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"Mr. Samsa!" cried the middle lodger, to Gregor's father, and pointed, without wasting any more words, at Gregor, now working himself slowly forwards. The violin fell silent, the middle lodger first smiled to his friends with a shake of the head and then looked at Gregor again. Instead of driving Gregor out, his father seemed to think it more needful to begin by soothing down the lodgers, although they were not at all agitated and apparently found Gregor more entertaining than the violin-playing. He hurried towards them and, spreading out his arms, tried to urge them back into their own room and at the same time to block their view of Gregor. They now began to be really a little angry, one could not tell whether because of the old man's behavior or because it had just dawned on them that all unwittingly they had such a neighbor as Gregor next door. They demanded explanations of his father, they waved their arms like him, tugged uneasily at their beards, and only with reluctance backed towards their room. Meanwhile Gregor's sister, who stood there as if lost when her playing was so abruptly broken off, came to life again, pulled herself together all at once after standing for a while holding violin and bow in nervelessly hanging hands and staring at her music, pushed her violin into the lap of her mother, who was still sitting in her chair fighting asthmatically for breath, and ran into the lodgers' room to which they were now being shepherded by her father rather more quickly than before. One could see the pillows and blankets on the beds flying under her accustomed fingers and being laid in order. Before the lodgers had actually reached their room she had finished making the beds and slipped out.
The old man seemed once more to be so possessed by his mulish self-assertiveness that he was forgetting all, the respect he should show to his lodgers. He kept driving them on and driving them on until in the very door of the bedroom the middle lodger stamped his foot loudly on the floor and so brought him to a halt. "I beg to announce," said the lodger, lifting one hand and looking also at Gregor's mother and sister, "that because of the disgusting conditions prevailing in this household and family"- here he spat on the floor with emphatic brevity - "I give you notice on the spot. Naturally I won't pay you a penny for the days I have lived here, on the contrary I shall consider bringing an action for damages against you, based on claims - believe me - that will be easily susceptible of proof." He ceased and stared straight in front of him, as if he expected something. In fact his two friends at once rushed into the breach with these words: "And we too give notice on the spot." On that he seized the door handle and shut the door with a slam.

Gregor's father, groping with his hands, staggered forward and fell into his chair; it looked as if he were stretching himself there for his ordinary evening nap, but the marked jerkings of his head, which was as if uncontrollable, showed that he was far from asleep. Gregor had simply stayed quietly all the time on the spot where the lodgers had espied him. Disappointment at the failure of his plan, perhaps also the weakness arising from extreme hunger, made it impossible for him to move. He feared, with a fair degree of certainty, that at any moment the general tension would discharge itself in a combined attack upon him, and he lay waiting. He did not react even to the noise made by the violin as it fell off his mother's lap from under her trembling fingers and gave out a resonant note.

"My dear parents," said his sister, slapping her hand on the table by way of introduction, "things can't go on like this. Perhaps you don't realize that, but I do. I won't utter my brother's name in the presence of this creature, and so all I say is: we must try to get rid of it. We've tried to look after it and to put up with it as far as is humanly possible, and I don't think anyone could reproach us in the slightest."

"She is more than right," said Gregor's father to himself. His mother, who was still choking for lack of breath, began to cough hollowly into her hand with a wild look in her eyes.

His sister rushed over to her and held her forehead. His father's thoughts seemed to have lost their vagueness at Grete's words, he sat more upright, fingering his service cap that lay among the plates still lying on the table from the lodgers' supper, and from time to time looked at the still form of Gregor.

"We must try to get rid of it," his sister now said explicitly to her father, since her mother was coughing too much to hear a word, "it will be the death of both of you, I can see that coming. When one has to work as hard as we do, all of us, one can't stand this continual torment at home on top of it. At least I can't stand it any longer." And she burst into such a passion of sobbing that her tears dropped on her mother's face, where she wiped them off mechanically.

"My dear," said the old man sympathetically, and with evident understanding, "but what can we do?"

Gregor's sister merely shrugged her shoulders to indicate the feeling of helplessness that had now overmastered her during her weeping fit, in contrast to her former confidence.

"If he could understand us," said her father, half questioningly; Grete, still sobbing, vehemently waved a hand to show how unthinkable that was.

