Answer:
He learned in the hopes of improving his life as a slave, if not total escape from slavery.
I believe the answer is B
In Hamlet, Claudius has killed the king (his brother and Hamlet's father). It isn't long before Hamlet knows that "something is rotten" and realizes that has happened. Claudius knows that Hamlet is aware of what he has done. As a result, Claudius knows he has to get rid of Hamlet.
At this point in the play, Hamlet has killed Polonius, driving his daughter, Ophelia, insane. Laertes, the son of Polonius, wants revenge. Hamlet has fled. Laertes arrives on the scene and demands to know what is going on. He is in a rage and likely to kill anyone he suspects of having a hand in destroying his family.
Claudius knows that he can turn Laertes' rage to his advantage. He quickly says that getting revenge is a good thing -- so long as he gets revenge on the right person. Claudius begins subtly manipulating Laertes, who does not immediately know who killed his father. He nearly thinks Claudius is guilty, but Claudius begins to manipulate him immediately.
Claudius is hoping that Laertes will take care of Hamlet for him. In this way, Claudius can be rid of Hamlet and Laertes can have his revenge. Claudius begins by calming Laertes down. He explains that Hamlet is the guilty party, and then explains why he covered for Hamlet and did not punish him for the crime of killing Polonius.
Claudius explains that he could not have executed Hamlet for the crime because it would have upset the queen (and the people) too much. Laertes, he says, has a right to avenge his father's death. Claudius explains that a duel is the perfect way for Laertes to get his revenge. Laertes agrees to use a sharp sword and even recommends applying poison to the end so even a scratch will kill. If those things don't work, Claudius will give him a poisoned drink after the duel.
In this way, Claudius has manipulated Laertes into dueling Hamlet. In this way, Laertes can avenge his father's death and Claudius can get rid of Hamlet without appearing to have a hand in it at all.
I believe it would be: A feature article!
Hope this helped!
~Wolfe
Answer:People are horrible at keeping secrets. As in, really, really bad at it (no matter what anyone may tell you to the contrary). And you know what? We’re right to be. Just like the two Rhesus Macaques in the picture above, we have an urge to spill the beans when we know we shouldn’t—and that urge is a remarkably healthy one. Resist it, and you may find yourself in worse shape than you’d bargained for. And the secreter the secret, the worse the backlash on your psyche will likely be.
I never much cared for Nathaniel Hawthorne. I first dreaded him when my older sister came home with a miserable face and a 100-pound version of The House of the Seven Gables. I felt my anxiety mount when she declared the same hefty tome unreadable and said she would rather fail the test than finish the slog. And I had a near panic attack when I, now in high school myself, was handed my own first copy of the dreaded Mr. H.
Now, I’ve never been one to judge books by size. I read War and Peace cover to cover long before Hawthorne crossed my path and finished A Tale of Two Cities (in that same high school classroom) in no time flat. But it was something about him that just didn’t sit right. With trepidation bordering on the kind of dread I’d only ever felt when staring down a snake that I had mistaken for a tree branch, I flipped open the cover.
Luckily for me, what I found sitting on my desk in tenth grade was not my sister’s old nemesis but The Scarlet Letter. And you know what? I survived. It’s not that the book became a favorite. It didn’t. And it’s not that I began to judge Hawthorne less harshly. After trying my hand at Seven Gables—I just couldn’t stay away, could I; I think it was forcibly foisted on all Massachusetts school children, since the house in question was only a short field trip away—I couldn’t. And it’s not that I changed my mind about the writing—actually, having reread parts now to write this column, I’m surprised that I managed to finish at all (sincere apologies to all Hawthorne fans). I didn’t.
But despite everything, The Scarlet Letter gets one thing so incredibly right that it almost—almost—makes up for everything it gets wrong: it’s not healthy to keep a secret.
I remember how struck I was when I finally understood the story behind the letter – and how shocked at the incredibly physical toll that keeping it secret took on the fair Reverend Dimmesdale. It seemed somehow almost too much. A secret couldn’t actually do that to someone, could it?
Explanation:
