Monthly Archives: February 2016

6] Carlson writes:

“Harry Robinson’s account of literacy being stolen from Coyote by his white twin conform to all the standard criteria associated with a genre of Salish narratives commonly referred to by outsiders as legend or mythology with one exception – they appear to contain post-contact content” (Carlson 56).

Why is it, according to Carlson or/and Wickwire, that Aboriginal stories that are influenced or informed by post-contact European events and issues are “discarded to the dustbin of scholarly interest”? (56).

According to Keith Thor Carlson and Wendy Wickwire, it is authenticity that condemns Aboriginal stories that are shaped by post-contact European events and issues. However, I want to clarify that I want to point toward a falsified notion of authenticity. Here, I am speaking about the “authenticity” we cast upon a culture, assumptions that guide our perceptions to believe misleadingly how a certain group of people must behave, must live, and in further relevance to the topic at hand, how their narratives must be. For something to be “authentic” it needs to fit our criteria for authenticity, and our subjective perspectives can often fail to consider the possibility that our hardened expectations do not equal fact.

“A detail from Benjamin West’s heroic, neoclassical history painting, The Death of General Wolfe (1771), depicting an idealized Native American.”

An example of such a misstep can be read  in Wickwire’s introduction to Living By Stories: A Journey of Landscape and Memory. She discusses the 1990s Boasian research project that aimed to collect and record numerous oral narratives of the Aboriginal people. The project was criticized by a number of anthropologists such as Michael Harkin. The selective mindset of the project was derived from what Harkin described as a desire to preserve “some overarching, static, ideal type of culture, detached from its pragmatic and socially positioned moorings among real people” (qtd. in Wickwire 22).  Another apt mirror to this issue comes from the same Wickwire introduction, this time in regards to Claude Lévi-Strauss’ theories of mythic societies. Late anthropologist Terence Turner criticized the man’s analytical process as narrow-minded, saying that “to conclude that the culture as a whole is in the mythic phase, lacking a concept of history, may reflect a lack in the investigative procedure more than a lack in the culture” (qtd. in Wickwire 22). Both of these criticisms illustrate how we may be predisposed to believe in a certain ideal of a culture, and in the case of conjuring up an “ideal” Aboriginal culture, that imagination’s rosy-tinted appearance is easily believed in. To those outside looking in, that imagined Aboriginal culture is romantic, pervaded by pictures of Pocahontas, of singing trees and other spiritual “anomalies” that are charming from a potentially condescending perspective. Thoughts that run along this vein have stemmed from the 18th-century with Rousseau’s concept of the noble savage.

Therefore, the presence of post-contact European ideals, events and issues in Aboriginal stories break this illusion and thus render these narratives to some academic eyes as tainted. Carlson writes of the inability to reconcile both sides of Aboriginal narrative and post-contact European culture by writing that “we have grown so accustomed to associating Aboriginal culture with pre-contact temporal dimensions that we have dismissed Native stories that do not meet our historical purity” (56). Further, he writes that Indigenous cultures (in particular, the Salish) have different criteria for the importance of their stories, and while the authenticity of their narratives is a significant element of these narratives, the difference lies in the way that they are assessed. Salish orators have the authenticity of their stories based on the quality of their conveyance and their presence in the social memory of their people. On the other hand for Westerners “historical accuracy is measured in relation to verifiable evidence” (57), necessitating the existence of footnotes and works cited pages.

“CALM SUNSET — PALETTE KNIFE Oil Painting On Canvas By Leonid Afremov.”

However, this reminds me of the notion of contradictory truths as relayed by J. Edward Chamberlin. His analogy of the two painters, situated on either sides of a harbour painting a ship is an adept illustration for this particular issue of authenticity. One painter colors his or her canvas according to its objective and empirical statistics of the ship, knowing that the ship has twenty-seven portholes and is grey. However, “the other, working in an equally creditable tradition” (221) paints the ship with seven portholes because that’s what the painter can see in the twilight. “He knows it’s wrong, but he also knows it’s right,” (221) Chamberlin writes. If we can remove that academic arrogance of presupposition, perhaps we may be allowed a broader and more comprehensive understanding of Aboriginal cultures. We must remove the superiority complex of the settlers’ science and now, with careful and open ears, re-learn what we thought we used to know.

