A Journal of Woe Essay Example for Free

A Journal of Woe Essay The pain was excruciating as I struggled to fight for my life under the pillow that my beloved husband had forced upon me. I remember how much it hurts as I tried to gasp for air beneath Othello’s powerful arms. I can recall those murderous eyes driven mad by jealousy and hate. For an instant, I failed to recognize the man I have fought to love. I cannot recognize that man I secretly married despite my father’s objections. For a moment, I failed to see the man who promised to love me for the rest of our lives. It all started that fateful night when Othello fired Michael Cassio from his lieutenant position. He accused me of sleeping with Cassio. The jealousy was probably most triggered when he felt that I was being too concerned with Cassio’s situation. He must have thought that my acts in favor of Cassio’s defense were signs of affection for him. He accused me of giving Cassio the handkerchief which was a gift from him. There is no way I would have given such a valuable gift to someone else! My love and affection is undividedly offered for Othello. It does not seek other men aside from him. My fidelity to my marriage and to my husband is pure and untainted. How could he even dare think of me with such immorality! However, it was too late to defend myself further, for the fire in his eyes was already consumed with too much evil to pay any heed to my cries. Yet, before death consumed what was left of my body, the image of the man I love came before my eyes. I forgive him. He is a victim and not a murderer. I know in his heart that he loves me still, and once this madness brought about by his jealousy ends, he would repent and ask for forgiveness. Or, he might end his life as well to follow me, so he can make it up to me personally—and I will be waiting on the other side.

Art Is Lie That Brings Truth Nearer

Art Is Lie That Brings Truth Nearer I decided to evaluate the quotation by Pablo Picasso: Art is a lie that brings us nearer to the truth because the claim contains several issues that, depending on the definition, may lead to further difficulties in interpretation. What do we mean by truth?; What is a lie; What do we mean by arts?; Who do we consider when saying us? A piece of art, as a separate subject, is hermetically understood by every individual. It inspires us all, both creators and receivers of the art leading to specific, personal, conclusions. Therefore, not only the main assumption but also the main outcome of the arts is relativism; that is why we cannot state any absolute values in it. As Pablo Picasso once said: You will not understand arts as long as you wont understand that in arts 1+1 may give any result but 2  [1]  . This underlines, I believe, that art is never able to give an absolute answer, therefore is a lie in absolute terms. Hence, art outlines only the artists personal impression, his tru th, and cannot be a measure of any unambiguous distinction between the absolute and impression itself. Since it is the quotation of Pablo Picasso that is evaluated in this essay, it can be explained in relation to cubist theory of truth. The theory claims the total truth is a sum of all perspectives. So the more personal truths, in relativistic terms, or various lies (not hole truths), in absolute terms, are added, the closer one gets to knowing the real truth. That is how the art is a lie that helps us realise the truth. I will prove my thesis by analysing what kind of truth do paintings of Johannes Vermeer, a realist, Pierre Auguste Renoir, an impressionist, Edward Munch, an expressionist, and Rij Rousseau, a cubist, tell me separately and altogether about women. These artists, and specific movements they represent, were chosen because of the underlying contrast in both perceiving the truth and expressing it. They represent varied approaches which will allow to present flaws in ea ch view and draw moderate conclusion, which falls into the thesis of the investigation. The painting The Milkmaid , by Vermeer, shows a woman standing in a kitchen, preparing a meal. Her face is calm and it can be judged from her clothes and the content of the room that she lives in relative luxury. The painting presents somehow the reality of the 17th century social situation in Netherlands which gives me a social and historical truth concerning woman. Additionally, Vermeers truth about women is that they are the guardians of the households. His view falls into correspondence theory of truth, which claims that something is true if it corresponds to a fact. Despite recent XXth centurys social changes concerning womans position, they have always played a major role in taking care of home. The movement itself is an example of realism that comprises in the mimetic theory of art. The concept of mimesis assumes that the purpose of the art is to copy reality. Therefore the problem arises when evaluating realism- is it false because it deals with imitation, or it is true throu gh paradox of fiction- that the model presents some regularities of human behavior? I believe that by taking from the character her personal identity in exchange for creating a generalized model, Vermeer in fact hinders the personal truth about this woman. He effectively presents the social order and historical truth, however generalization is always concerned only with average, not with all possibilities. The painting Woman with a dog of Renoir presents a woman with a dog sitting in the grass. The blurry curves are used in order to show movement of the grass. By looking at the bloom and the reddish shade on a girl it can be judged it is a late afternoon. Renoirs truth