"If he could understand us," repeated the old man, shutting his eyes to consider his daughter's conviction that understanding was impossible, "then perhaps we might come to some agreement with him. But as it is-"

"He must go," cried Gregor's sister, "that's the only solution, Father. You must just try to get rid of the idea that this is Gregor. The fact that we've believed it for so long is the root of all our trouble. But how can it be Gregor? If this were Gregor, he would have realized long ago that human beings can't live with such a creature, and he'd have gone away on his own accord. Then we wouldn't have any brother, but we'd be able to go on living and keep his memory in honor. As it is, this creature persecutes us, drives away our lodgers, obviously wants the whole apartment to himself and would have us all sleep in the gutter. Just look, Father," she shrieked all at once, "he's at it again!" And in an access of panic that was quite incomprehensible to Gregor she even quitted her mother, literally thrusting the chair from her as if she would rather sacrifice her mother than stay so near to Gregor, and rushed behind her father, who also rose up, being simply upset by her agitation, and half-spread his arms out as if to protect her.

Yet Gregor had not the slightest intention of frightening anyone, far less his sister. He had only begun to turn round in order to crawl back to his room, but it was certainly a startling operation to watch, since because of his disabled condition he could not execute the difficult turning movements except by lifting his head and then bracing it against the floor over and over again. He paused and looked round. His good intentions seemed to have been recognized; the alarm had only been momentary. Now they were all watching' him in melancholy silence. His mother lay in her chair, her legs stiffly outstretched and pressed together, her eyes almost closing for sheer weariness; his father and his sister were sitting beside each other, his sister's arm around the old man's neck. Perhaps I can go on turning round now, thought Gregor, and began his labors again. He could not stop himself from panting with the effort, and had to pause now and then to take breath. Nor did anyone harass him, he was left entirely to himself. When he had completed the turn-round he began at once to crawl straight back. He was amazed at the distance separating him from his room and could not understand how in his weak state he had managed to accomplish the same journey so recently, almost without remarking it. Intent on crawling as fast as possible, he barely noticed that not a single word, not an ejaculation from his family, interfered with his progress. Only when he was already in the doorway did he turn his head round, not completely, for his neck muscles were getting stiff, but enough to see that nothing had changed behind him except that his sister had risen to her feet. His last glance fell on his mother, who was not quite overcome by sleep.

Hardly was he well inside his room when the door was hastily pushed shut, bolted and locked. The sudden noise in his rear startled him so much that his little legs gave beneath him. It was his sister who had shown such haste. She had been standing ready waiting and had made a light spring forward, Gregor had not even heard her coming, and she cried "At last!" to her parents as she turned the key in the lock. "And what now?" said Gregor to himself, looking round in the darkness. Soon he made the discovery that he was now unable to stir a limb. This did not surprise him, rather it seemed unnatural that he should ever actually have been able to move on these feeble little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable. True, his whole body was aching, but it seemed that the pain was gradually growing less and would finally pass away. The rotting apple in his back and the inflamed area around it, all covered with soft dust, already hardly troubled him. He thought of his family with tenderness and love. The decision that he must disappear was one that he held to even more strongly than his sister, if that were possible. In this state of vacant and peaceful meditation he remained until the tower clock struck three in the morning. The first broadening of light in the world outside the window entered his consciousness once more. Then his head sank to the floor of its own accord and from his nostrils came the last faint flicker of his breath.

When the charwoman arrived early in the morning - what between her strength and her impatience she slammed all the doors so loudly, never mind how often she had been begged not to do so, that no one in the whole apartment could enjoy any quiet sleep after her arrival - she noticed nothing unusual as she took her customary peep into Gregor's room. She thought he was lying motionless on purpose, pretending to be in the sulks; she credited him with every kind of intelligence. Since she happened to have the long-handled broom in her hand she tried to tickle him up with it from the doorway. When that too produced no reaction she felt provoked and poked at him a little harder, and only when she had pushed him along the floor without meeting any resistance was her attention aroused. It did not take her long to establish the truth of the matter, and her eyes widened, she let out a whistle, yet did not waste much time over it but tore open the door of the Samsas' bedroom and yelled into the darkness at the top of her voice: "Just look at this, it's dead; it's lying here dead and done for!"