Works Cited:

Afremov, Leonid. Calm Sunset. Digital image. N.p., n.d. Web. 8 Mar. 2016. <https://afremov.com/CALM-SUNSET-PALETTE-KNIFE-Oil-Painting-On-Canvas-By-Leonid-Afremov-Size-30-X36.html>.

Carlson, Keith Thor. “Orality and Literacy: The ‘Black and White’ of Salish History.” Orality & Literacy: Reflections Across Disciplines. 43-72. Print.

Chamberlin, J. Edward. If This Is Your Land, Where Are Your Stories?: Finding Common Ground. Toronto: Vintage Canada, 2004. Print.

Gardner, Helen. “Explainer: The Myth of the Noble Savage.” The Conversation. The Conversation, 24 Feb. 2016. Web. 28 Feb. 2016. <http://theconversation.com/explainer-the-myth-of-the-noble-savage-55316>.

Greenwood, Davydd J. “Cultural “Authenticity”” Cultural Survival Quarterly6.3 (1982): n. pag. Cultural Survival. 09 Feb. 2010. Web. 28 Feb. 2016. <https://www.culturalsurvival.org/ourpublications/csq/article/cultural-authenticity>.

Robinson, Harry. Living by Stories: A Journey of Landscape and Memory. Ed. Wendy Wickwire. Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2005. Print.

West, Benjamin. The Death of General Wolfe. Digital image. N.p., n.d. Web. 8 Mar. 2016. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noble_savage#/media/File:Benjamin_west_Death_wolfe_noble_savage.jpg>.

3. We began this unit by discussing assumptions and differences that we carry into our class. In “First Contact as Spiritual Performance,” Lutz makes an assumption about his readers (Lutz, “First Contact” 32). He asks us to begin with the assumption that comprehending the performances of the Indigenous participants is “one of the most obvious difficulties.” He explains that this is so because “one must of necessity enter a world that is distant in time and alien in culture, attempting to perceive indigenous performance through their eyes as well as those of the Europeans.” Here, Lutz is assuming either that his readers belong to the European tradition, or he is assuming that it is more difficult for a European to understand Indigenous performances – than the other way around. What do you make of this reading? Am I being fair when I point to this assumption? If so, is Lutz being fair when he makes this assumption?

In 1984, as the Okanagan storyteller Harry Robinson approached the end of his life, he said to Wendy Wickwire that he was “going to disappear and there will be no more telling stories” (29). At

Wendy Wickwire and Harry Robinson

first, Wickwire was confused, believing that he referred to the loss of his stories but upon further reflection, she realized that the storyteller was speaking about the “process of storytelling” (29). However, Wickwire focuses on a particular aspect of the man’s attempts to translate his stories into English. She pins down the importance of the receivers of stories, the “listeners who spoke little or no Okanagan” (29). A story doesn’t work without an audience, and likewise John Sutton Lutz’s article requires its readers.

And not just any reader. Stories and articles have target demographics, and although they are open to be listened by any ear, their contents are directed toward a specific group. While the published stories of Harry Robinson were meant for the speaker of the common vernacular, Lutz’s article is seemingly tailored towards an academic audience interested in learning more about the indigenous tradition and seeks to some extent to open the dialogue of the “first contact” to include the perspectives of the native people. Therefore, to some extent, Lutz is assuming that his readers belong to the European tradition or at least, are reading it within the contexts and settings of a “western” country. After all, his book is published by the University of the British Columbia Press, and will certainly find an audience with a “European” crowd first.

But I would like to recognize that Lutz writes in a fashion that positions himself outside of the dichotomy of the “European” and the “native,” and speaks like an overseer, able to examine both sides of the cultural divide with an objective tone. Lutz writes: “but they also, I argue, performed their spirituality – their mythology – for each other” (“First Contact” 31). Lutz’ usage of the third person plural personal pronouns creates a distance between him, us and the European-native perspectives. And this maneuver is helpful for us to understand the revelation that European settlers also brought with them spiritual performances of their own for communication. Furthermore, this may be a way to include readers outside of European backgrounds, considering the international reach of the academic community.

