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read 3 essays and complete a worksheet for each essay

Read all 3 essay in the attachment “exercise 4″Complete one worksheet for each of the essay (instruction see the attachment “exercise 4_reading journal”*This is not a paper, all you need to do is to complete 3 worksheets. *note: time limit is strict.

Exercise 4: Reading Journal
Title of the essay:
(Enter the name of the essay)
List the key concepts (both explicit – used by the writer in the text – and implicit, i.e. those
that are relevant for the essay but do not appear in the text verbatim). Try to identify as
many compound or paired concepts as possible (for example, eating disorder, power of
language, stereotypical representation):
(Enter 3-5 key words and explain)
What is the problem that the writer addresses in this essay? What is the central insight of
the essay? (Indicate page numbers for your reference to make it easier to locate specific places in
the essay):
Answer in 6 complete sentences (with page number)
What have you noticed about the style of writing in this essay? Do any word choices stand
out? Patterns of syntax? Figurative uses of language (metaphors, epithets, etc)? Provide some
examples with page numbers. What do you think is the function of these elements – what
effects do they have on the reading process and our understanding of the essay?
(Answer in 6-8 complete sentences with page numbers)
What are some things that you observe in this essay that do not make sense or that seem
really insightful, original, unique? Please explain:
(Answer in 6 complete sentences)
What questions do you have about the essay itself, its writer, or the subject? What
questions does reading this essay make you ask about yourself or the world around you?
(answer in 6 complete sentences)
What connections (similarities in style or theme or overlaps in argument) do you observe
with the other essays by this author?
(answer in 6 complete sentences)
Essay 1 – Acknowledgements
The Opposite of Loneliness would not have been possible without the assiduous efforts of
Anne Fadiman, professor, mentor, and friend to Marina during her time at Yale. Anne has
invested countless hours working tirelessly to make our dream of sharing Marina’s work a
reality. Anne’s generosity of spirit is matched only by her brilliance. No words could
adequately express the depth of our gratitude.
At Buckingham Browne & Nichols, Marina studied with Beth McNamara, a gifted teacher of
English and kindred spirit. Ms. Mac’s tutelage and encouragement were instrumental to
Marina’s development as a writer. We have come to treasure the bond formed with Beth as
she has provided steadfast support to our family and expert editorial assistance on the book.
Our grateful recognition goes to literary agents Lane Zachary and Todd Shuster, who
helped us to find the perfect publisher for Marina’s work and we deeply appreciate the
outstanding team at Scribner: Nan Graham, Shannon Welch, John Glynn, Kate Lloyd, Roz
Lippel, Caitlin Dohrenwend, Kara Watson, Dan Cuddy, and Tal Goretsky. Marina would
have been so honored.
Much of the vital collecting, organizing, and formatting of Marina’s portfolio has been
contributed by Vivian Yee, a friend and fellow English major. We are grateful for the hours
of hard work and loving dedication she has contributed to the project.
Marina’s dear friends Chloe Sarbib, Luke Vargas, and Yena Lee have constantly been there
for us, helping to keep her spirit close and serving as trusted guides along the journey.
It is easy to understand the inspiration for Marina’s final essay, as we have been embraced
by Yale’s amazing community of classmates, professors, and staff. We offer heartfelt thanks
to the entire Yale community, and special mention must go to Harold Bloom, John Crowley,
Paul Hudak, Amy Hungerford, Deborah Margolin, Donald Margulies, Paul McKinley, Mary
Miller, Catherine Nicholson, Cathy Shufro, and Leslie Woodard.
The following people have contributed to Marina’s legacy in a multitude of ways: Will
Adams, Monrud Becker, Debby Bisno, Michael Blume, Luke Bradford, Joseph Breen,
Alexandra Brodsky, Alex Caron, Wendy and Bill Coke, Carrie Cook, Gabriel Barcia Duran,
Olivia Fragale, Stephen Feigenbaum, Jacque Feldman, Cory Finley, Riley Scripps Ford,
Adam Freedman, Michael Gocksch, Henry Gottfried, Josh Grossman, Steve Grossman, Jack
Hitt, Rachel Hunter, Cam Keady, Duke and Kathy Keegan, Tom and Lori Keegan, Michael
and Luette Keegan, Shellie Keegan, Beatrice Kelsey-Watts, Zara Kessler, Julia Lemle, Dan
Lombardo, Kate Lund, Richard Miron, David Mogilner, Lauren Motzkin, Nick Murphy,
John-Michael Parker, Charlie Polinger, Michael Rosen, Rachel Ruskin, Kate Selker, Julie
Shain, Raphael Shapiro, Diana Shoolman, Vivian Shoolman, Mark Sonnenblick, Ben Stango,
Kathy and Jeff Starcher, Jim Stone, Eric Schwartz, Brendan Ternus, Jesse Terry, Gerrit
Thurston, Sally Vargas, Sigrid von Wendel, Meghan Weiler, Ben Wexler, Joseph Wynant,
Yael Zinkow, and Julie Zhu. Apologies to anyone we have inadvertently left out: You were
certainly never left out of her heart.