Mr. and Mrs. Samsa started up in their double bed and before they realized the nature of the charwoman's announcement had some difficulty in overcoming the shock of it. But then they got out of bed quickly, one on either side, Mr. Samsa throwing a blanket over his shoulders, Mrs. Samsa in nothing but her nightgown; in this array they entered Gregor's room. Meanwhile the door of the living room opened, too, where Grete had been sleeping since the advent of the lodgers; she was completely dressed as if she had not been to bed, which seemed to be confirmed also by the paleness of her face. "Dead? " said Mrs. Samsa, looking questioningly at the charwoman, although she could have investigated for herself, and the fact was obvious enough without investigation.

"I should say so," said the charwoman, proving her words by pushing Gregor's corpse a long way to one side with her broomstick. Mrs. Samsa made a movement as if to stop her, but checked it.

"Well," said Mr. Samsa, "now thanks be to God." He crossed himself, and the three women followed his example. Grete, whose eyes never left the corpse, said: "Just see how thin he was. It's such a long time since he's eaten anything. The food came out again just as it went in." Indeed, Gregor's body was completely flat and dry, as could only now be seen when it was no longer supported by the legs and nothing prevented one from looking closely at it.

"Come in beside us, Grete, for a little while," said Mrs. Samsa with a tremulous smile, and Grete, not without looking back at the corpse, followed her parents into their bedroom. The charwoman shut the door and opened the window wide. Although it was so early in the morning a certain softness was perceptible in the fresh air. After all, it was already the end of March.

The three lodgers emerged from their room and were surprised to see no breakfast; they had been forgotten. "Where's our breakfast?" said the middle lodger peevishly to the charwoman. But she put her finger to her lips and hastily, without a word, indicated by gestures that they should go into Gregor's room. They did so and stood, their hands in the pockets of their somewhat shabby coats, around Gregor's corpse in the room where it was now fully light.

At that the door of the Samsas' bedroom opened and Mr. Samsa appeared in his uniform, his wife on one arm, his daughter on the other. They all looked a little as if they had been crying; from time to time Grete hid her face on her father's arm.

"Leave my house at once!" said Mr. Samsa, and pointed to the door without disengaging himself from the women.

"What do you mean by that?" said the middle lodger, taken somewhat aback, with a feeble smile. The two others put their hands behind them and kept rubbing them together, as if in gleeful expectation of a fine set - to in which they were bound to come off the winners.

"I mean just what I say," answered Mr. Samsa, and advanced in a straight line with his two companions towards the lodger. He stood his ground at first quietly, looking at the floor as if his thoughts were taking a new pattern in his head.

"Then let us go, by all means," he said, and looked up at Mr. Samsa as if in a sudden access of humility he were expecting some renewed sanction for this decision. Mr. Samsa merely nodded briefly once or twice with meaning eyes. Upon that the lodger really did go with long strides into the hall, his two friends had been listening and had quite stopped rubbing their hands for some moments and now went scuttling after him as if afraid that Mr. Samsa might get into the hall before them and cut them off from their leader. In the hall they all three took their hats from the rack, their sticks from the umbrella stand, bowed in silence and quitted the apartment. With a suspiciousness which proved quite unfounded Mr. Samsa and the two women followed them out to the landing; leaning over the banister they watched the three figures slowly but surely going down the long stairs, vanishing from sight at a certain turn of the staircase on every floor and coming into view again after a moment or so; the more they dwindled, the more the Samsa family's interest in them dwindled, and when a butcher's boy met them and passed them on the stairs coming up proudly with a tray on his head, Mr. Samsa and the two women soon left the landing and as if a burden had been lifted from them went back into their apartment.

They decided to spend this day in resting and going for a stroll; they had not only deserved such a respite from work, but absolutely needed it. And so they sat down at the table and wrote three notes of excuse, Mr. Samsa to his board of management, Mrs. Samas to her employer and Grete to the head of her firm. While they were writing, the charwoman came in to say that she was going now, since her morning's work was finished. At first they only nodded without looking up, but as she kept hovering there they eyed her irritably. "Well?" said Mr. Samsa The charwoman stood grinning in the doorway as if she had good news to impart to the family but meant not to say a word unless properly questioned. The small ostrich feather standing upright on her hat, which had annoyed Mr. Samsa ever since she was engaged, was waving gaily in all directions. "Well, what is it then?" asked Mrs. Samsa, who obtained more respect from the charwoman than the others.

