Norm Carlson Confidential

Click here to go to pages created for my English 110: Literary Interpretation course.

Click here to go to pages to be created for my English 330: British Literature I course.

Click here to go to pages created for my English 630: Research & Writing course.

Click here to see What I Did on "Spring Break"

Click here to learn about Leger Paintings in Museums

Everything you need to know to be a writer of DECENT SENTENCES!!!

Click here to read my most recent annual Christmas letter.

Click here for sites created by colleagues Allen Carey-Webb and Seamus Cooney who provide the kind of information and links useful to English majors and minors which I should provide more of.

Click here for information about a creative writing M.F.A. program that's really FAR OUT!!!

Click here to go to my departmental page.


[final paragraph of George Orwell's Homage to Catalonia, 1938]

And then England -- southern England, probably the sleekest landscape in the world. It is difficult when you pass that way, especially when you are peacefully recovering from sea-sickness with the plush cushions of a boat-train carriage under your bum, to believe that anything is really happening anywhere. Earthquakes in Japan, famines in China, revolutions in Mexico? Don't worry, the milk will be on the doorstep tomorrow morning, the New Statesman will come out on Friday. The industrial towns were far away, a smudge of smoke and misery hidden by the curve of the earth's surface. Down here it was still the England I had known in my childhood: the railway-cuttings smothered in wild flowers, the deep meadows where the great shining horses browse and meditate, the slow-moving streams bordered by willows, the green bosoms of the elms, the larkspurs in the cottage gardens; and then the huge peaceful wilderness of outer London, the barges on the miry river, the familiar streets, the posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings, the men in bowler hats, the pigeons in Trafalger Square, the red buses, the blue policemen -- all sleeping the deep, deep sleep of England, from which I sometimes fear that we shall never wake till we are jerked out of it by the roar of bombs.

Your comments and suggestions are appreciated: Norm Carlson

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