In addition to her beloved Yale, Marina experienced the opposite of loneliness in two other
formative places: the Buckingham Browne & Nichols School and Cape Cod Sea Camp,
where she spent her childhood summers.
In honor of Marina’s brothers, Trevor and Pierce, with whom she shared a childhood full of
spirit and adventure and for whom she had profound admiration and love.
Finally, we acknowledge our entire community of family and friends who have contributed
to make this book a reality. It was comforting to have you there for us and we are grateful to
have you in our lives.
Tracy and Kevin Keegan
Essay 2 – The opposite of loneliness
We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I could say that’s what I
want in life. What I’m grateful and thankful to have found at Yale, and what I’m scared of
losing when we wake up tomorrow after Commencement and leave this place.
It’s not quite love and it’s not quite community; it’s just this feeling that there are people, an
abundance of people, who are in this together. Who are on your team. When the check is
paid and you stay at the table. When it’s four A.M. and no one goes to bed. That night with
the guitar. That night we can’t remember. That time we did, we went, we saw, we laughed,
we felt. The hats.
Yale is full of tiny circles we pull around ourselves. A cappella groups, sports teams, houses,
societies, clubs. These tiny groups that make us feel loved and safe and part of something
even on our loneliest nights when we stumble home to our computers—partnerless, tired,
awake. We won’t have those next year. We won’t live on the same block as all our friends.
We won’t have a bunch of group texts.
This scares me. More than finding the right job or city or spouse, I’m scared of losing this
web we’re in. This elusive, indefinable, opposite of loneliness. This feeling I feel right now.
But let us get one thing straight: the best years of our lives are not behind us. They’re part of
us and they are set for repetition as we grow up and move to New York and away from
New York and wish we did or didn’t live in New York. I plan on having parties when I’m
thirty. I plan on having fun when I’m old. Any notion of THE BEST years comes from
clichéd “should have . . . ,” “if I’d . . . ,” “wish I’d . . .”
Of course, there are things we wish we’d done: our readings, that boy across the hall. We’re
our own hardest critics and it’s easy to let ourselves down. Sleeping too late. Procrastinating.
Cutting corners. More than once I’ve looked back on my high school self and thought: how
did I do that? How did I work so hard? Our private insecurities follow us and will always
follow us.
But the thing is, we’re all like that. Nobody wakes up when they want to. Nobody did all of
their reading (except maybe the crazy people who win the prizes . . .). We have these
impossibly high standards and we’ll probably never live up to our perfect fantasies of our
future selves. But I feel like that’s okay.
We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time.
There’s this sentiment I sometimes sense, creeping in our collective conscious as we lie alone
after a party, or pack up our books when we give in and go out—that it is somehow too late.
That others are somehow ahead. More accomplished, more specialized. More on the path to
somehow saving the world, somehow creating or inventing or improving. That it’s too late
now to BEGIN a beginning and we must settle for continuance, for commencement.
When we came to Yale, there was this sense of possibility. This immense and indefinable
potential energy—and it’s easy to feel like that’s slipped away. We never had to choose and
suddenly we’ve had to. Some of us have focused ourselves. Some of us know exactly what
we want and are on the path to get it: already going to med school, working at the perfect
NGO, doing research. To you I say both congratulations and you suck.
For most of us, however, we’re somewhat lost in this sea of liberal arts. Not quite sure what
road we’re on and whether we should have taken it. If only I had majored in biology . . . if
only I’d gotten involved in journalism as a freshman . . . if only I’d thought to apply for this
or for that . . .
What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We
can start over. Get a post-bac or try writing for the first time. The notion that it’s too late to
do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. We’re graduating from college. We’re so young. We
can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.