"Oh," said the charwoman, giggling so amiably that she could not at once continue, "just this, you don't need to bother about how to get rid of the thing next door. It's been seen to already." Mrs. Samsa and Grete bent over their letters again, as if preoccupied; Mr. Samsa, who perceived that she was eager to begin describing it all in detail, stopped her with a decisive hand. But since she was not allowed to tell her story, she remembered the great hurry she was in, being obviously deeply huffed: "Bye, everybody," she said, whirling off violently, and departed with a frightful slamming of doors.
"She'll be given notice tonight," said Mr. Samsa, but neither from his wife nor his daughter did he get any answer, for the charwoman seemed to have shattered again the composure they had barely achieved. They rose, went to the window and stayed there, clasping each other tight. Mr. Samsa turned in his chair to look at them and quietly observed them for a little. Then he called out: "Come along, now, do. Let bygones be bygones. And you might have some consideration for me." The two of them complied at once, hastened to him, caressed him and quickly finished their letters.

Then they all three left the apartment together, which was more than they had done for months, and went by tram into the open country outside the town. The tram, in which they were the only passengers, was filled with warm sunshine. Leaning comfortably back in their seats they canvassed their prospects for the future, and it appeared on closer inspection that these were not at all bad, for the jobs they had got, which so far they had never really discussed with each other, were all three admirable and likely to lead to better things later on. The greatest immediate improvement in their condition would of course arise from moving to another house; they wanted to take a smaller and cheaper but also better situated and more easily run apartment than the one they had, which Gregor had selected. While they were thus conversing, it struck both Mr. and Mrs. Samsa, almost at the same moment, as they became aware of their daughter's increasing vivacity, that in spite of all the sorrow of recent times, which had made her cheeks pale, she had bloomed into a pretty girl with a good figure. They grew quieter and half unconsciously exchanged glances of complete agreement, having come to the conclusion that it would soon be time to find a good husband for her. And it was like a confirmation of their new dreams and excellent intentions that at the end of their journey their daughter sprang to her feet first and stretched her young body.

Literary theory and informed criticism are both dreaded subjects for English majors and surprisingly useful tools to understand texts written for different cultures, times, and even geography. While most English majors will eventually calm down and begin to understand the value of these tools, many people in different fields will never understand the complexities of going through a literary story and truly discovering a far broader universe than what appears on the sheets of dead tree fibers tattooed with ink.

As the world changed (politically, geographically, through migrations and wars), some of the information concerning what was actually happening was encoded in an almost unconscious method by authors and artists. If you read a short story, for example, your interpretation may change by adding different lenses to refocus your attention. A diary of a young woman takes on a different concept when one discovers it was written by a Jewish girl in Nazi Germany. A wild tale of traveling the seas and encountering different creatures can be reinterpreted by someone using the lens for Homer’s time. A story of someone getting horrifically abused can hit close to home when one discovers it was written by a QUILTBAG high school student who overcame living in a conservative football-dominated Texas small town.

Literary theory helps us to not only interpret, but to also understand and appreciate how a work brings more to the table than what appears on the surface. By becoming an insightful observer and reader, one can form new conclusions, ideas, and even empathy from the work being interpreted. Indeed, as the different lenses are brought to bear, we can even see how the literary theories both built upon each other and, in some cases, even swept the foundations clean and started over – sometimes by the point of a Stalin bayonet.

By applying literary theory to old works of art and text, people began to understand there was more than what appeared on the surface. Different interpretations of famous literature appeared and expanded the understanding of the work based on perceiving it from a different perspective. Different angles produced different visions of the story. People began to interpret with these new lenses and to expand beyond the words on a page. Scholars interpreted the works either by using a formalist approach, seeking the truth within the words themselves as the frame of reference, or through a plethora of different cultural lenses to focus on the social concepts at the time where the author wrote the literature, bringing in the whole of the world to help to analyze what may be hidden beyond the words themselves.

The work I chose to focus on is Franz Kafka’s famous short story, The Metamorphosis. I was rather familiar with the story, having read many different translations of the bizarre tale because it was weird and different. I think at the time I first encountered it I was more focused on Lovecraft when Kafka’s tale slipped into my to-be-read pile. Some individuals might have picked a familiar story to make their work easier, but I specifically chose this due to the familiarity I had and the curiosity of examining something to see if I could extract some additional understanding and enjoyment. In the end, gleaning some kind of new insight from something I’ve read for pleasure seemed like a fun way to understand literary theory in a more practical sense.