in this painting applies only to womans look in a specific place at a specific time. Additionally, the painting says something personal about her- that she probably enjoyed spending her time close to the nature, since her face expresses joy, and that she probably enjoyed watching sunsets. The painting is an ideal example of impressionism. As Childe Hassam  [4]  once noticed: The true impressionism is realism that so many people do not observe. The crucial difference, however, between these two concepts is that impressionism tries to prove that truth is not a generalisation, like in realism. Instead, it uncovers the truth about certain objects in relation to very specific time and place. Therefore, impressionism also falls into correspondence theory of truth since Renoirs painting corresponds to a fact- girls look during a sunset. However, since impressionists tried to immortalise the very glance we must ask ourselves how good truth is that? Following Monets thoughts I assume that the truth about everything would be hindered in a series of glances. Thus, showing just one of the uncountable in their number glances gives us only an insignificantly small part of the truth about women in general and the girl in particular. The painting Madonna by Edvard Munch presents a woman with sunken orbits and slender posture which makes her look like a demon. The foetus in the left corner symbolises fertility and therefore depicts woman as a source of life. Her face expresses experiencing ecstasy and by linking this image with the title of a piece, Madonna, which is the Christian perception of a Holy mother, Munch degraded the value of woman. The artist was a misogynist and his truth is that a woman is a source of all suffering, the mother of heresy and the incarnation of pure evil.  [6]  Expressionists, like Munch, disregarded mimetic approach to arts; instead they wanted to show the world through the prism of their own perception. Thus, the basic idea in this movement was not to imitate reality (so they were not interested in absolutes), but to present the very subjective and very personal opinions- just as in the coherence theory of truth. The theory claims that a proposition is true if it fits in with our overall set of beliefs. Although the concept of woman being a demon could be true for Munch, for majority of people it would be perceived as extremist and prejudiced view. However, expressionism, because of its fundamental assumptions, speaks more of the painter than of the world. Munchs perception derives from fear of woman that is why it is so narrow. Nevertheless, this narrowness is a deliberate action. Author, as an expressionist, through his works tells me: This is MY truth, what is yours? The painting of Rij-Rousseau does not describe, as the title could suggested, the outer look. In Portrait she depicted three different bodies which shows the complexity and diversity of womens nature. It can be cheerful and warm (orange), or impassive and cold (green), and there is also the person between them, poorly visible, brown- imitating the whole uncertainty and mystery of other womans embodiments. Rousseaus truth about woman is hidden in symbols: the green face resembles a mask, so the outer look, which would mean that the blithe person represents the inner nature of woman. Therefore, the painting represents the very essence of the cubist theory of truth-to present the object in the widest context possible by considering it from multiple viewpoints. In other words cubism assumes that we are getting closer to the truth the more perspectives we get to know. But now again, how good truth is that? I now realize that the absolute truth about woman means summing up all the personal truths about each woman separately, yet it is an impossible task. Furthermore, any attempt to draw a mathematically moderate view about woman would mean going back to the very beginning, so the concepts of generalization and mimesis. Therefore, what is gained through dealing with arts is not only finding out how great is our own ignorance, but also how unattainable to comprehend, and impossible to depict, the absolute truth is. What have I gained through dealing with the paintings of Vermeer, Renoir, Munch and Rousseau? The Milkmaid told me what the social status in Netherlands was in XVIIth century. Renoir immortalised some girls look at the time of a sunset, the emotions that her face expressed and the move of the grass around her. Munch told me of his greatest despise and fear of women. Rousseau showed not to trust the first impression because a woman is a very complex being. Therefore, I am wiser with the views of these four paintings, bur now I realise I am poorer with the lack of the perceptions depicted in another thousands paintings. Thus, I know that I know nothing  [8]  of the absolute truth about woman, since I just grasped only an idea of the truths complexity. When Picasso said that art is a lie that helps us realise the truth I believe he didnt mean any specific style, i.e. he didnt mean that realism is a lie, but that all the achievements in arts, in all styles and assumptions, are just n ot complete. Having in mind that Picasso actually created cubism, I cant resist evaluating his claim in relation to cubist theory of truth. According to this idea the absolute truth is a mosaic composed of various elements individual approaches. In other words, what Picasso meant is that arts is closed in specific boundaries of different styles and cannot present the whole picture, therefore is a lie. However, as new forms and concepts are created the more perspectives are added and, piece by piece, the mosaic is being completed.

