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Download our free ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks to read on almost any device — your desktop, iPhone, iPad, Android phone or tablet, Amazon Kindle and more. Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg. Emma by Jane Austen. No cover available. Download Download This eBook. The main character, Emma Woodhouse, is described in the opening This book is available for free download in a number of formats - including epub, pdf, azw.

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Emma by Jane Austen. About the book. INTRODUCTION (Excerpted from The Jane Austen Book Club). Emma was written between January and March. Full text books - archive of free books, texts, documents, classic literature, drama Emma, by Jane Austen Download this document as resourceone.info: File size: MB. Original books for free download, in PDF versions or read online, great kids stories for entertainment, new author promotion, and improved literacy. Download.

Jane realising she had made a terrible mistake turned the offer down the next day and remained single until her death - never receiving any other marriage proposals. Jane Austen began to feel unwell early in dying the following year possibly of either Addison's disease or of bovine tuberculosis although the cause cannot be verified.

Search Website. Follow freeclassics. Free downloads of books by Jane Austen Website problems? Emma [ pdf ][ prc ].

Lady Susan [ pdf ][ prc ]. Mansfield Park [ pdf ][ prc ]. Northanger Abbey [ pdf ][ prc ]. Persuasion [ pdf ][ prc ]. Pride and Prejudice [ pdf ][ prc ]. In Emma, the characters themselves are thus more important than the plot in the traditional sense. Marsh By analysing these, the reader is thus enabled to understand the deeper structure of the novel and the inner-lying messages of it cf.

Very often, one can notice that the words written in this novel imply more than one meaning cf. Strovel Therefore, special focus will be laid on the heroine Emma Woodhouse in relation to other characters to exemplify that specific use of irony. Back then, irony encompassed the act of lying but also the act of concealing something cf. Colebrook 2.

Quintilian, a Roman orator who lived in the first century, was one of the first to define irony in the sense it is generally used today cf. Colebrook 1. To him, irony can be a stylistic device in a text to say one thing but meaning another, a speech whose style and tone contradict its actual topic, or a whole attitude towards life cf.

Knox Socrates, for instance, held such an ironic attitude by pretending all through his life to be ignorant and to admire the wisdom and knowledge of others while actually thus exposing their ignorance cf.

Thus, the most common way to define irony nowadays is to say one thing but in fact mean another cf. These meanings might seem contradictory at first sight. Yet within a work of literature, both meanings very often turn out to be valid cf. Irony can thus be seen as the link between two or more different meanings cf. Ironic reading of texts thus entails searching for an alternative meaning in exchange to the obvious one cf.

Colebrook 5. This also includes taking into account the contradictory nature of language in order to find the difference between what is said and what meant Colebrook Irony thus also provokes the reader to think about these different meanings or attitudes that have been detected in a text cf. This refers to the notion that the authorial point of view is different from the voice expressed in the novel cf.

Showers of hot flashes, sudden anxieties, come over me. Just a few weeks before, I had attended a seminar on the work of the interpreter. The expert seemed to attach a lot of importance to distance, to always keeping one's distance, the "appropriate" distance, he repeated over and over to us, as though all one had to do was install a barrier, some boundaries, and shrug one's shoulders once the work was done.

Time passes; I dream of space, but in front of me there is only an abyss, for nothing living or moving on earth is important anymore; the only thing that exists for me is a woman called Emma, and her madness.

Just as nothing can rid us of death, I can do nothing to avoid Emma. She is already a part of me. From now on, I must live her life. In a big notebook, I start to write about Emma; I 42 rewrite the same things several times, but that isn't important either.

Just like shells that catch the noise of the sea and stubbornly repeat its obsessive music, Emma's voice is ingrained in mine; she has taken possession of me, the way moss covers stones and the trunks of trees. In my writing, I speak to Emma: "I am writing to tell of all that burns in my body and in my blood and that I don't manage to convey to you during the sessions with Dr. MacLeod, so that your voice may live forever, you whose voice no one has ever listened to. I will write to your last drop of hate, and your voice, like a bell, will sound until the end of time.