New Historicism is one of the newer literary theories to evolve, first being formally recognized in the 1980s. This theory went against the theory of New Criticism, which attempted to focus more on the formal words on the page and reject any outside cultural influence from a historical perspective. As New Criticism fell out of favor, scholars began to notice that by bringing in different perspectives and lenses to view works of art and literature, the more possibilities there were for scholarly interpretations.

One important distinction of New Historicism is that the theory does not use history itself as a lens to interpret the work. The concept behind the theory is that we, as humans, can understand the tiny bits of history taught to us through works written by the victors of wars and vanquished peoples. What we end up learning are small data points of the overall outline of history without truly understanding what it was like living through history itself. New Historicists believe one can bring more understanding to the forefront by understanding some of the meaning behind the words chosen by an author who was living through a particular time frame. For Kafka’s tale, we can pick up some possible historical perspective beyond the words on the page.

With The Metamorphosis in mind, a cursory search of historical facts, admittedly skewed, gives us a starting point to see some of what it was like for Kafka to live as a human being in a strange and alienated world. This springboard can help us to select our lenses to view deeper than his words and, to some extent, through the words of his interpreters. With this in mind, I purposely selected a 1943 version of the story to try and keep the interpreter and the author in a relatively similar time frame (Kafka/Wyngaard). One issue that can get lost is how works are translated in different times. New word linking concepts can drastically change the text as it was written. I have several of Goethe’s works in German that was hand-translated by my great-grandmother, and I much prefer it to the polished printed editions. The words were from a closer time reference, both from an English and German perspective.

Franz Kafka was a Jewish author, and although he was raised in Prague and spoke German, he was neither a German nor Czech citizen because of his Jewish heritage. This stateless citizenship, coupled with his ennui concerning his Jewish family background, his father’s anger and violence due to Franz’ determination to be a writer instead of being in charge of the family business, and his diary entries of suicidal thoughts (Brod) could be considered the leading conditions of the urge to craft this story of alienation and disconnection to his family. Through Gregor, the protagonist of his short story, one can see some of what life was like for Jews during this time. Some people felt that Jews were the essence of one of the most abhorrent and disliked vermin, possibly echoing his feelings of futility, despair, and disappointment he received from his father and others around him. Many Westerners do not know of the hardships for those of Jewish faith outside of Nazi Germany. This glimpse into the life of a working Jew can be shocking.

During the early part of the 20th century, Jews were looked down upon by many societies, including Germany and France. Jews were only emancipated in the 1900s, and assimilating them was a difficult task for both cultures. In France, authors such as Eduoard Drumont attacked those of Jewish heritage after they were emancipated in 1791 by writing a literary attack in his book La France Juive. (Classon). In most of the European cultures, people of Jewish faith theoretically had basic human rights but were treated with distain. In those times, being Jewish was considered a matter of race, not religion (Classon).

In the story, Gregor becomes the embodiment of this type of thinking – that Jews were the lowest of the low. The treatment he received from even those he loved and supported through his labors echoed that of what Kafka dealt with on a daily basis (Brod). Gregor’s father ends up trying to drive him back to hiding in a bedroom with his cane, which can be a window into what it was like for Kafka and his father, who was angry that his son was more interested in becoming an author instead of working on taking over the family business. Constant fighting and battles led Kafka to become alienated from his family, which one could glimpse in the story through the lens of familial history. In his literary theory book, Peter Barry alerts us to focus on the traces of history dropped with the confines of the text and to avoid outside dictates of historical information (112). The context of the literature can itself be thought of as a partner to history.

The Metamorphosis is not just a work cast from a unique mold. Some of the ideas present can be seen in Jewish mythology and folk tales. Changing into different creatures can be found in several old stories, with the resulting furtherance of understanding and learning rules and transgression results helping to dictate familial values of those of Jewish faith (Band). It is possible that Kafka was trying to work out his issues with his father and how he felt alienated from society as a whole through this story, possibly as a cathartic process.

For the second interesting lens of analysis, I chose ecocriticism. Ecocriticism is the analysis of a work (such as a literary text) and how it relates to the cultural environment or to the physical environment – nature itself (Heise1). This theory is a more recent development brought about by changing cultural awareness of the environment and its associated sciences. This theory has grown until it has impacted not only cultural habits (recycling bins in many locations), but it has expanded until it has become a political issue. An example of this is the platform of Democratic candidate Bernie Sanders, who wished to impose a carbon tax and work on reducing global warming. In a literary context, one would analyze how a work is related to or impacted by the environment within the story.

