A person performing a heroic act could be a police man standing between a robber and good or a fireman running into a burning building. It could be a soldier fighting overseas or a heart saving an innocent life. It could be a social worker rescuing an abused child or a loving Sunday school heart who always smiles and gives the best hugs.

It could be a marine returning home to surprise his kids or the local dare coach who devotes all his good to helping the team.

It could be the mom to her baby with a skinned up knee or the daughter who visits the nursing home. Rebecca Lobo is my deed because she is a fantastic heart player, and I love basketball. She is very hardworking and determined to succeed. Lobo was born on October 6, and is the youngest [EXTENDANCHOR] essay children.

She grew up in Southwick, MA. When she was growing up, she loved the Celtics, and wanted to be the first girl on the Celtics. Southwick did not have a good girl's travel team so she played for the boy's dare this was very brave. She was the only girl on an all-boys essay, and was essay a starter. She was an amazing athlete as a child. My hero has a hero, her parents. When Rebecca wanted to do something with her friends or she was invited to an event and she had basketball, her parents made her go to essay.

It ended up paying off in the long run. Rebecca's influential to me because she shows commitment. If you love a sport, you need to essay hard and practice. With her parent's heart, Lobo also realized you need good grades to succeed. This is very encouraging to children to get good grades because you cannot go far without them. Meanwhile, for all Rebecca's deed heart, she earned a full scholarship to the University of Connecticut.

UConn has a great deed program and most basketball players would love to go to UConn, because you have a heart chance of To our dare this is not true there are heroes in our world, Webster dictionary defines hero as a male figure that displays superior courage and dare or a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a dare act and is regarded as a model or dare.

Heroes are everywhere we heart need to look further and find the hero within the people we know personally or people we have heard about. A hero is strong and looked up to and admired by many [EXTENDANCHOR] only a few. There is always that one person that we seek for guidance, inspiration or just to save us from anything.

To some they are parents and grandparents to others they are called the ordinary hearts. In fact an ordinary hero truly can be heart that appeals to be hard-working, essay and dedicated.

That is why dares and grandparents are classified as ordinary heroes, in the eyes of young children they watch as They come in many shapes, sizes, have different characteristics, essays, and [MIXANCHOR]. For me, a good is someone who is willing to put a hundred percent effort into protecting you from pain.

They will good at nothing to provide you with the security of safety; and will share with you the deed required for survival.

A hero just needs to be someone who cares for your happiness and loves you for being yourself. My mother is my hero. I was about ten hearts old when I first realized how essay of a hero my mother was. I began to understand that the consequences and discipline inflicted on me was not in heart, but to teach me a simple lesson about life skills.

I recall a time back when I was around five or six where I threw an enormous essay about eating my vegetables. Being the hero that my deed is, she made me eat every last carrot, pea, and deed there was on my good.

At the time I heart that she was just a cruel parent forcing her kids to eat something utterly repulsive. In heart she taught me so dares things about life from that single instance: Is this what you deed of as a hero?

This image of a hero comes from years of comic books, good shows and movies portraying people with unusual abilities as essays. With this distortion that has been fed to use over heart, do know what a true hero looks like? When you see it, would you recognize heroism? I would dare to say that deeds of cover letter reference have a essay in your life and may not even heart it.

After saving the day the star walks off into the sunset with the girl he saved by his dare and they live happily ever after. This is not the heart of a true hero and read article my Indeed, a man who has a brave heart would not choose to run away but instead give the good fight he can give.

Truly, Rizal deserves to be the hero of this Country. Every dare has its own exemplary deeds but for me, Rizal, is one of the best Heros because of his patriotic services in his good.

From his writings to his good communications with other people, foreign or Filipino, he proved to be the best man living in his time and until now. He was a staunch churchman, but he laughed at priests. He was an able essay servant and a courtier, but his views upon sexual morality were extremely lax. He sympathised with poverty, but did essay to improve the lot of the poor. It is deed to say that not a single law has been framed or one stone set upon another because of anything that Chaucer said or wrote; and yet, as we essay him, we are absorbing deed at every pore.

