PSYCHOLOGY PATTERN SYLLABUS THERORY ... PDF

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Psychology pattern is very interesting pattern.It is very useful.Psychology looks at the ways people think, act, react, and interact. It is the study of human (and animal) behaviour, and the thoughts and emotions that influence behaviour....

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A Fellow Traveller A.G.Gardiner

A.G. Gardiner (1865 – 1946) is one of the most distinguished essayists of modern times and the editor of the Daily News. A. G. Gardiner has carved out a significant place for himself in English language and literature. Under the

pseudonym Alpha of the

Plough he wrote delightful essays with a sprinkling of humour in a lucid and graceful style. The themes of his essays were chosen from ordinary events and situations in everyday life, which he presented in a simple, conversational and charming style. His uniqueness lay in his ability to teach the basic truths of life in an easy and amusing manner. ‘Pillars of Society’’, ‘Pebbles on the Shore’’, ‘Many Furrows and Leaves in the Wind’’ are some of his best known writings. This essay “A Fellow Traveller” very subtly describes how adjustments are needed to be made and regards given to persons in situations involving more than one living organisms. A Fellow Traveller I do not know which of us got into the carriage first. Indeed I did not know he was in the carriage at all for some time. It was the last train from London to a Midland town– a stopping train, an infinitely leisurely train, one of those trains which give you an understanding of eternity. It was tolerably full when it started, but as we stopped at the suburban stations the travelers

alighted in ones and twos, and by the time we had left the outer ring of London behind I was alone– or, rather, I thought I was alone. There is a pleasant sense of freedom about being alone in a carriage that is jolting noisily through the night. It is liberty and unrestraint in a very agreeable form. You can do anything you like. You can talk to yourself as loud as you please and no one will hear you. You can have that argument out with Jones and roll him triumphantly in the dust without fear of a counterstroke. You can stand on your head and no one will see you. You can sing, or dance a two-step, or practice a golf stroke, or play marbles on the floor without let or hindrance. You can open the window or shut it without provoking a protest. You can open both windows or shut both. Indeed, you can go on opening them and shutting them as a sort of festival of freedom. You can have any corner you choose and try all of them in turn. You can lie at full length on the cushions and enjoy the luxury of breaking the regulation and possibly the heart of D.O.R.A. herself. Only D.O.R.A. will not know that her heart is broken. You have escaped even D.O.R.A. On this night I did not do any of these things. They did not happen to occur to me. What I did was much more ordinary. When the last of my fellow-passengers had gone I put down my paper, stretched my arms and my legs, stood up and looked out of the window on the calm summer night through which I was journeying, noting the pale reminiscence of day that still lingered in the northern sky; crossed the carriage and looked out of the other window; sat down, and began to read again. It was then that I became aware of my fellow-traveller. He came and sat on my nose… He was one of those wingy, nippy, intrepid insects that made a tour of the compartment, investigated its three dimensions, visited each window, fluttered round the light, decided that there was nothing so interesting as that large animal in the corner, came and had a look at my neck. I flicked him off again. He skipped away, took another jaunt round the compartment, returned, and seated himself impudently on the back of my hand. It is enough, I said; magnanimity has its limits. Twice you have been warned that I am someone in particular, that my august person resents the tickling impertinences of strangers. I assume the black cap. I condemn you to death. Justice demands it, and the court awards it. The counts against you are many. You are a vagrant; you are a public nuisance; you are traveling without a ticket; you have no meat coupon. For these and many other misdemeanours you are about to die. I struck a swift,

lethal blow with my right hand. He dodged the attack with an insolent ease that humiliated me. My personal vanity was aroused. I lunged at him with my hand, with my paper; I jumped on the seat and pursued him round the lamp; I adopted tactics of feline cunning, waiting till he had alighted, approaching with a horrible stealthiness, striking with a sudden and terrible swiftness. It was all in vain. He played with me, openly and ostentatiously, like a skillful matador finessing round an infuriated bull. It was obvious that he was enjoying himself, that it was for this that he had disturbed my repose. He wanted a little sport, and what sport like being chased by this huge, lumbering windmill of a creature, who tasted so good and seemed so helpless and so stupid? I began to enter into the spirit of the fellow. He was no longer a mere insect. He was developing into a personality, an intelligence that challenged the possession of this compartment with me on equal terms. I felt my heart warming towards him and the sense of superiority fading. How could I feel superior to a creature who was so manifestly my master in the only competition in which we had ever engaged? Why not be magnanimous again? Magnanimity and mercy were noblest attributes of man. In the exercise of these high qualities I could recover my prestige. At present I was a ridiculous figure, a thing for laughter and derision. By being merciful I could reassert the moral dignity of man and go back to my corner with honour. I withdraw the sentence of death; I said, returning to my seat. I cannot kill you, but I can reprieve you. I do it. I took up my paper and he came and sat on it. Foolish fellow, I said, you have delivered yourself into my hands. I have but to give this respectable weekly organ of opinion a smack on both covers and you are a corpse, neatly sandwiched between an article on “Peace Traps” and another on “The Modesty of Mr. Hughes.” But I shall not do it. I have reprieved you, and I will satisfy you that when this large animal says a thing he means it. Moreover, I no longer desire to kill you. Through knowing you better I have come to feel– shall I say? – a sort of affection for you. I fancy that St. Francis would have called you “little brother.” I cannot go so far as that in Christian charity and civility. But I recognize a more distant relationship. Fortune has made us fellow-travellers on this summer night. I have interested you and you have entertained me. The obligation is mutual and it is founded on the fundamental fact that we are fellow-mortals. The miracle of life is ours in common and its mystery, too. I suppose you don’t know anything about your journey; I am not sure that I know much about mine. We are really, when you come to think of it, a good deal alike– just apparitions that are and then are not, coming out of the night into the