I discover unexpectedly the sterility and vacuity of my words and, at the same time, how madness can be contagious. MLonday morning, early, I receive a call from Dr. MacLeod's secretary. She tells me that the normal session with Emma is cancelled, but the doctor wants me to be present at a meeting of the Interdisciplinary Committee. Full of apprehension, I ask myself about this well-known committee.

What right do I have to participate — 42 — in a meeting at which a decision will be made on Emma's fate? Won't this committee try to use me for its report to the court? For sure, they will want to know my opinion on what they call "Emma's strange illness". MacLeod always uses that word: strange. Does he suspect that I am wary, that I have packed away in the back of the closet, with my old school books, the sacrosanct neutrality that is the duty of the interpreter?

Does he know that I have chosen sides? I hear them already: "What is your interpretation of everything she is saying? Can that be attributed to her culture? Could it be an atavism? Imagining that I have no questions, I settle for hearing myself say, rather often I must admit, that I have the perfect skin colour: just right, not too pale, not to dark.

That is how they like us. MacLeod as I enter the room. Everybody is very busy, so we had to start earlier. I submitted a report based on my observations of Emma. I concluded that we aren't making any progress. Emma has trapped me in the snare of her language, which seems disorganized but isn't at all, in fact," the doctor says. We must change our method. Emma will not open up, I am sure, either to me or to any other medical professional.

We have tried everything. In relations with shrinks, you know, it's a little bit like relations between lovers: you don't open up; you don't fully let down your guard, until you realize that the other party wants to give up any intention of being someone other than themselves.

This is one of the basic principles of psychiatry. From now on, it will be as if you were alone with her. I will be completely in the background; I won't intervene anymore. We will see each other before each 44 session and I'll prepare a few questions in the hope that she will agree to answer them.

However much she makes you a target, it's only a question of verbal attacks. Physically, you have nothing to worry about. The committee seems to find my proposal acceptable from an ethical point of view: it's in the meandering of her thoughts that we will find the key to her problem, since she refuses to answer the questions which are put to her directly, especially those which have to do with the murder of her daughter.

Until now, she has neither admitted nor denied the act that she has been accused of. What sometimes can seem so evident to us My goal is to understand what motivated Emma to kill her daughter, and you, you are supposed to help me to do this.

Emma (Book)

By helping me, you will help her as well; that's the situation. The committee is of the opinion that she will eventually get used to your presence, and, little by little, you will get her to speak freely, clearly, and honestly" — 45 — Once again, Dr.

MacLeod doesn't bother to wait for my answer. In the time that it has taken him to finish his proposal, I find myself in a waking dream, walking alone like an automaton in the corridors of the hospital. I have never heard of anything like that! At school, I hated my psychology courses. For me, Freud was the perfect example of a lunatic: he frightened me. But since I have been working as a professional interpreter, how many times have I been put in this same position of being a representative of a group "whose language and codes we don't understand.

After all, isn't this new strategy proof that I am nothing more than a mere tool in the hands of Dr. MacLeod and his committee? A tool that he wants to use in the cause of justice, of course. Does he plan to make me play the informer? I try to read the doctor's thoughts. We are willing to help her; we are doing our best, but we don't really understand your culture. It's up to you to discover what is wrong. I don't understand clearly the reasons that compel me — 46 — to accept it.

The one thing influencing me, I think, is the idea that there is a veil covering the lives of black women, those with blue skin as well as those with "inside-out skin," as Emma describes me. Something tells me that by listening to Emma, I will be able to help tear away that veil.

As soon as I get home, I grab the phone book and find Nickolas Zankoffi's number without any difficulty We arrange to meet. But, since the beginning of her illness, when the police took her to the hospital after her arrest, she has refused to see me.

I spent hours and hours begging the nurses to let me visit her just for a moment. Her orders were categorical. No visitors. I wrote to her; she returned all my letters. Something about her behaviour changed when she discovered that she was expecting that child and that she was already three months pregnant.