However, I do believe it is fair to say that there is an assumption made by Lutz that indicates that Europeans have difficulty in comprehending Indigenous performances. Lutz writes that the spirituality of both cultures causes this discord in understanding, and focuses on the theatrics of charades in an attempt to illustrate how these different mythologies create tension. However, he also points toward a reason for this dissonance within geographical terms in his discussion of the “contact zone”: “we can think of the contact zone as first, a space across which one could map a moving wave of first contacts… we could also expand the notion to include the zone of discourse where stories of first contact play out” (“Contact Over and Over Again” 4). By introducing the element of place, Lutz brings about the debate of origin and territory. European settlers with the “supremacy” of their science, religion and mythology provided them with the perspective to use as a “marker of European superiority over indigenous mythology and superstition, and part of the larger rational for colonization” (“Contact Over and Over Again” 14). Canadian anthropologist, Niobe Thompson writes of the difference between Russian northern settlers and the natives of the area, saying that “native belonging is situated in practical skills of land use” and that Russian settlers have a “purported lack of connection to the land” (10). He extends the severance of connection to Europeans in general, calling them “aliens to the tundra” (10). Likewise, we see the same dynamics of land ownership, usage and connection present in Lutz’s essays.

If native identity is so strongly intertwined with the land, so much in fact that creation stories such as the Similkameen stories that orate how the “Old One, or Chief, made the earth out of a woman” (Wickwire 25) how can people of European heritage, so steeped with a history of colonization, easily understand the significance of such for the native peoples? After all, Harry Robinson wanted to illustrate that if a broader audience understood that “stumps could turn into chipmunks and that chipmunks could turn into ‘grandfathers,’ they would cultivate a very different relationship to the land” (Wickwire 29).

That is not to say that it will be impossible for the reader of European heritage to understand the native perspective. Recent initiatives to return to local eating, agrarian lifestyles and a re-connection to “nature,” have inspired many to rediscover the lands they live in. But perhaps most importantly, the medium of the story will be the one to truly convey the spirit of the Indigenous and their land. Their worlds are created, even governed through story, and if we can tap into these narratives and embrace them as equivalent realities to our own, then Robinson’s dream may very well come true. Through storytelling we may develop a different relationship to the land, and reap the fruits of that wonderful comprehension.

Works Cited:

Cancalosi, John. An Eastern Chipmunk, Tamias Striatus, on a Tree Stump, Eating a Caterpillar. Digital image. Gettyimages. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 Feb. 2016. <http://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/photo/an-eastern-chipmunk-tamias-striatus-on-a-high-res-stock-photography/536980079>.

Lutz, John. “First Contact as a Spiritual Performance: Aboriginal — Non-Aboriginal Encounters on the North American West Coast.” Myth and Memory: Rethinking Stories of Indigenous-European Contact. Ed. Lutz. Vancouver: U of British Columbia P, 2007. 30-45. Print.

Lutz, John. “Contact Over and Over Again.” Myth and Memory: Rethinking Stories of Indignenous- European Contact. Ed. Lutz. Vancouver: U of British Columbia P, 2007. 1-15. Print.

Robinson, Harry. Living by Stories: a Journey of Landscape and Memory. Compiled and edited by Wendy Wickwire. Vancouver: Talon Books, 2005. (1-30)

Semeniuk, Robert. Photo of Wendy Wickwire with Harry Robinson. Digital image. Abcbookworld. Talonbooks, n.d. Web. 18 Feb. 2016. <http://www.abcbookworld.com/view_author.php?id=4730>.

Smith, Andrea. “Indigeneity, Settler Colonialism, White Supremacy.” – Centre for World Dialogue. N.p., Summer 2010. Web. 19 Feb. 2016. <http://www.worlddialogue.org/content.php?id=488>.

Thompson, Niobe. “Introduction.” Introduction. Settlers on the Edge: Identity and Modernization on Russia’s Arctic Frontier. Vancouver: UBC, 2008. 3-34. Print.

I have read several blogs—which were amazing by the way! To read everyone’s stories about home was not only touching, but incredibly insightful. As a sentimental loser, I enjoyed the emotion and passion behind your narratives and somehow, reading them inflicted me with the case of the homesick even though I’m ‘home’ anyway. Certainly, this is a grand testament to how powerful language can be, and considering how much we have discussed in regards to the power of stories, I think we can attest to such a force. We may not be professional writers (or at least, most of us I would assume), but through the simple act of communication, we can still impact each other in thoughtful, eye-opening ways.

