809R2
Passage I
The SunGold Market into which he turned was a large, brilliantly lit place.
All the fixtures were chromium and the floors and walls were lined with white
tile. Colored spotlights played on the showcases and counters, heightening the
natural hues of the different foods. The oranges were bathed in red, the lemons
(5)in yellow, the fish in pale green, the steaks in rose and the eggs in ivory.
Homer went directly to the canned goods department and bought a can of
mushroom soup and another of sardines. These and a half a pound of soda
crackers would be enough for his supper.
Out on the street again with his parcel, he started to walk home. When he
(10)reached the corner that led to Pinyon Canyon and saw how steep and black the
hill looked, he turned back along the lighted boulevard. He thought of waiting
until someone else started up the hill, but finally took a taxicab.
Although Homer had nothing to do but prepare his scanty meals, he was not
bored. Except for the Romola Martin incident1 and perhaps one or two other
(15)widely spaced events, the forty years of his life had been entirely without variety
or excitement. As a bookkeeper, he had worked mechanically, totaling figures and
making entries with the same impersonal detachment that he now opened cans
of soup and made his bed.
Someone watching him go about his little cottage might have thought him
(20)sleep-walking or partially blind. His hands seemed to have a life and a will of their
own. It was they who pulled the sheets tight and shaped the pillows.
One day, while opening a can of salmon for lunch, his thumb received a nasty
cut. Although the wound must have hurt, the calm, slightly querulous2 expression
he usually wore did not change. The wounded hand writhed about on the kitchen
(25)table until it was carried to the sink by its mate and bathed tenderly in hot water.
When not keeping house, he sat in the back yard, called the patio by the real
estate agent, in an old broken deck chair. He went out to it immediately after
breakfast to bake himself in the sun. In one of the closets he had found a tattered
book and he held it in his lap without looking at it.
(30)There was a much better view to be had in any direction other than the one
he faced. By moving his chair in a quarter circle he could have seen a large part
of the canyon twisting down to the city below. He never thought of making this
shift. From where he sat, he saw the closed door of the garage and a patch of its
shabby, tarpaper roof. In the foreground was a sooty, brick incinerator and a pile
(35)of rusty cans. A little to the right of them were the remains of a cactus garden in
which a few ragged, tortured plants still survived.
One of these, a clump of thick, paddlelike blades, covered with ugly needles,
was in bloom. From the tip of several of its topmost blades protruded a bright
yellow flower, somewhat like a thistle blossom but coarser. No matter how hard
(40)the wind blew, its petals never trembled.
A lizard lived in a hole near the base of this plant. It was about five inches
long and had a wedge-shaped head from which darted a fine, forked tongue. It
earned a hard living catching the flies that strayed over to the cactus from the pile
of cans.
1the Romola Martin incident − reference to a previous job where he had to ask a woman for her
2querulous − constantly complaining
(45)The lizard was self-conscious and irritable, and Homer found it very amusing
to watch. Whenever one of its elaborate stalks was foiled, it would shift about
uneasily on its short legs and puff out its throat. Its coloring matched the cactus
perfectly, but when it moved over to the cans where the flies were thick, it stood
out very plainly. It would sit on the cactus by the hour without moving, then
(50)become impatient and start for the cans. The flies would spot it immediately and
after several misses, it would sneak back sheepishly to its original post.
Homer was on the side of the flies. Whenever one of them, swinging too
widely, would pass the cactus, he prayed silently for it to keep on going or turn
back. If it lighted, he watched the lizard begin its stalk and held his breath until
(55)it had killed, hoping all the while that something would warn the fly. But no
matter how much he wanted the fly to escape, he never thought of interfering,
and was careful not to budge or make the slightest noise. Occasionally the lizard
would miscalculate. When that happened Homer would laugh happily.
Between the sun, the lizard and the house, he was fairly well occupied. But
(55)whether he was happy or not it is hard to say. Probably he was neither, just as a
plant is neither. He had memories to disturb him and a plant hasnÕt, but after the
first bad night his memories were quiet.
Nathanael West
excerpted from The Day of the Locust, 1939
The Vail Ballou Press, Inc.
Passage II Questions 8 - 10 refer to passage II
Habit
The shoes put on each time
left first, then right.
The morning potion´s teaspoon
of sweetness stirred always
(5)for seven circlings __ no fewer, no more __
into the cracked blue cup.
Touching the pocket for wallet,
for keys,
before closing the door.
(10)How did we come
to believe these small rituals promise,
that we are today the selves we yesterday knew,
tomorrow will be?
How intimate and unthinking,
(15)the way the toothbrush is shaken dry after use,
the part we wash first in the bath.
Which habits we learned from others
and which are ours alone we may never know.
Unbearable to acknowledge
(20)how much they are themselves our fated life.
Open the traveling suitcase __
There the beloved red sweater,
bright tangle of necklace, earrings of amber.
Each confirming: I chose these, I.
(55)But habit is different: it chooses.
And we, its good horse,
opening our mouths at even the sight of the bit.
Jane Hirshfield
from Slate, March 15, 2000
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