Dostoevskys The Brothers Karamazov Essay example -- Brothers Karamazo

The Brothers Karamazov The Brothers Karamazov deals with many facets of life. More importantly though, the novel peers into the mind and its response to death. The characters all run from death in some way, and only those who can accept the suffering find justification. In addition to the theme of death, the novel acts as an autobiography of Dostoevsky, expounding his various beliefs and values. To get his theme across, Dostoevsky utilized several stylistic devices, such as imagery, irony, and dreams. Yet, his ability to write down what a character was thinking at certain moments helped shed light on that person's beliefs better than if he presented himself only through dialogue or description. In order to understand the relations between Dostoevsky and his various characters, the author's life and background must be studied. Born to lower middle class parents, Dostoevsky grew up in a rough, impassive childhood. He lived amidst two diametrically opposite parents--his father, a righteous and stern army doctor; and his mother, a kind, generous, and passive woman. Thus, the fact that several of his novels contain very different characters can be inferred from a childhood of two opposite parents. When Dostoevsky became older his father sent him to an army engineering school, which later becomes significant in analyzing the connection between Dostoevsky and Dmitri Karamazov. While at school, he faced several hardships that would torment his life and help explain the recurring themes in his novels. The serfs at his father's estate mercilessly killed him without getting arrested. From this harrowing experience came Dostoevsky's obsession with death, and throughout all of his novel s, especially "The Brothers Karamazov", deat... ...y see the soul of a man who carried vengeance in his heart, yet maintained a love for mankind characteristic of the biblical Job, whose suffering only brought more sympathy and blessings in the eyes of God. On an ironic note, Dostoevsky presented Alyosha Karamazov as a young man who would instill the love and spirituality to the innocent children needed to turn the backward country of Russia into a global power. These children did indeed change Russia 30 years later, not as spiritual lovers but as violent rebels in a communist revolution. They sought to free the peasants and laborers by theory, but in reality created a totalitarian state more powerful than even Peter the Great could have imagined. Now, the once powerful Russia lies wasted amidst the same poverty it dwelled in one hundred years earlier. Truly an ironic twist to the beliefs of a prophetic man.

The Character of Pop Bottle Pete in The River Warren :: River Warren Essays

The Character of Pop Bottle Pete in The River Warren      Ã‚   In the novel, The River Warren, Pop Bottle Pete is a character whom not all readers have an easy time understanding or relating to. The most obvious reason for this is that he is a grown man with a mental disability. The reader understands this through the words that he uses, the way he uses them, and also through his relationships, which are affected by his disability. Having a clearer knowledge of this disability, by looking at his language and social skills, the reader will gain a better understanding of these relationships. Out of respect for the character I will refer to him as Peter. To get a general range of Peter's skills, the Battelle Developmental Inventory will be used as a resource. The Battelle is an assessment used for children birth to six years of age but can be used on an older person who is functioning around this level. Given Peter's description of himself, his activities, and his feelings we can estimate a general developmental level (it is n ot possible to obtain a standardized score or an actual age level of development). According to the Battelle, Peter's skills appear to range about the five to six year age level in the areas of Adult Interaction, Expression of Feelings/Affect, Self-Concept and Social Role.    Some of the items that we can look at in the Adult Interaction are tasks such as "separating easily from the parent," a skill that is developed around 36-47 months. Peter seems to show no difficulty leaving his mother's presence and showing some independence. He seems very comfortable going out, away from his mother, to collect bottles and cans. Also, he did not show any difficulty when he was a Dr. Piersoll's office and his mother had to leave the room. If anything his mother seemed more disturbed than Peter. But he did have a task in the area of Adult Interaction that he would not have passed and that is "asking for adult help when needed," a skill that is developed around 72-83 months. If he had had this skill, he would have gone to his mother when he contracted frostbite on several of his toes and his penis, and he would have had her help him in the most appropriate way.