Anyways with that aside, in order to focus this entry, I’ve drawn the commonalities from three wonderful posts: Cherie’s, Andrea’s, and Karen’s.

Cherie and Karen’s stories are steeped wonderfully in the broth of Asian culture. More specifically, they’ve written their tales in accordance with the Chinese New Year and while I am not of Chinese heritage, I can relate intimately with many of the themes they’ve brewed within their entries. There’s a reason I’ve made many puns (and I apologize for the many eye-rolls that I’ve provoked with such a linguistic maneuver) about food. Their stories alongside mine connect food with familiarity, family and community. With food comes assembly, marking special occasion with collective memory. As a Korean boy (or do I call myself a man? Sometimes I wonder if I’m also suffering from a case of Peter-Pan perpetuity), I’ve always been reminded of the importance of my culture’s food. In particular, kimchi is a precious food for my culture, and rather than taking the spotlight as a main dish, this spicy pickled cabbage represents Korean cuisine through the seemingly humble role of the side-dish.

However, the side-dish, or banchan in Korean, holds significant power on the dinner table, facilitating the sharing of food and it is these personal transactions across the table that remind me of home. The creation of many Asian foods is communal as well, remarked by Karen in her commentary that follows her work. Not only do we eat together, but in order to reach that family meal, we cook together as well. Indeed, side-dishes in many Asian cultures possess these qualities of kinship which I have made sure to highlight in my story through the inverse of dysfunction, but also through the strict observance of tradition. The home anchors tradition for us, becoming a place that follows carefully, a culture of rules and observances that stabilize the identity or the idea of the ‘home.’ Lijun’s household is strict, and his inability to seize the last piece of fish, although originally intended for sharing among his kin, is snatched away by patriarchal tradition. Likewise, in Karen and Cherie’s stories, food and other observed behaviours occur through tradition. Every Chinese New Years, this and this happens. Such and such happens. Repetition creates the story, canonizes events in their lives and is promised to replicate itself again the same time next year.

Closely aligned with tradition is history and this particular idea is prominent in Andrea’s story. While my story hints toward history and inheritance subtly, Andrea’s narrative bursts at the seams with wonderful descriptions of her home’s roots. Her fine tracing which leads back to Port Alberni and even further, toward the times of the Tseshaht and Hupacasath territories reminds me that the past truly does inform the present and is the idea of the home exempt from such a connection? Certainly not. What’s wonderful about her story is that she links history and memory with nature, and that element of the home is something I’ve featured heavily in my own narrative. Andrea writes of an intimate connection of the landscape around her and of her conception of home, and such a theme resonates within the Abbotsfordian blood of my veins. Surrounded by nature and the idyllic views of the countryside, I cannot separate my idea of home from the physical beauty of the world around me. The natural world, like for Andrea, provides me with my bearings and allows me to realize how much of my home extends the borders of my room walls and outside into the wonderful expanse of nature. Where we live is a significant element of ‘home.’

The telling of these stories which are all so personal to us reminds me of a line from Thomas King’s book where he justifies his habit of retelling three particular stories. He calls them “saving stories… stories that help keep me alive” (119). Our stories of home not only keep our unique ideas of ‘home’ alive to us, but also breathe personal colour to our identities. We’ve told our stories once here. When will be the next time we speak of home?

Works Cited:

Beck, Julie. “The Psychology of Home: Why Where You Live Means So Much.” The Atlantic. N.p., 30 Dec. 2011. Web. 11 Feb. 2016. <http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2011/12/the-psychology-of-home-why-where-you-live-means-so-much/249800/>.

Chung, Sung-Jun. Kimjang or the making of kimchi. Digital image. Getty Images News, n.d. Web. 12 Feb. 2016. <http://data.en.koreaportal.com/data/images/full/60/kimchi-making-jpg.jpg?w=600>.

Han, Jeon, and Yoon Sojung. “UNESCO Recognizes Kimjang, Korean Culture of Sharing.” Korea.net. N.p., 11 Dec. 2013. Web. 11 Feb. 2016. <http://www.korea.net/NewsFocus/Culture/view?articleId=116173>.

King, Thomas. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Toronto: Anansi Press. 2003. Print.

