A rose for Emilyby:William Faukners

Prepared by: Quilet, Kathlyn & Bronda, Christine

M.T. 31401418

William Cuthbert Faulkner was an American writer and Nobel Prize laureate from Oxford, Mississippi. Faulkner wrote novels, short stories, a play, poetry, essays, and screenplays. 

Born: 25 September 1897, New Albany, Mississippi, United State

- William Faulkner

Died: 6 July 1962, Byhalia, Mississippi, United States

Short stories: A Rose for Emily, Barn Burning, That Evening Sun, more

Movies: The Big Sleep, The Long, Hot Summer,  First published in the April 1930 Saturday Evening

Post, "A Rose for Emily" was reprinted in These Thirteen (1931), a collection of thirteen of Faulkner's stories. It was later included in his Collected Stories (1950) and in the Selected Short Stories of William Faulkner (1961).

MOOD OF THE POEMThe mood of Rose for Emily is nostalgic, then suspenseful, and then alarming. ToneThe tone of the story is gothic and also inviting to suspense. POINT OF VIEWThird person Rhymeaabbccddecc

FORM Rhymeaabbccddecc

Stanza 14 stanza

Symbolism

ROSE – LOVE (LOVE FOR EMILY) Her father thought no man was good enough for her or for the Grierson family

THE STRAND OF HAIR -The strand of hair is a reminder of love lost and the often perverse things people do in their pursuit of happiness.

EMILY’S HOUSE-Emily’s house, like Emily herself, is a monument, the only remaining emblem of a dying world of Southern aristocracy. 

Figurative Speech Metaphor When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument.... Personification Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps.... SimileHer skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.

A Rose for EmilyWhen Miss Emily Greison died we all went to her grave, aFor the rumours that surrounded her in life only death could make us brave.aThe day turned black with a thunderous boom as down poured a heavy rain,bwashing up the maggots and the worms upon her stone carved coffin mud stained.b

In her youth Miss Emily's beauty brought burly men down to their knees,c with emerald eyes, skin pearly pale, silky hair flowing freely in the summer breeze.cHer father had wealth beyond any measure, the richest man of any town,dwith a trove full of treasure that could match any church, state, or crown.dAnd so the noblest of suitors from every land and every creed,etook haste to Greison manor all as nominees,cin hopes of taking the hand of Emily and inheriting her fathers keys.c

Yet things seemed a miss upon that hill which sat Greison estate,fand soon the town raced with tales of torture and tragedy we were filled with debate,fFor no suitor that entered Greison manor has ever been seen to this date.fAt first we thought no man was noble enough, her father strict and grand,gfor the rivers ran, the leaves withered and whiteness filled the land,gyet no suitor had emerged victorious with Miss Emily hand in hand.g

Some nights when the town was all asleep,has one could hear the old oaks creek,iwhile cicadas hummed as a mighty moon rose at night's peak,iwhile the summer blew kisses to the clear starry sky silently,ja murderous scream would rend through the night violently.jSome would cry mercy while others would laugh cackling,kas though they could not believe as to what was happening.kWhen the wind would blow greatly down the hill, howling around the bend,la putrid stench of death and decay would make our nose hairs stand on end.lAnd so the screams and streamas of tears flowed from Greison manor without end,luntil we rallied to seek out the truth and so went the Board of Alderman.m

There stood before us at Greison manor, an old ebony man withered and haggard,nhis face gaunt, eyes glazed, and with each step he staggerd.nYet a horrid sight we beheld standing next to Toby,oa skeleton of her former self, the dreaded Miss Emily.o

Her eyes sunken in, veins like ropes, standing motionless in anger,psave the glare in her eyes, the twitch of her lips, and the tapping of her finger.pAnd all around spider webs arched, dust paved marble slab, and danced about the air.qThe mahogany had rot long ago, a house no one took care.q

We're here because", we sputtered, " no taxes you've paid in years...rand the stench of the garbage" he studdered, his voice brimming with fear.r"Be gone!", she croaked," I owe you nothing, ask General Satoris“sand to the rotted portriat she pointed,"I shall hear no more of this!“s"My father is ill, he needs his rest, I demand for you to leave!"and so the front door opened and ushered us out Toby.o

So days passed and word reached us Mr. Greison was deathly ill, until we carried his lifelesscorpse out, Miss Emily stating "he's alive, still".That was the last we saw of her, till she died at seventy-three,when her car

Yet the mystery of the manor laid heavy in our minds,so our courage we mustered, to the hill to see what we could find.And so we looked through every room of every corner down to the floor,till last we reached up top the manor, the last remaining door.

Inside there laid a man upon a bed, decrepit and decayed,and next to him a single strand of gray hair where someone must of laid."Could this be Homer Barron, we though he left long ago?"when suddenly a chilling draft from behind the bookshelf began to blow.

A soft scraping could be heard from deep beneath the ground,our imagination ran wild of dreadful dreams of what could be found.And so our curiosity got the best of us, causing grave torment,we were willed inside the black and so began our descent.

he dark damp staircase seemed endless, as each pass it seemed to grow longer,as the stench of rot and earth began to grow stronger.Finally we reached a door, we all began to heavefor what we found, the horror, no one would ever believe.

There laid upon a table, a man split side by side,his organs in a pile, his skin hung above- a hide.All along the walls wide eyes and open mouths gasped,broken legs strewn in blood, as mangled arms reached out to clasp.

The scraping ceased, heavy steps began to grow, each footstep it increased,till out came a man, rotted and red- he, the beast.Mr. Greison smiled, scythe in hand, two abysmal holes in his head,while a chilling voice from behind us spoke, "You see, he wasn't dead".

Theme

People should let go of the past, moving on with the present so that they can prepare to welcome their future.

Tradition vs Change