If this is a true/false question, then yes, alienation is definitely a major theme in Modernist literature. They felt like they didn't belong in the society, they were strangers, or aliens, therefore that was an important theme implemented in their literature.
Answer:
The characters include the wicked old man, the nice old man, the nice old man's wife, and maybe the dog. The story takes place in a castle and on a farm, I think it takes place back when there were still castles with kings and queens. The stories point of view is third person omniscient because it uses words like he, she, and we don't know any of the character's thoughts.
(Sorry I could not give you an answer quicker and this might sound bad because I'm only in middle school)
Explanation:
Hi! :)
I would build myself shelter, hunt for animals, and survive.
Actually it's the leopard.
Dove-twirl in the tall grass. End-of-summer glaze next door On the gloves and split ends of the conked magnolia tree. Work sounds: truck back-up-beep, wood tin-hammer, cicada, fire horn
<span>A. Poetry of Place</span>
My birthplace vanished, my citizenship earned, in league with stones of the earth, Ienter, without retreat or help from history, the days of no day, my earth of no earth, I re-enter the city in which I love you. And I never believed that the multitude of dreams and many words were vain.
D. Poetry of Family
On the days when the rest have failed you, let this much be yours— flies, dust, an unnameable odor, the two waiting baskets: one for the lemons and passion, the other for all you have lost. Both empty, it will come to your shoulder, breathe slowly against your bare arm. If you offer it hay, it will eat. Offered nothing, it will stand as long as you ask. The little bells of the bridle will hang beside you quietly, in the heat and the tree's thin shade. Do not let its sparse mane deceive you, or the way the left ear swivels into dream. This too is a gift of the gods. Calm and complete.
B. Poetry of Spirit
When the black snake flashed onto the morning road, and the truck could not swerve— death, that is how it happens. Now he lies looped and useless as an old bicycle tire. I stop the car and carry him into the bushes.
C. Poetry of Nature