Ackoff Management Misinformation Systems :: essays research papers

â€Å"Ackoff Management Misinformation Systems† Ackoff identifies five assumptions commonly made by designers of management information systems (MIS). With these assumptions, Ackoff argues that these assumptions are in most cases not justified cases, and often lead to major deficiencies in the resulting systems, i.e. "Management Misinformation Systems." To overcome these assumptions and the deficiencies which result from them, Ackoff recommends that management information system should be imbedded in a management control system. The Ackoff Assumptions are that: (1) Due to lack of relevant information, most managers operate under this deficiency; With the first assumption and contention, I’d have to disagree. According to Ackoff, it seems that only certain information is useful, while the other is useless and it overburdens the managers. Therefore, top management usually receives filtered input that subordinates have carefully screened several times. However, top management needs more information and data, more qualitative input, and less formal analysis than it receives. Sometimes, the useful information might seem useless at one time, may become more important at another time. Therefore, I believe that all information be readily available for the manager to proceed forward in a timely fashion. (2) The manager needs the information he wants; I agree to a certain aspect to this ideology. Without a doubt, without the proper information, the manager is useless because they are not able to direct their workers in the right direction. People working for the manager tend to require more information from the top. More important, they need a general and, sometimes, a specific sense of direction and support. Without a proper direction, all people involved will concurrently feel underutilized, and will try to gather all information, relevant or irrelevant and fill up their work time, without achieving any goals. (3) A manager will improve his decision making, if he has the information he needs, This is a straight-forward logical agreement with the author. It is obvious that if the information is available, the manager will be able to make a better judgment. Without proper information from above, the people working for the manager will be lost. On the other hand, if the manager has the information need to complete the task, then the objective will be solved in a short period of time, with everyone contributing in a positive way. (4) A better communication between managers will improve organizational performance; I agree with the statement above on the basis that communication is the most important thing when it comes to working in unison.

Kindred Spirits Hotel †Case study Essay

Identify and Define the Problem: Before Greta became the owner of the Kindred Spirits Hotel, there had always been a comfortable, family atmosphere, but this was turned upside down by her presence. She was cold and uncommunicative. She would yell at the employees and reprimand them in front of employees and guests. She also insisted not working the breakfast shift. This was hard on the staff because major decisions needed to be made at that time and Greta was unavailable. As well, she fired three workers to cut costs. However, the work needing to be done did not decrease, she just expected everyone to do more. This made it difficult to feed guests breakfast, check out guests, and clean the rooms before new guests arrived. Most days, new guests had to wait for their rooms. Sometimes, they left and went to other hotels. Revenues were down 18% over last year at this time and profits had decreased 25%. Greta immediately cancelled all bonuses and cut back on the benefits offered to employees. The problem is that Greta’s attitude, work ethic & style have tarnished the hotel’s reputation and operation. As a result, the workers’ morale has been diminished to an all-time low. Generate and Evaluate Possible Solutions: Greta has to do a self-reflection and adapt to the environment to which the rest of the employees have become accustomed. She needs to treat the staff with respect and to stop yelling at them. In addition, Greta needs to become more of a team player. She needs to lose the attitude that she is superior because she is the boss and pitch in and help herself. She needs to be available particularly in the morning, as that is when decisions are made and it is the busiest and most critical part of the day. Greta may also consider hiring back those employees she released, in an effort to get the work done, thus better servicing the guests. This would also improve staff morale. If she were to admit she made a mistake and were to apologize for her behaviour, she might win back some of the employees’ respect and improve morale. There is a cost to hiring back the employees, but this additional cost should be offset by an increase in bookings due to improved service. The hotel was profitable when the staff was all employed there working for the previous owner. What needs to be changed is her treatment of the staff. She should hold a meeting with the staff to explain the changes and her actions, outlining that things will be better in the future. You might say, â€Å"How fast will the benefits occur and will a positive impact be achieved?