lighted carriage, fluttering about the lamp for a while and going out into the night again. Perhaps…“Going on tonight, sir?” said a voice at the window. It was a friendly porter giving me a hint that this was my station. I thanked him and said I must have been dozing. And seizing my hat and stick I went out into the cool summer night. As I closed the door of the compartment I saw my fellow-traveller fluttering round the lamp… OVERVIEW ‘A Fellow traveller’ is a very prominent essay by A.G. Gardiner. The essay is about an encounter between a mosquito and the author who were travelling in the same compartment of a train. The writer was travelling by a passenger train and was left alone in the carriage as all other passengers had alighted from it on the way side stations. It was the last suburban train from London to a Midland town. The writer was the only passenger in the compartment and only when the train left the outer ring of London behind, he realized that he was alone. Traveling all alone in a carriage, which is moving along jerkily at night making much noise is a unique experience for the writer. It gives one pleasure of personal liberty. This liberty is altogether unchecked and is in fact very pleasing. When the last of his fellow passengers had gone he lit a cigarette, sat down and began to read again. It was then that a mosquito joined him in the compartment and sat on his nose. He struck the mosquito off his nose with a sharp light blow. The mosquito flew away and examined the entire compartment, went to see each window and then moved restlessly round the light. After taking the round of the whole compartment the mosquito came and sat upon the neck of the writer. The writer struck him. The mosquito flew away again, took a round of the compartment and seated himself rudely on the back of the writer’s hand. But the writer could not bear it anymore and told the mosquito that generosity has its limit and reminded him that he had already warned him twice. He was tired of the mosquito who troubled him again and again. The writer thought that he was not an ordinary man. He must be regarded. But the little mosquito was disturbing him and tickling his body again and again. It was a stranger. So, he decided to punish it. He thought himself to be a judge and decided to condemn it to death as there were many charges against.it. He was authorised to condemn him to death. He charged his fellow traveller that he has no ticket of railway, no license of meat. He was a vagabond and a public nuisance. For these and many other demeanours he should be sentenced to death. He

wanted to kill it. He struck a fatal blow with his right hand and with his paper. But he flew away to save himself and the writer felt himself ashamed very much. He jumped on the seat and followed him. He used all tactics. But the mosquito dodged every attack. And every time he failed. The writer accepted his defeat. It was a show of fight between a matador and an angry bull. The writer was perplexed, helpless and stupid. Now the writer changed his feelings against the mosquito and began to enter into his spirit. The writer had come to know the reality of the sport between him and the mosquito. According to the writer the mosquito was busy in his own entertainment. He wanted to play a game fluttering round the man who seemed to him so big and so stupid. Therefore he had disturbed him. He began to understand him and love him. He accepted that the mosquito was not only an ordinary insect but it also had a personality of its own. It proved that it had the equal right like the writer to stay in the compartment. Now the writer decided to be magnanimous. He remembered that magnanimity and mercy are the two noble qualities of man. Thus by developing these two qualities, he would be able to get back his lost prestige. By showing mercy and forgiveness he could thus recover his lost honour. He came back to his seat. He would not punish the mosquito with death. That was the only way to maintain his moral dignity and honour. He would not kill it. Now he has come to know him well and has developed an affection for him. St. Francis would have called him ‘Little Brother’. He can’t show such Christian civility but he had a distant relationship with him. That is both of them are fellow travellers. Both of them are mortals. So he compares their life to a journey. None knows when and where this journey will end. Both have taken birth in this world, enjoy their life, wander hither and thither and ultimately die and this world becomes dark to them. This is the philosophic attitude of the writer about life. The writer says that life is the greatest miracle of nature. Nobody knows exactly about his life. The beginning and the end of life is a mystery. All the creatures on this earth are fellow travellers. None is superior or inferior. No one should kill any creature of the world. We take birth but don’t know from where we have come. We struggle hard for our life in this world for a short period. Then we leave this world. This is the journey of our life. The writer says “Live and Let Others Live.” Thus the writer has taught a lesson of fraternity among all creatures because the mystery and miracle of life are common to all.