Outside the home, Lijun walked underneath the black canvas of a late winter evening. Above, the full moon shone. He was always entranced by the full moon. It was always so complete, so whole. So beautiful. His family had the congenital myth that if you bundled your one strongest desire, your one innermost wish, put it into a firework and shot it at the doll-faced saucer in the sky, it would come true. They didn’t believe in silly stories anymore, but Lijun’s blood came from an earlier time. He had already decided he would make a wish tonight and for what? He’d find that out eventually.

The clanging of the dinner bell summoned him and as he set his small box of toy-firecrackers to the side and dumped his day’s profits into a small jar, he shook his sandals off and stepped inside. So accustomed to the shelter his straw hat provided him while he sold his wares, he forgot to untie the chin strap, keeping the duoli upon his head. Everyone had already piled in between each other around the round table that had been filled with grilled fish, fried tofu, and pickled vegetables. A wholesome meal to share.

“Hurry up,” one of his aunts said, “it’s not polite to keep people waiting.”

Picking up his chopsticks and a bowl of rice, Lijun struggled to squeeze in between two bulky arms, extending his chopsticks towards the side dishes through the flurry of carried food. His douli slipped askew on his head as he was bumped by another thick arm, and his chopsticks barely remained parallel in his trembling hand. It was only now that he realized that his knees had been marked red. Everyone else had been sitting on thin cushions. His eyes loomed over towards the grilled fish. Only one slab of white meat clung to its thin bones and as he reached for it, his chopsticks were slapped out of his hand.

“Oi, whaddya think yer doin’? Damn, ya really don’t get it do ya? Last piece always goes to father. Why doesn’t that get through your thick head? Maybe it’s ‘cause ya wear that hat so much ya do stupid things like this,” one of his relatives said.

“But, I just want…”

“Did I say y’could speak, idiot? Don’t talk back!”

Someone grabbed his hat and flung it towards the entrance of their home. The sound of his chin strap’s fabric being torn out of place like the cries of an abandoned animal pierced Lijun’s ears. Dropping his bowl of rice, he ran towards his hat. Without stopping, he picked his mangled hat up, put it on his head, sandaled his feet and met the night again.

He reached an old plum blossom tree nearby, its trunk burly and its branches, although in tangled chaos, were serenely grouped. Quickly, his hands scraped out the mound of dirt at its base, unearthing a modest missile, painted with a turtle, a dragon god and a boy on its sides. He climbed to the top, legs straddling tight around a bare branch, lit a match from his pockets and set flame to the wick.

The tears streaming down his face felt hotter than the flickering wick flailing by his hands. Closing his stinging eyes once before opening them again, he muttered some words, and threw. The rocket spiraled a few times, soaring through the sky in celebratory arches, going further and further away until it was a small black dot eclipsed by the moon. It burst into whites and coral reds illuminating Lijun’s quivering lips before casting him in darkness in the ensuing silence. He stayed there that night. The round moon offered him a company his home never could.

—-

As a note, I wrote this short drabble to take place in some sort of unspecified Asian setting, the period being completely ambiguous if not entirely fictional. There’s a mixture of a various of East Asian cultures here, but with many images drawn from Chinese backgrounds.

I tried to compose this story with several antitheses of the idea of ‘home’ like the hostile family that refuses to provide for Lijun. Elements of what constitute ‘home’ for me are strewn across the piece too. The strong presence of nature recalls my own setting of agrarian Abbotsford, the communal dinner table conveys the importance of eating with the family and sharing ‘banchan’ (side-dishes) in my Korean household, and the thread of filial piety stem from my personal experiences and intersections with Korean culture.

Furthermore, I wanted to string the motif of the moon through the passages until the very end, comparing the full moon to the round dinner table before returning to the sphere once more. In regards to the second hyperlink, that tale has been one that has stuck with me since a young age. Though didactic, meaning to warn children against disobedience, I find myself touched by the tragedy of losing home and of the inability to say goodbye to one’s family. The places we live in aren’t simply constructed by the landscape or its buildings, but the people we share them with and the disconnect Taro experiences with the stranger at the end of the tale emphasize such a truth.

Works Cited:

Moss, Laura. “What’s the Big Deal about Eating Alone?” Mother Nature Network. N.p., 05 June 2014. Web. 06 Feb. 2016. <http://www.mnn.com/food/healthy-eating/stories/whats-the-big-deal-about-eating-alone>.