† Most of these alternatives will take effect right away, but in order to increase the revenue and profit we are looking at long-term goals. The staff should support these entire solutions listed above because no matter how you look at it, Greta has to give back to the hotel. All of these alternatives will rekindle the staff’s morale, giving them the boost they need to do a hard day’s work. The hotel will prosper once again. If Greta can’t adapt then she should sell the business to someone who can make the business a more profitable one. She might also consider promoting Greg to manage the hotel and delegate total authority to him, removing herself from the operations. The staff respect Greg and have worked well with him in the past. Greg has had plenty of experience having these priorities before – in the last two years the previous owner had left much of the management decisions up to him. This would re-motivate the staff. Choose a solution In order to successfully address the problems herself, Greta needs to recognize that she herself is the problem. She also needs to be able to modify her behaviour and attitude. If she cannot do this, a successful implementation is not possible. Problem #2 Identify and Define the Problem: The second problem is parking. The city of Stratford had had complaints from neighbours about this. The hotel only had11 parking spaces and the overflow parked on the street. The town council was debating cancelling overnight parking on the street. This would have a dramatic impact on the hotel. In two weeks there would be a council meeting and Greg suggested he attend in Greta’s place but she screamed at him saying that she was in charge and how dare he try to undermine her authority. Greg had enough. He threatened to quit and walked out of the hotel. Generate and Evaluate Possible Solutions: Greta has to resolve her issues with Greg foremost and apologize for making those remarks. Greg is well respected by the staff and has been working in this business for fifteen years, so he should have her respect too. Since Greta couldn’t make any progress with the city council and has alienated them with her remarks, she should give Greg a shot and let him speak, or discuss his ideas beforehand so she can present his views at the meeting. If Greg walks out on her, other employees might follow. It is very important that she does not lose Greg, who is a valuable asset to the hotel and her business, else her problems may escalate. Greta could call a meeting with the staff and brainstorm together. 11 spaces are not enough for their guests to park. If they are unsuccessful with city council, they could expand their capacity by renting more property, build an underground garage or designate an area for parking. One spot per employee, one spot per guest. If an indoor garage were to be built, additional expenses would be incurred. The hotel might approach the city to help cover these additional costs. To earn money back, a fee should be charged for the use of the garage. Choose a Solution The easiest and most economical solution is for city council to grant parking on the street. The best chances for this happening would be if Greg were to present the hotel’s case at the council meeting. Greta should recommend that Greg attend. If this fails, the hotel should negotiate to pay for additional parking, where the costs are passed on to the hotel guests using the parking facilities.

Stefan’s Diaries: The Craving Chapter 3

No sooner had I left the park when a hansom cab flew around the corner, followed by a policeman on horseback. I fell back into the shadows, for one breathless moment overwhelmed by the clamor. I had thought New Orleans was big – and compared to Mystic Falls, it was. Buildings, businesses, and boats were crowded into a small, frenetic area by the Mississippi River. But it was nothing compared to Manhattan, where alabaster buildings rose high in the sky and people from Italy, Ireland, Russia, Germany – even China and Japan – walked the streets, selling their goods. Even at night, New York City pulsated with life. Fifth Avenue was lit by a row of happy, hissing gas lanterns that gave a warm, rich glow to the cobbled street. A giggling couple bent close together, wrapping their coats more tightly around themselves as the wind whistled past. A newsboy shouted out headlines about factories on fire and corruption in city hall. Hearts beat in a frenetic cacophony, thumping and racing. The trash, the perfumes, and even just the simple smell of clean, soapy skin clung to the streets like ropy vines of kudzu back home. After I regained my calm, I ran into the closest shadows beyond the light cast by gas lamps, the girl heavy in my arms. There was a doorman at a residency hotel up the block. As soon as he unfolded