Monday, 8 December 2014


13. YEAR 2012 (Supplementary)
Attempt FOUR questions. All questions carry equal marks. 
1. "Aristotle's statement about the end of tragedy --- purgation or catharsis --- has been so endlessly misunderstood, so uncritically assumed to be true". Discuss.
2. The Aristotelian concept of tragedy requires considerable modifications in the light of later developments in the field of tragedy. What are Raymond Williams' chief observations in this regard?
3. Critical Practice is produced with a bias in favour of the interrogative text. Would you agree?
4. What relationship, according to T.S. Eliot, must exist between tradition and individual poetic talent?
5. Does Philip Sydney  support the concept of the imitative nature of poetry in An Apology of Poetry? How?
6. What does the term 'split subject' imply? How does 20th century critically deal with the phenomenon?
7. Critically examine any ONE of the following:
(i) A pinup of Rita Hay worth way taped
To touch the bomb that fell on Hiroshima
The Avant-garde makes me weep with boredom,
Horses are wishes, especially dark ones.
That's why twitches and fences.
That's why switches and spurs.
That's why the idiom of betrayal
They forgive us.
Their wind-swayed manes and tails
Their eyes,
Affront the winter-scrubbed prairie
With gentleness.
They live in both worlds and forgive us.
I'll give you a hint: the wind in fits and stars.
Like schoolchildren when the teacher walks in,
The aspens jostles for their places
And fall still
A delirium of ridges breaks in a blue streak;
A confusion of means
Saved from annihilation
By catastrophe.
A horse gallops up to the gate and stops.
The rider dismounts,
Do I know him?
(James Galvin) 
(ii) Epitaph
The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.
I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the moon's cup.
I dared not look on the sweet rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.
The next time I died, they laid me deep,
They spoke worn words to my hallow sleep.
They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.
And I lie here warm, and I lie there dry.
And I watch worms slip by, slip by.
(Dorothy Parker)

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