In the heart of a winter Friday night my freshman year, I was dazed and confused when I
got a call from my friends to meet them at Est Est Est. Dazedly and confusedly, I began
trudging to SSS,I probably the point on campus farthest away. Remarkably, it wasn’t until I
arrived at the door that I questioned how and why exactly my friends were partying in
Yale’s administrative building. Of course, they weren’t. But it was cold and my ID somehow
worked so I went inside SSS to pull out my phone. It was quiet, the old wood creaking and
the snow barely visible outside the stained glass. And I sat down. And I looked up. At this
giant room I was in. At this place where thousands of people had sat before me. And alone,
at night, in the middle of a New Haven storm, I felt so remarkably, unbelievably safe.
We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I’d say that’s how I feel at
Yale. How I feel right now. Here. With all of you. In love, impressed, humbled, scared. And
we don’t have to lose that.
We’re in this together, 2012. Let’s make something happen to this world.
Essay 3 – Baggage Claim
Kyle dry-swallowed two aspirin as he entered the warehouse. It reminded him of a
Walmart, only larger and more fluorescent. Mellow music hovered over the chatter that only
20 to 30 percent off could possibly inspire. It wasn’t his idea to go to the Unclaimed Baggage
Center, or, as the women in the matching red polos at the door said, “The Lost Luggage
Capital of the World.” The building boasted a solid fifty thousand square feet and stretched
out like a giant cinder block, awkwardly planted on an island of asphalt in the middle of
rural Scottsboro. Bridget had charted this visit into their itinerary long before they had left
for Alabama and Kyle had decided he wouldn’t like it long before they arrived.
“Did you know,” she had said in the car, “that over one million lost bags come through
there every year?” He grunted and looked back at the map. “It says here that one man found
an original Salvador Dalí print in an old suitcase.” He wondered if she had planned their
vacation so he’d finally propose. Wondered if she could sense the ring he had hidden in the
cloth in the box in his Dopp kit in the second-smallest pocket of his backpack. Wondered
why this somehow annoyed him, and why after all this time she somehow annoyed him.
The way the foam collected on the corners of her mouth when she brushed her teeth, the
way her clothes were always folded in squares, the way she eyed him when he didn’t eat his
green beans. He didn’t bother asking what an “original” print was. Instead he faked a
smile, squeezed her arm, and turned off at Exit 62.
Bridget stared up at the aisle signs hanging from the warehouse ceiling. “The deals here are
going to be unbelievable.” She did a semicircle, stopping in front of him so their noses
nearly touched. “I’m going to go look at those scarves.” She kissed him lightly and he
noticed her cheeks were sunburned. Kyle nodded as she hurried toward a rack.
Despite the aspirin, a dull headache began to settle in on him. Supermarkets had the same
effect—a type of pressure from the plaster above and the linoleum below. He moved down
the aisle and emerged in front of a display of digital cameras. Atop the stack was a whiteand-red sign proclaiming that ALL PREVIOUS PICTURES HAVE BEEN DELETED FROM
THE CAMERAS, and below it was a yellow tag reading TWO-FOR-ONE SPECIAL! Kyle
wondered whose job it was to erase the memories from someone else’s life. Some young guy
who spent his days flipping through the pictures of an Indian couple at a ski resort or a
family vacationing in Buenos Aires, monotonously deleting them one after another, perhaps
pondering his own means of escaping Scottsboro, Alabama, and his job at its main
attraction. It reminded him of a horror movie he had watched with Bridget on one of their
first dates. A man received an eye transplant and began to see things from the donor’s life.
These cameras, he decided, must function exactly like that.
Kyle was reminded of an arena as he wove through the stacks of aged leather cases, brandnew suits, and souvenirs from Taiwan, past ski boots and rain boots and a glass case full of
watches. After a moment, he set out down an aisle of women’s bathing suits. He imagined
tired employees marking and cleaning an endless supply of swimwear. Another tropical
vacation, they would say as they unzipped a flap, another pair of flip-flops. The concept
somehow repulsed him. Ninety days didn’t seem long enough to give up hope and sell
someone’s belongings. He walked past an elderly woman and examined a floral bikini. He
imagined Bridget standing hopelessly by an empty conveyor belt, robbed of her own
possessions. He imagined himself comforting her and assuring her they’d find it eventually.
The girl who lost the floral bikini had probably thrown a fit, but Bridget would have been
calm, forgiving, and it would have driven him crazy.
“There you are!” She came out from behind a rack of golf clubs. “I think I’m going to buy
this shawl.” Bridget pulled an antique-looking cloth around her shoulders and pointed her
face up in a pose. “What do you think?”