a newspaper, I staggered past him as fast as I could with my burden. Of course, if I had been at the peak of my Power, if I had been feeding on humans this whole time, it would have been nothing to compel the doorman to forget he saw anything. Better yet, I could have run straight to Seventy-third Street and been no more than a blur to the human eye. At Sixty-eighth Street, I hid beneath a damp bush as a drunk stumbled toward us. In the close confines of the branches, there was nothing to distract me from the sweet scent of the girl's blood. I tried not to inhale, cursing the desire that made me yearn to rip her throat out. When the drunk passed, I dashed north to Sixty-ninth Street, praying no one would see me and stop to question me about the unconscious girl in my arms. But in my haste, I kicked a stone, sending it clattering louder than a gunshot down the cobbled street. The drunk whirled around. â€Å"Hulloo?† he slurred. I pressed myself against the limestone wall of a mansion, saying a silent prayer that he would continue on his way. The man hesitated, peering around with bleary eyes, then collapsed on to the pavement with an audible snore. The girl let out another moan and shifted in my arms. It wouldn't be long before she woke and realized – with a loud scream, no doubt – that she was in the arms of a strange man. Steeling myself, I counted to ten. Then as if all the demons in hell were after me, I broke out into an uneven sprint, not even bothering to try to hold my charge gently. Sixty-ninth Street, Seventieth . . . A stray drop of the girl's blood spattered my cheek. A footstep echoed behind me. A horse whinnied in the distance. Soon we were at Seventy-second Street. Just one more block and we would be there. I would drop her off at her doorstep and sprint back to the – But One East Seventy-third Street made me pause. The house I grew up in was enormous, built by my father with the money he had made after coming to this country from Italy. Veritas Estate had three floors, a wide, sunny porch that wrapped around the entire structure, and narrow columns that stretched high to the second story. It was equipped with every luxurious feature available during the Northern Blockade. But this house – or mansion, rather – was enormous. A chateau made out of bone-white limestone, it took up nearly the entire block. Close-set windows lined every floor like watchful eyes. Wrought iron balconies, not unlike the ones that adorned Callie's house in New Orleans, hung at each level, dry brown vines clinging to the metal curlicues. There were even pointed, European-style pinnacles that boasted carved gargoyles. How fitting that the house I had to approach was guarded by monsters. I walked up to the giant front door, which was carved from dark wood. Depositing the girl gently on the stoop, I lifted the brass latch and knocked three times. I was about to turn on my heel to return to the park when the massive door flew open, as if it were no heavier than a garden gate. A servant stood at attention. He was tall and rail-thin, and he wore a simple black suit. We looked at each other for a moment, then at the girl on the stoop. â€Å"Sir . . .† the butler called to an unseen figure behind him, his voice surprisingly calm. â€Å"It's Miss Sutherland . . .† There were cries and shufflings. Almost immediately the entryway was crowded by far too many people, all of whom looked concerned. â€Å"I found her in the park,† I started. I got no further. Petticoats and heavy silk rustled as what seemed like half a dozen screaming women, servants, and men rushed out, fluttering around the girl like a flock of panicked geese. The smell of human blood was thick, making me light-headed. A richly dressed older woman – the mother, I assumed – immediately put a hand to her daughter's neck to feel for a heartbeat. â€Å"Henry! Get Bridget inside!† she ordered. The butler gently scooped her up, unflinching when the blood began to soak into his cream waistcoat. A housekeeper followed, taking orders from the still-bellowing mother, who waved maids on their various tasks. â€Å"Winfield, send the boy to fetch a doctor! Have Gerta draw a hot bath. Get the cook to prepare a cosset and some herbed spirits! Remove her bodice immediately and unlace her corset – Sarah, go to the trunk of old linens and cut us some bandages. Lydia, send for Margaret.† The crowd filtered back through the door, one by one, except for a young boy in knickers and a cap who went dashing off, his shoes hitting the street with sharp taps as he ran into the night. It was like the house, having spewed forth a few moments of life and family and vitality, now sucked its occupants back inside to its warmth and protection. Even if I had wished to, I would have been unable to follow after them. Humans must invite their doom in – whether they are aware of it or not. Without an invitation inside we vampires cannot enter any home, exiled from the warm hearths and friendly companionship that houses promise, left out in the night to simply watch. I turned to go, already having stayed far longer than I had intended. â€Å"Hold there, young man.