art__Deco&returl=null
16. http://www.ryland.com/personalize-your-home/my-style-quiz.aspx
17. http://narcissistsdiary.blogspot.com/
18. http://books.google.com/books?id=6kvxI6aV1aYC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=true
19. http://www.mangathat.com/gantz/136/12-106
20. http://fuckyeahpixiecuts.tumblr.com/page/11
21. http://www.continuum-concept.org/reading/neurosis.html
22. http://www.enneagram.net/type3.html
23. http://freshome.com/2007/04/17/room-color-and-how-it-affects-your-mood/
24. http://www.forbes.com/2010/10/29/fashion-blogs-professional-women-forbes-woman-style-working-wardrobe_2.html
25. http://users.erols.com/geary/psychology/assessment.htm
26. http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=PSEYXWmEse8
27. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUMeps0Gk1A&feature=BFa&list=ULxDQ0JJiw-fE&lf=mfu_in_order
28. http://haleykristinesimons.blogspot.com/2011_04_01_archive.html
29. http://www.shopkawaii.com/San-X-All-Stars-10-Tarepanda-Plush-p/mk-43101.htm
30. http://forums.blackbutler.net/showthread.php?810-Kuroshitsuji-Musical-2-The-Most-Beautiful-Death-in-the-World-Lyrics-amp-Translations
31. http://forums.blackbutler.net/showthread.php?806-Kuroshitsuji-Musical-2-The-Most-Beautiful-Death-in-the-World-Soundtrack
32. http://www.trendhunter.com/trends/giuseppe-circhetta#!/photos/110189/4
33. http://www.cognitivequiz.com/quiz.html
34. http://personalitycafe.com/whats-my-enneagram-type/72621-7w8-3w4.html
35. http://personalitycafe.com/enneagram-personality-theory-forum/

Blogspot. You've been amazing. But I've cheated on you repeatedly. I have a tumblr now. If you want, you can visit me @http://sanjuanitaevahernandez.tumblr.com/
Iloveyou. Adieu&Until we meet again...
Yours always,
-juanita<3<3<3

Love Message from Beca:

I log onto my Facebook, and this is what greets me<3

"So, it just so happens that I REALLY love you. I've been in a mood for love messages lately, and you totally deserve one. I love you with all my heart and soul and you mean THE WORLD to me♥"

She's got me cryin' and whatnot :3 Ilovethisgalsofuckingmuch,..oops.
Pardon my French<3