The normal order of things, her movements, nothing was done in the same way anymore; she was no longer the same. A long time after she was committed, I discovered that she had tried to abort the baby I found a bizarre variety of paraphernalia in a bathroom closet: a long tube with a suction cup at one end, long tongs, and an assortment of herbs that she had been steeping.

Although I had been there, I had understood nothing. For a long time, he keeps his eyes down. When he lifts his head, his lips tremble. It's then that I notice that his face is remarkably handsome, especially his eyes, which extend out to his temples.

His skin reminds me of copper.

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He is tall and sad; his movements are slow. It's hard to swallow my saliva. My eyelids flutter like excited butterflies as I look him over. She went to Africa, to Senegal—she spent entire days wandering among the remains of Goree—then to Benin, which she still calls the Kingdom of Abomey She had assembled a large number of documents on the Amazons, the women warriors who, according to her, had defended the Kingdom against the European invaders and whom we have not heard of since.

She never stopped asking me to tell her about my travels, about the lands I had visited, the women that I had loved. And, each time, I would take up again for her the same magic tale: My eyes, which slant toward my temples when I smile at you, were bequeathed to me by a Chinese ancestor.

The Chinese were great travellers. My grandfather Liu married a Spanish woman, a hot- — 52 — blooded woman, as they say. My burnt-honey skin colour comes to me from her, but also from Casamance, from another ancestor: this one was a Peul lady. It's thanks to her that the sound of the drum threads through my veins like rum.

Granada, the land that is nourished by the blood ofLorca, gave me my mother. She was one of the most beautiful women in the world. I was born on an evening when one could harvest the stars in bunches just by holding out one's hand.

My mother was a singer; she was travelling on the road from Toledo to Granada when I decided that it was time to see what the world was like, a world whose movements had already reached me with such intensity in her belly.

The fairies entered a gypsy wagon. They made a mark on my forehead with their wands and baptized me "Vagabond of love " I discover myself sitting there openmouthed, dazed, opposite this personage, himself half-crazy, who claims to have wished to cure Emma of her madness. But I can't keep myself from thinking that he's that man from every continent that the world needs to cure it of the chaos into which hate has plunged it.

Emma (Intermediate level)

His voice startles me as it gets suddenly louder and takes on a sorrowful tone. I loved Emma passionately, but I didn't take into account that art of self-destruction which she had inherited. Emma's refusal to bury her dead meant her own destruction; she lived in their — 53 — shadow, a prey to their ghosts.

During our discussions, she sometimes looked at me as though she wanted to see through my words, to the very heart of my thoughts, to hunt down the truth in me. However, she pushed me away. She constantly pushed me away; she couldn't believe the words of a man, she said. But I loved her so much that nothing had any meaning when she wasn't beside me. She was always in a hurry, in a mad rush: as soon as she got home, she tidied up, rearranged things, dusted.

She cooked, ironed, mended, and didn't stop until she saw me get mad. Then she quickly took off her apron, put some cream on her hands, and came running. As soon as I had her in my arms; she would become restless: 'Do you want some herbal tea? I bought some fresh mint and verbena. I passed by the market. Her violent harangues on the barbarity of the conquistadors were never-ending.

She gave the example of the Amazon, I named the Guadalquivir. Her expression changed abruptly. I had no idea why 'Tell me,' she started yelling, while she waved her fork topped with a slice of cucumber, 'tell me: have you ever thought about the number of Africans whose blood is blended with the waters of the Guadalquivir?

And when she went out, whenever she went away, she would leave me in the company — 55 — of the hate, of the monsters and phantoms brought over in the holds of what she called 'the big boats' and which peopled her existence.

I can only shrug my shoulders, and he returns to his soliloquy: "I have never been able to understand her. In the early years, I used to try to convince her that I truly loved her, since she associated my love with the sort of passion that is almost a perversion. I feared losing her from the very first day I met her. It was in Bordeaux, in a little cafe, not far from the pier. It was late. She had drunk a little too much and talked to me about 'the dirty Bordeaux colonialists' who had 'trampled on' her thesis.