For The Metamorphosis, having Gregor turn into an insect and how the rest of his still-human relatives and acquaintances treat him is one such point of intersection. The familial dynamic is upset because the main earner for the family unit is suddenly removed from viability. For the physical environment lens, by making Gregor the equivalent of a dung beetle, Kafka attempted to evoke a sense of disgust that many people would feel towards an insect. Even though we, the reader, understand that Gregor is still inside the creature, using Gregor's mind and memories, his family does not. They do their best to dismiss him, to hide him away as though he were something shameful, and even to cause him harm.

Prior to Gregor's transformation, he was the breadwinner for the family. In a sense, he was the host and his family was the parasite clinging on for their share of what Gregor earned. Once he transformed, however, he was no longer their meal ticket. He became the parasite hiding out in a bedroom, and the family became the host. Without Gregor's income, things became difficult for the family.

After the metamorphosis, the environment of Gregor's room becomes a bizarre world where he can no longer function. The skewing of the landscape from the familiar to the otherworldly often creates internal clashes in the reader (Heise2). What was once familiar and comforting is now alien and terrifying. Even the simple task of rolling over in his bed becomes a struggle that takes a while to accomplish. When his boss arrives to ask about Gregor's absence, unlocking a door and turning the doorknob become an almost insurmountable task with Gregor's new appendages. Of course, once the door is opened, everyone is horrified and Gregor is no longer employable.

The family itself tries to make some adjustments for Gregor. Grete, his sister, sees that the insect likes to crawl around the room and the walls, so they remove some of the furniture to give him more space. Because he can no longer communicate, he can't tell them to leave his favorite picture on the wall. Grete feeds him, discovering that his appetite is that of a carrion bug. Scraps are his new favorite food. Her disgust is palpable, and in the end even she abandons him to the loneliness.

When one considers the point of narration, realizing that the narrator is via third person and, possibly, unreliable, gives the story an additional tinge of despair and alienation. We see and understand some of the thoughts and reactions of all involved, yet we can become confused because of Gregor’s strange acceptance of his new environment. Waking up as an insect would normally be something that would cause alarm and hysteria, yet the family almost seems to see it as something more of an inconvenience. The juxtaposition of the actions versus the thoughts of the family creates a jarring backdrop to the tale.

What was once a straightforward Bizarro tale has transformed into something more thanks to reading through the different lenses of literary theory. I found it fascinating that there could be such a wonderful, rich loam which the familiar story floated upon. There are now new windows of reflection and understanding that transcend my original reading experience. With the lenses of Ecocriticism and New Historicism, I can now see additional material embedded between the words. The world-building went beyond the words selected by the author – they were enhanced through the world reflecting through Kafka and his life experiences. I would have missed the nuances of the subtext without taking classes on literary criticism. In a sense, I now see The Metamorphosis as a rainbow of stories waiting for your eyes to adjust and appreciate.


 

Works Cited or Referenced:

Classon, Sarah B. "Kafka’s Identity Crisis: Examining The Metamorphosis as a Response to Anti-Semitism and Assimilation in Turn-of-the-Century Europe." Rollins.edu, 1 Mar. 2014. Web. 6 July 2016.

Brod, Max, G. Humphreys Roberts, and Richard Winston. Franz Kafka: A Biography. (Translated by G. Humphreys Roberts and Richard Winston.) With Plates and Facsimiles. New York: Schocken Books, 1963. Print.

Band, Arnold J. Studies in Modern Jewish Literature. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2003. Print.

Kafka, Franz, and C. Wyngaard. Metamorphosis (Translated). Berlin: DBGP, 1943. Print.

Heise, Ursula K. "The Hitchhiker's Guide to Ecocriticism." PMLA 121.2 (2006): 503-16. Web.

Heise, Ursula K. "Science and ecocriticism." The American Book Review18.5 (1997): 4.

Brizee, Allen, et al. "Welcome to the Purdue OWL." Purdue OWL: Literary Theory and Schools of Criticism. Purdue University, 21 Apr. 2010. Web. 5 July 2016.

Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-friendly Guide. Abingdon: Routledge, 2015. Print.

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