Ozaki, Yei Theodora. “The Story of Urashima Taro, the Fisher Lad.”Japanese Fairy Tales. Lit2Go Edition. 1908. Web. <http://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/72/japanese-fairy-tales/4881/the-story-of-urashima-taro-the-fisher-lad/>. February 07, 2016.

Ronderick. A view of the moon through the branches. Digital image. Halfway to NoWhere: Ranting and Complaints of Life in Taiwan. N.p., 12 Mar. 2011. Web. 11 Feb. 2016. <https://ronderick.wordpress.com/2011/03/12/sakura-trees-in-wu-lin-farm/>.

I have a great story to tell you.

You know those cave paintings? Rock art dating back to Prehistoric times—maybe even further, since the beginning, red and black swathes crafted carefully into bulls or aurochs, magical vignettes of hunting and stenciled-in hands, dotting those cavern walls with points of history. This parietal art paved the way for many wonderful things, the world breathed into life through contest and competition. Yes, these paintings helped shape our world—and brought evil into it. This is the story of how evil came into the world.

Once a year, when the season was cold, the moon a musty yellow, artists from around the globe would travel to the caves. Many imaginative minds came to those hallowed caverns, their wrinkled hands itching to peck into the walls, art that looked the most alive. It was a contest to create life in a way. Some artists drew from the wildlife, stroking into existence plump pigs with the ends of their charred torches, etching black into snouts and caudal coils. Others found the intimacy of the human body to be the thing that looked most alive, to compare one’s self with the pigment on the wall like a stone cold mirror.

But one artist noticed through the luminescence of the torches everyone used, the flickering of shadows. And that artist came to realize, like how we as kids realize, how vivid these quivering contours of doppelganger shape looked. How vividly scary. So scary in fact, that the artist gasped at the sight of her own crooked hand, and heard her sudden breath echo across the wide, endless expanse of the cave. An idea was lit into the artist’s mind, burned bright with the flame of inspiration. And she went to work.

Finally, the artist finished, without placing paint to the wall, but before that wall was a torch, brilliantly lit. When her fellow colleagues came to her station, assembling curiously before the blank wall, the artist began to work her magic. And she started like this:

“I have a great story to tell you.”

Using her hands, she crafted horrible shadows. Inspired by the frightening shapes she had made earlier, she spoke of marvelous monsters, crafted crime after crime and spoke with a booming echo that seemed to shake the walls. Her story spoke of crude sin, of double toil and trouble, and by the bright light of the flame, her words came to life.

By the end, everyone agreed that her art was the most alive and applauded her efforts. But, they said:

“Okay you win, but what you said just now—it isn’t so funny. It doesn’t sound so good. We are doing okay without it. We can get along without that kind of thing. Take it back. Call that story back.”

But, of course, it was too late. For once a story is told, it cannot be called back. Once told, it is loose in the world. So, be careful of the stories you tell, and the stories you listen to.

—

I told this story to a friend, who looked at me oddly because he was wondering why I was interrupting him during a rather heated game of League of Legends. Thankfully, I waited for him to finish to tell him my version of how evil came into the world. The opening line was magical, actually. Like a “once upon a time” or the “OH!” of olden days, I could tell he was curious from the get-go. What made this story so great? What made this story one worth telling?

He asked me what “caves” the artists went to, but I refused to answer. I wanted to keep that level of ambiguity, to keep that bit of detail a secret. While written fiction (especially short stories) does well with specificity, I think with the art of oration, a little bit of mystery can go a long way to help the narrative be catchy. And indeed, it was to him! At least, in that moment. To be honest, it was difficult to learn the whole story by heart, but with a script printed out I did okay! I made sure to use alliteration to help me get into some memorable rhythms among some other techniques, so performing the little tale was pretty fun.

—

Works Cited:

Cave Painting, Artwork. Digital image. All Posters. N.p., n.d. Web. 31 Jan. 2016. <http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Cave-Painting-Artwork-Posters_i10230211_.htm>.

King, Thomas. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Toronto: Anansi Press. 2003. Print.

Milton, John. “Paradise Lost: Book 1.” Paradise Lost: Book 1. Ed. Thomas H. Luxon. Trustees of Dartmouth College, n.d. Web. 01 Feb. 2016.

Shastry, Vaibhav. “Storytelling through Shadows.” The Times of India. TNN, 27 Aug. 2012. Web. 01 Feb. 2016.