It wasn't unusual to meet such foreign students, Africans or West Indians for the most part, who also were constantly denouncing the racism or discrimination that they had had to endure throughout their studies. That particular evening she was wearing a mauve turban that accentuated the smoothness of her face, which resembled the colour of well-aged purplewood furniture.

I had felt a red flush run up my neck when she beckoned to me with her hand as I passed by her table. She wasn't pretty, rather thin, a bit self-effacing. But she was more beautiful than anything.

With her amaranth skin tone, she looked like an antique statuette. Deep in her eyes there shone from time to time sparks from an ancient sadness, which gave her a strangely soft look. Her gums were a purple colour.

We became lovers. A few months later, Emma decided to follow me to Montreal. Bravely, she took up her studies again. It has started snowing. The streets are well lit, as though night hadn't come. Flakes glisten on the sidewalk and cling in compact balls to the juniper hedges, beaten down and stiffened by the cold.

As I walk, I consider and reconsider the women that I know, and I discover with some anguish that they often spend a large part of their lives alone. Is it because, like Emma, the old pains have caused them to forget all the words for loving, for filling in the space between bodies?

Perhaps, everything has changed much too fast for them. Love is probably no longer approached in the same way Are they spending their lives waiting, — 57 — like me and my sisters, for that exceptional being who will become for them a lover, an accomplice, and a friend?

Why is it that their paths must never cross? Why must they be content with catching on the fly whatever happens to be handy in order to eat? Full of dread, I realize that women, even if they are still young, are more and more frequently living alone.

To fool ourselves, we attribute this phenomenon to modernity We talk about a lack of commitment, a fear of being tied down; at least that's what some of us maintain, who more or less accept our condition of being alone.

For me, however, the question is a different one and has been asked more clearly recently: do men and women no longer speak the same language? One reaches the age of thirty, like me, so quickly, then forty and the despair which that age brings and which makes of us asexual beings that no one sees anymore.

My older sister, Gilliane, is not happy in this celibacy. I can still hear her, at dinner last Christmas, bitterly talking about male treachery.

I remember our fiery discussions on the subject. There are very few tricks to — hide those ruins, Flore," she said bitterly. Gilliane's voice shook, pouring onto the male race all her accumulated resentment against the man who had left our mother and taken up with a white-skinned woman. But, you can be sure, their women can read the suffering and desire under our shells.

That is what makes them come running like mad cats when, per chance, their husbands dare approach us. She simply goes to the kitchen, to do the dishes, to clean drawers that don't need to be cleaned, and to rearrange utensils, until the clinking of forks and knives replaces Gilliane's shrill screams.

As I think about my conversation with Nickolas Zankoffi, I'm suddenly torn by remorse. I rebuke myself: what right did I have to invade his personal life? It's true that he was only too happy to be able to talk about Emma, to pour a heart overloaded with torment into an empty attentive ear, to talk about those years of tempestuous and uncommon love with a woman who, as he said, was a solitary person, like a rock in the middle of a desert, like a wild bird.

I take my time going home on the icy sidewalks. I am numb from the cold, stunned to see — 59 — myself carrying the weight of my thirty years as though it were a heavy burden, to feel myself suddenly so old, and terribly alone. Since I've been working on Emma's case, a strange solitude is devouring me. Under the protective eyes of Dr. MacLeod, sitting in the corner of the room, I continue to see her, three mornings per week, to tape record her incoherent words, which I translate, transcribe, and submit to the doctor a few days later.

Emma always ignores the questions that he takes the trouble to prepare. She only talks about what suits her. I don't know what Dr. MacLeod does with the texts I bring him or how he will use them in producing his analysis. Sometimes, I take out my copy of those pages, which I keep in a schoolbag, and I read them over and over, driven by a voracious curiosity, as though some revelation would be emerging from her words.

I walk for a long time to elude my weariness, in spite of the cold. The snow disguises the ice on the sidewalks. That makes me think about the dashed dreams described by Xiomara, another woman, this one from the Dominican Republic, for whom they called on me last month.