“It’s nice.”
“Are you thinking of getting a new digital camera?” She folded the shawl back up and
tucked her hair behind her ears. “Look, it’s two for one.”
“Well, I’m going to go buy this before I change my mind,” she said as she shifted her brown
purse higher up on her shoulder and walked to the left, “but I’ll come find you in a minute.”
“Hey, Bridget.” He didn’t know what prompted him to say it. She stopped and turned
around, her brown ponytail swinging to her left shoulder. Kyle opened his mouth, then shut
it. “Uh, did you know that some guy once found an original Salvador Dalí print in here?”
“Yeah, I did,” she said sharply, but he could see her roll her eyes and grin as she turned
back toward the register.
Kyle looked up at the fluorescent lights and listened as their hum mixed with the distant
music. She knows, he thought. She must have found it in the hotel. Kyle placed his backpack
on a pile of black duffels and followed behind her. It wasn’t until they were back in the
parking lot that he decided to run inside and buy it back for $4.99.
Essay 4 – Putting the “Fun” Back in Eschatology
If you didn’t already know this, the sun is going to die.
When I think about the future, I don’t think about inescapable ends. But even if we solve
global warming and destroy nuclear bombs and control population, ultimately the human
race will annihilate itself if we stay here. Eventually, inevitably, we will no longer be able to
live on Earth: we have a giant fireball clock ticking down twilight by twilight.
In many ways, I think mortality is more manageable when we consider our eternal
components, our genetics and otherwise that carry on after us. Still, soon enough, the books
we write and the plants we grow will freeze up and rot in the darkness.
But maybe there’s hope.
What the universe really boils down to is whether a planet evolves a life-form intelligent
enough to create technology capable of transporting and sustaining that life-form off the
planet before the sun in that planet’s solar system explodes. I have a limited set of
comparative data points, but I’d estimate that we’re actually doing okay at this point. We
already have (intelligent) life, technology, and (primitive) space travel. And we still have
some time before our sun runs out of hydrogen and goes nuclear.
Yet none of that matters unless we can develop a sustainable means of living and traveling
in space. Maybe we can. What I’ve concluded is that if we do reach this point, we have
crossed a remarkable threshold—and will emerge into the (rare?) evolutionary status of
having outlived the very life source that created us.
It’s natural selection on a Universal scale. “The Origin of the Aliens,” one could say; a
survival of the fittest planets. Planets capable of evolving life intelligent enough to leave
before the lights go out. I suppose that without a God, NASA is my anti-nihilism. Alone and
on my laptop, these ideas can humble me into apathy. My sophomore year’s juxtaposition of
Galaxies and the Universe with Introduction to International Relations made the latter seem
laughably small in scale.
But I had this thought the other night. My instinct, of course, is to imagine us as one of many
planets racing its evolution against its sun—merely one in the galactic Darwinian pursuit.
But maybe we’re not. Maybe all this talk of the inevitability of aliens is garbage and we’re
miraculously, beautifully alone in our biological success. What if we’re winning? What if
we’re actually the most evolved intelligence in all this big bang chaos? What if other planets
have bacteria and single-celled genotypes but nothing more?
The precedent is all the more pressing. Humans alone could be winning the race against our
giant gas time bomb and running with the universal Olympic torch. What an honor. What a
responsibility. What a gift we have been given to be born in an atmosphere with oxygen and
carbon dioxide and millions of years and phenotypes cheering us on with recycles of energy.
The thing is, I think we can make it. I think we can shove ourselves into spaceships before
things get too cold.
I only hope we don’t fuck things up before that. Because millions of years is a long time and
I don’t want to let the universe down.
Essay 5 – The Art of Observation
The old couple in lower berths C and D stared at us for at least twenty of the thirty-two
hours between the City of the Dead and India’s south coast. We read books, rolled dice, and
looked out at rice fields and rivers. The woman was plump and wrapped in a saffron sari,
the man thin and clothed in a starched white shirt. We traveled with them in a curtained
compartment as the train wove past scruffy monkeys and starving cows, but they gazed
instead at our pale peculiarities. The way I braided my hair. The way he bit at a nail. The
way we smiled and laughed across our top bunks. We didn’t mind, really. Not when they
watched us eat oily lentils with forks and not when they spoke in hushed Hindi as we took
off our shoes. So we looked out and not down as Calcutta wound to Chennai and the


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