† The voice was so confident, deep, and stentorian that I was pulled back as if compelled by some Power. Standing in the doorway was a figure I surmised to be the man of the house and father of the girl I had saved. He was happily fat, with the kind of girth that causes a man to stand back on his heels. He wore expensive clothes made from wool and tweed, well tailored but in casual patterns. Comfortable summed up his entire demeanor, from his ginger muttonchops to his sparkling black eyes to the half-smile that pulled at the left side of his mouth. It seemed he had worked hard for a large portion of his life; calloused hands and a redness about his neck attested to the fact that he hadn't inherited his wealth. For a moment the thought flashed through my head: How easy it would be to lure him out here. One more step . . . His corpulent body would provide me with enough blood to sate my hunger for days. I felt my jaw ache with the desire that would coax my fangs out, that would bring this man his death. But despite the many temptations I'd faced tonight, I had left that life behind me. â€Å"I was just leaving, sir. I'm glad your daughter is safe,† I said, taking a step backward toward the shadows. The man put a meaty hand on my arm, stopping me. His eyes narrowed, and though I could have killed him in an instant, I was surprised at a sudden nervous fluttering in my stomach. â€Å"What's your name, son?† â€Å"Stefan,† I answered. â€Å"Stefan Salvatore.† I realized immediately that telling him my real name like that was stupid, given the mess I had made of things in New Orleans and Mystic Falls. â€Å"Stefan,† he repeated, looking me up and down. â€Å"Not going to press for a reward?† I tugged on my shirt cuffs, embarrassed at my disheveled appearance. My black pants, with my journal tucked into the back pocket, were frayed. My shirt was pulled out and hanging in loose folds around my suspenders. No hat, no tie, no waistcoat, and above all that, I was dirty and smelled faintly of the outdoors. â€Å"No, sir. Just glad to help,† I murmured. The man was silent, as if he were having trouble processing my words. I wondered if the shock of seeing his daughter, bloodied and frail, had put him in something of a fog. Then he shook his head. â€Å"Nonsense!† He clasped my right shoulder. â€Å"I would give anything to keep my youngest safe. Come inside. I insist! Share a cigar and let me toast your rescue of my baby girl.† He tugged me into the house, as though I were a stubborn dog on a leash. I started to protest, but fell silent the moment I stepped into the grand foyer. The dark wainscoting was cherry wood. The stained glass windows that were meant to illuminate the doorway during the day sparkled even at night, their colors jewel-like under the gaslight. A giant, formal stairway climbed to the next floor, the balustrade looking as though it had been carved from whole trunks. In my human life, I'd wished to be a scholar of architecture, and I could have gladly studied this home for hours. But before I could fully appreciate the entryway, the man herded me through a hall and into a cozy parlor. A roaring orange fire commanded attention on the far wall. High-backed chairs with silk cushions were scattered around the room and the walls were papered in pine green. A snooker set was discreetly placed behind a couch, and cabinets of books, globes, and assorted curiosities framed high casement windows. My father, a collector of books and fine objects, would have loved this room, and my chest tightened at the realization that I would surpass my own father in life experience. â€Å"Cigar?† he offered, pulling out a box. â€Å"No thank you, sir,† I said. The cigars were the finest quality, made from my home state's tobacco. At one time, I would have been more than happy to accept. But even the sound of a bird's beak scraping against bark almost overwhelmed my heightened senses; the thought of sucking in clouds of black smoke was unbearable. â€Å"Hmmm. Doesn't partake.† He raised a craggy eyebrow doubtfully. â€Å"You'll not bow out on some spirits, I hope?† â€Å"No, sir. Thank you, sir.† The proper words came out of my mouth even as I paced back and forth. â€Å"That's my boy.† He prepared my drink, an apricot-colored liquid poured out of a cut crystal decanter. â€Å"So you found my daughter in the park,† he said, offering me the brandy. I couldn't help holding the sparkling glass up to the light. It would have been beautiful even without my vampire senses, scattering every stray beam like iridescent dragonflies. I nodded at my host and took a small sip, sitting down when he motioned to a leather chair. The warm, sweet spirits poured over my tongue, both comforting me and making me feel strangely uneasy at the same time. I had gone from living in a park to sipping fine liqueur in a mansion with a very wealthy man in the course of one short night. And at the same time that I longed to sprint back into the darkness – the loneliness that pervaded my very being begged me to linger. I had not spoken to anyone in two weeks, but here I was, invited into a veritable palace of human activity. I could sense at least a dozen servants and family members in the few rooms nearby, their heady scent indistinguishable to all but myself, and the two dogs I knew were in the kitchen. My benefactor regarded me strangely, and I made myself pay attention. â€Å"Yes, sir. I found her in a clearing by the remains of the old Seneca Village.