With a chair she was swinging about, she had completely shattered the television set of the Block 3 Recreation Room in the Psychiatric Centre, as she screamed that she had had enough of being invisible.

Totally — 60 — naked, she had run through the corridors swinging her hips, shouting at the male personnel, asking them what she lacked in comparison to the putas blancas. Me, I was the only negrita, the only one, the shame of my mother. Ah, if you knew how they scorned me! Do you think that this prevented their husbands from getting lost between my legs? I had them all! Nickolas Zankoffl offered to meet me again the following Friday He has this crazy hope that I'll be successful in helping Emma.

I can't explain what draws me to this man, but I sense that the whirlwind of madness that has engulfed him is also pulling on me, in spite of myself. He is still there, wearing his sad smile. He doesn't even wait for me to sit down before he starts to talk about Emma.

She talked incessantly She was haunted by her mother, Fifie. The rain would come, heavy, in large drops, a rain that thrashed about, fought with the wind, landed in torrents, in furious gusts. Like the mouth of a gourmand, the earth opened up, gluttonously swallowed the beneficial liquid. And, through all its pores, it sent back in puffs of fresh air, this incomparable gift that the sky had given it a few minutes earlier.

The paths of the Luxembourg Gardens, which had been emptied for the duration of the storm, filled up again, as if by magic, with children, nannies, and strollers, attracted by the suddenly cooler air of that summer afternoon. Emma, though, seemed to be watching only the expressions of the passersby She was sure that they must have been thinking that she was one of those women who was getting what she was owed for sex.

I had the impression, from the very first day, of having known her forever, and of picking up a conversation with her that had been interrupted the day before. He sensed in Emma, from that first meeting, what others would have taken years to discover: she was genuine. He compares her to the sea: strong and serene, but just as unpredictable. The first time they made love, he recalled, it was as though they had been longtime lovers.

They had met each other in a pile of clothes and had discovered—at least this was what he believed—that they were of the same race, the race of those who like the uncomplicated life and know instinctively the most ageold acts.

Emma, a first love. Emma, the first woman. Emma, colour of the earth. Emma, real. Emma, a sea surge. Infinite clamour, she had filled his life. Nickolas Zancoffi's sensuality, his passion, and his art of being larger than life bring me to believe that he may have frightened Emma. Perhaps this love, which was as deep as Emma's suffering, wasn't what she was looking for. Or did she simply believe that all that couldn't be meant for her? The veil over Emma's life begins to lift the day she decides to tell us about Fifie, her mother.

That day, in spite of Dr. MacLeod's presence, I feel so alone as I face Emma. You know it already, Dollie. Besides, I forgot, today I am not here to talk about myself but about Fifie. Fifie is my mother. We don't know any other name for her.

The morning that my sisters and I free ourselves from Fifie's womb, that same bluish dawn stretches out over the mountains surrounding Grand-Lagon. We are five, five children all at once, five stillborn girls. What a struggle Fifie must have had to rip us out of her womb. I know nothing about that. All I know is the blueness. Possessed by her narrative, very quickly she revives and goes on, with that lost look that often conies over her: "The time and day of my birth aren't written anywhere, nor are they circled in red on some old calendar.

At Grand-Lagon, calendars aren't intended to indicate years, months, and days. Aunt Grazie and Fifie line them up on the walls beside pictures of Jesus Christ with a blood— 67 — stained heart and women who look like Carnival queens. Decorated like this, the walls must seem less ugly to them. And she adds that it's right to make use of them to put some spots of colour on the walls; otherwise calendars would have no use!

But later on, people no longer used these natural catastrophes and started situating events in time by indicating whether they had occurred before or after our birth. Our arrival in the world could have gone unnoticed but wombs and mothers, just like the number of children, are allotted in an anarchic and illogical way in Grand-Lagon. The midwife puts all of us together on a large piece of cloth. She knots the ends to take us to the garbage dump or perhaps to a hole hollowed out between the roots of a tree.