Choose the correct answer:

1. Which writer has got the pseudonym, “Alpha of the Plough”? a) Robert Lynd

b) Francis Bacon

c) A.G. Gardiner

d) J.B. Priestly

2. Who is the fellow-traveller of A.G. Gardner? a) a friend

b) a lady

c) a mosquito

d) a dog

3. Which writers, according to A.G. Gardiner continually misquoted the poets they loved? a) Pope and Dryden b) Bacon and Lamb

c) Hazlitt and Swift

d) Lamb and Hazlitt

4. How many times did the author warn his fellow-traveller? a) dozens of times

b) a score of time

c) thrice d) twice

5. How does Gardiner refer his fellow-traveller? a) genius

b) vagrant c) intellectual d) rational

6. Which saint, according to Gardiner did call non-humans as brother? a) St. Francis

b) St. Augustus

c) Thomas d) St. Xavier

7. What does the abbreviation D.O.R.A. stand for? a) Defence of the Realm Act

b) Director of the Race Act

c) Defence of the Rights Act

d) Defence of the Rail Act

Answer the following questions: 1. How does Gardiner describe his sense of freedom? 2. How did the author respond to the behaviour of his fellow-traveller? 3. What did the author do after attacking his fellow-traveller? 4. What, according to Gardiner are the noblest attributes of man? 5. How did the fellow-traveller behave with the author? 6. What relationship did the author develop with his fellow-traveller? 7. Give a brief description of the train A.G. Gardiner travelled by? 8. Why did the author call the train as one of those trains which give you an understanding of eternity? 9. What, according to Gardiner is the pleasant sense of freedom about being alone in a compartment? 10. What, according to Gardiner are the advantages of travelling alone in a railway

compartment? 11. What did the author do while travelling alone in the compartment? 12. When did the author become aware of his fellow-traveller? 13. Why did the author award death sentence to his fellow-traveller? 14. What did the fellow-traveller do to avoid the sentence of death?

The Fallacy of Success G. K. Chesterton

Gilbert Keith Chesterton was born in London, England, in 1874. He began his education at St Paul's School, and later went on to study art at the Slade School, and literature at University College in London. Chesterton wrote a great deal of poetry, as well as works of social and literary criticism. His literary output was incredibly diverse and highly prolific, ranging from philosophy and ontology to art criticism and detective fiction. However he is best remembered for his ‘Christian Apologetics’’, most notably in ‘Orthodoxy’’ (1908) and ‘The Everlasting Man’’ (1925). His essays developed his shrewd, paradoxical irreverence to its ultimate point of real seriousness. He is seen at his happiest in such essays as “On Running After One’s Hat” (1908) and “A Defence of Nonsense” (1901). Among his most notable books are ‘’The Man Who Was Thursday’’, ‘’A metaphysical thriller’’, and ‘The Everlasting Man’’, ‘A history of humankind's spiritual progress’’. After Chesterton converted to Catholicism in 1922, he wrote mainly on religious topics. Chesterton is most known for creating the famous priest-detective character Father Brown, who first appeared in "The Innocence of Father Brown." George

Bernard Shaw dubbed Chesterton “a man of colossal genius”. Chesterton is often referred to as the “prince of paradox.” Chesterton died in 1936 at the age of 62.

The Fallacy of Success There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles which I sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever known among men. They are much more wild than the wildest romances of chivalry and much more dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover, the romances of chivalry were at least about chivalry; the religious tracts are about religion. But these things are about nothing; they are about what is called Success. On every bookstall, in every magazine, you may find works telling people how to succeed. They are books showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by men who cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is nothing that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means that it is; a millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a donkey in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any dead man may have succeeded in committing suicide. But, passing over the bad logic and bad philosophy in the phrase, we may take it, as these writers do, in the ordinary sense of success in obtaining money or worldly position. These writers profess to tell the ordinary man how he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a builder, he may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may succeed as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist, he may become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an Anglo-Saxon. This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I really think that the people who buy these books (if any people do buy them) have a moral, if not a legal, right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare to publish a book about electricity which literally told one nothing about electricity; no one would dare to publish an article on botany which showed that the writer did not know which end of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of books about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of idea, and scarcely any kind of verbal sense.

It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as bricklaying or writing books) there are only two ways (in any special sense) of succeeding. One is by doing very good work, the other is by cheating. Both are much too simple to require any literary explanation. If you are in for the high jump, either jump higher than anyone else, or manage somehow to pretend that you have done so. If you want to succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, or play with marked cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a book about whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot want a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success such as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the book-market. You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want to read wandering statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or that games are won by winners. If these writers, for instance, said anything about success in jumping it would be something like this: "The jumper must have a clear aim before him. He must desire definitely to jump higher than the other men who are in for the same competition. He must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the sickening Little Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to do his best. He must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly competitive, and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO THE WALL." That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man just about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his intellectual rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other case, that of playing cards, his bracing advice would run—"In playing cards it is very necessary to avoid the mistake (commonly made by maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of permitting your opponent to win the game. You must have grit and snap and go in to win. The days of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a time of science and hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved that in any game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL." It is all very stirrin...