† â€Å"What were you doing in the park so late at night?† he asked, fixing me with his eyes. â€Å"Walking,† I said evenly. I braced myself for what would come next, the uncomfortable series of questions that would assess my station in life, though my ripped clothes surely gave some indication. If I were him, I would have pressed a few dollars into my hand and sped me out the door. After all, New York was not short on predators, and though he couldn't know it, probably could not even imagine it, I was the worst sort. But his next words surprised me. â€Å"Down on your luck, son?† he asked, his expression softening. â€Å"What was it – tossed out of your father's house? A scandal? Duel? Caught on the wrong side of the war?† My mouth gaped open. How did he know I wasn't just some vagrant? He seemed to guess my thought. â€Å"Your shoes, son, show that you are obviously a gentleman, regardless of your current, eh, circumstances,† he said, eyeing them. I looked at them myself – scuffed and dirty, I hadn't shined them since Louisiana. â€Å"The cut is Italian and the leather is fine. I know my leather.† He tapped his own shoe, which looked to be made from crocodile. â€Å"It's how I got my start. I'm Winfield T. Sutherland, owner of Sutherland's Mercantile. Some of my neighbors made their money from oil or railroads, but I made my fortune honestly – by selling people what they needed.† The door to the study opened and a young woman I'd seen downstairs came in. She was composed and graceful, with a step that was both regal and efficient. Her cap was simple – almost like a servant's – but it accentuated her refined features. She was a rarefied version of the girl I had found in the park. Her hair was a more subtle golden shade, and her curls fell naturally in soft ringlets. Her eyelashes were as thick but longer, framing blue eyes with just a touch of gray in them. Her cheekbones were a trifle higher and her expressions more subdued. My human appreciation of her beauty fought with my vampire's cold appraisal of her body: healthy and young. â€Å"The doctor has just arrived, but Mama thinks she will be fine,† the girl said calmly. â€Å"The wound is not as deep as it first seemed, and appears to be mending itself already. It is by all accounts a miracle.† I shifted in my chair, knowing that I had been the reluctant source of that â€Å"miracle.† â€Å"My daughter Lydia,† Winfield introduced. â€Å"The most queenly of my three graces. That was Bridget whom you found. She's a bit . . . ah . . . tempestuous.† â€Å"She ran off by herself from a ball,† Lydia said through a forced smile. â€Å"I think you might be looking for a slightly stronger word than ‘tempestuous,' Papa.† I liked Lydia immediately. She had none of the joie de vivre that Callie had, but she possessed an intelligence and sense of humor that became her. I even liked her father, despite his huff and bluster. In a way, this reminded me of my own home, of my own family, back when I had one. â€Å"You have done us a great service, Stefan,† Winfield said. â€Å"And forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, but I suspect that you don't have a proper home to return to. Why don't you stay the night here? It is too late for you to go anywhere, and you must be exhausted.† I held up my hands. â€Å"No, I couldn't.† â€Å"Surely you must,† Lydia said. â€Å"I . . .† Say no. The image of Callie's green eyes rose before me, and I thought of my vow to live apart from humans. But the comforts of this beautiful house reminded me so much of the human life I'd left behind in Mystic Falls, I found it difficult to do what I knew I should. â€Å"I insist, boy.† Winfield put a meaty hand on my shoulder, forcing me out of the room. â€Å"It's the least we can offer as a thank-you. A good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast.† â€Å"That's very kind, but . . .† â€Å"Please,† Lydia said, a little smile on her face. â€Å"We are ever so grateful.† â€Å"I should really – â€Å" â€Å"Excellent!† Winfield clapped. â€Å"It's settled. We'll even have your clothes cleaned and pressed.† Like a horse being steered through a series of groomers before a race, the Sutherlands' housekeeper ushered me up several flights of steps to a back wing of the house that overlooked an east-facing alleyway. Instead of my usual hollow in the rocks by the stolen gravestones, I would sleep on a giant four-poster feather bed in a room with a roaring fire, in a house of humans that welcomed me happily and quickly as one of their own. The vampire in me remained hungry and nervous. But that didn't prevent the human in me from savoring a taste of the life I had lost.