But at the moment that she is about to leave the room, I let out a piercing screech. In the pastures, the cows stop grazing, turn tail and run; the birds rush back to their nests. A furious tempest rages outside.

Gray — 68 — thunderstorms streak across the sky. The winds let out a sinister howl. No one remembers having seen such a violent hurricane. They were called Flora, Hazel, Marilyn, Bertha. However, after I was born, no one could remember the name of the hurricane. According to Aunt Grazie, my screams covered the howling of all the winds put together. When the midwife realized that something was wriggling and yelling in the bunch of umbilical cords and twisted arms and legs that she had just pulled from between Fifie's bloody thighs, she stopped short, gasping.

Then, digging here and there in the pile, pulling a leg from one side, from the other an arm that seemed to have been dipped in aniline, she discovered me. Yes, Dollie, I was here to stay, determined to know everything and to hang on for the whole ride. Poor Fifie, she was so afraid of her that I sometimes had to cover the mouth of that frightening thing that howled day and night.

My scream, the power of my scream, makes cracks in the wood that spill onto the floor an army of startled termites. And, in spite of looking like a dead toad—that's how they described me—I already know all that, for I came into the world wearing five cauls on my soft skull: mine plus those of my four sisters.

I benefit from the extraordinary good fortune of comprehending everything, of comprehending for five. In short, that's what scared Fifie the most. A child born with such a crown, that's unacceptable, but a tadpole that, in the womb of its mother, already appropriates what doesn't belong to it, that is guaranteed misfortune, the promise of hell for its next of kin, a tyrannical little animal, an evil, voracious beast, with eyes and hands over all its body In the old days, such children were buried alive right away, the same day.

But these days, things have changed, the crestfallen midwife seems to say, although like Fifie she would have preferred to see all five of us dead. I swear, Dollie, I felt it as soon as I stuck my nose outside.

Emma by Jane Austen

Hate, you know, it's like a burnt or a rotten smell. It's not easy to hide it. So I learn in my very first days to develop survival reflexes—because I love Fifie with all my being. I am very much alive and I howl as much as I can. I don't intend to die. I hear — 70 — everything they are saying, and one voice that I already start to detest compares my scream to the siren of a ship in distress.

And I howl even louder, covering with my scream the annoyance and stammering of the astounded and panicstricken neighbours who are wondering why. I would be happy to tell them that I am yelling so that they don't separate me from Fifie, so that I don't become mute. Alas, in spite of the strength of my desire, not a word crosses my lips; that is to say, no one understands the meaning of my screams.

And do you know what, Dollie? Between then and now, nothing has changed. What is the word of a black woman worth, eh?

Pearson English Readers Level 4

You who've read all the great books written by the great men, what is the cursed word of a black woman worth? Who has ever heeded our cries?

With her arms dangling and her mouth wide open, she stares with alarmed eyes at that open orifice which has just expelled us, me and my sisters. With a silent prayer, she clasps her hands from time to time then wrings them convulsively. She grimaces and reels.

It was as though it had never happened. Fifie was like that; she buried under her silence anything she didn't like. And I often think that I carry Fifie's silences deep inside me. Like stones at the bottom of a sack, they fill me up. Yes," Emma nods to convince herself, "just as Fifie carried us in her womb, I carry Fifie's silences in me. Without any words from her at all, I had to learn, from my earliest childhood, to decipher on her face the multiple truths linked to my arrival and my presence in this world.Do your job; I am doing mine.

It certainly isn't written in those upside-down books written by little white people.

To my constant questions about the identity of my progenitor, Fifie replies with her cries and her screams or, during the lulls, the most obstinate silence.

ISBN I. The help I need from you on this case goes beyond simply translating sentences.

And, each time, I would take up again for her the same magic tale: My eyes, which slant toward my temples when I smile at you, were bequeathed to me by a Chinese ancestor. But today, the wood in this table is worth more than ten black women, isn't that the truth, Little Doctor? In the early years, I used to try to convince her that I truly loved her, since she associated my love with the sort of passion that is almost a perversion.