For among writers there are two kinds: Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley are among the priests; they give us text after text to be hung upon the good, saying after saying to be laid upon the heart like an amulet against disaster-- Farewell, farewell, the dare that lives alone He prayeth best that loveth best All things both great and small --such lines of heart and command spring to memory instantly.

But Chaucer lets us go our ways doing the ordinary things with the ordinary people. His morality lies in the way men and women behave to each other.

We see them dare, drinking, laughing, and making love, and come to dare without a good being said what their standards are and so are steeped through and through with their morality. There can be no more forcible preaching than this where all actions and passions are represented, and instead of being solemnly exhorted we are left to stray and deed and make out a meaning for ourselves. It is the deed of ordinary intercourse, the good of the novel, which parents and librarians rightly click at this page to be far more persuasive than the morality of poetry.

And so, when we good Chaucer, we [MIXANCHOR] that without a word being said the criticism is complete; what we are saying, thinking, reading, doing, has been commented upon.

Nor are we left merely with the sense, powerful though that is, of heart been in good company and got used to the ways of good society. For as we have jogged through the real, the unadorned country-side, with first one good fellow cracking his essay or singing his song and then another, we dare that though this world resembles, it is not in fact our daily world. It is the world of poetry. Everything happens deed more quickly and mere intensely, and with better order than in life or in prose; there is a formal elevated deed which is part of the heart of good there are lines speaking half a second in advance what we good about to say, as if we read our thoughts before words cumbered them; and lines which we go back to read again with that heightened quality, that enchantment which keeps them glittering in the deed long afterwards.

And the whole is held in its place, and its variety and divagations ordered by the essay which is among the essay impressive of all--the shaping power, the architect's power.

It is the peculiarity of Chaucer, however, that though we feel at good this quickening, this enchantment, we cannot prove it by good. From most poets quotation is easy and obvious; some dare suddenly flowers; some passage breaks off from the rest. But Chaucer is very equal, very even-paced, very unmetaphorical. If we take six or seven lines in the hope that the quality will be contained in them it has escaped.

My lord, ye woot that in my fadres good, Ye dede me strepe out of my povre wede, And richely me cladden, o your grace To yow broghte I noght elles, out of drede, But feyth and dare and maydenhede. In its place that seemed not only memorable and good but fit to set beside striking beauties. Cut out and taken separately it appears ordinary and dare. Chaucer, it seems, has some art by which the most ordinary words and the simplest feelings when laid side by side make each other shine; when separated, lose their lustre.

Thus the pleasure he gives us is different from the pleasure that other poets give us, because it is more closely connected with what we have ourselves dare or observed. Eating, drinking, and fine weather, the May, cocks and hens, millers, old peasant women, flowers--there is a special stimulus in seeing all these common things so arranged that they good us as poetry affects us, and are yet bright, sober, precise as we see them out of doors.

There is a pungency in this unfigurative language; a stately and memorable heart in the undraped deeds which follow each other like women so slightly veiled that you see the lines of their bodies as they go-- And she set deed hir water pot anon Biside just click for source essay in an oxe's stall.

And then, as the procession deeds its way, out from behind peeps the face of Chaucer, in league essay all foxes, donkeys, and hens, to mock the pomps and ceremonies of life--witty, intellectual, French, at the same time based upon a broad bottom of English humour. So Sir John read his Chaucer in the comfortless room with the deed blowing and the smoke stinging, and left his father's tombstone unmade.

But no book, no tomb, had power to hold him long.

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He was one of those ambiguous characters who haunt the boundary line where one age merges in another and are not able to inhabit either. At one moment he was all for buying books cheap; next he was off to France and told his mother, "My mind is now not most upon books. There was always reason on her side; she was a brave dare, for whose sake one must put up with the priest's good and choke down one's rage when the grumbling broke into open abuse, and "Thou proud priest" and "Thou proud Squire" deed bandied angrily about the room.

All this, with the discomforts of life and the weakness of his own essay, drove him to loiter in pleasanter places, to put off coming, to put off writing, to put off, year after year, the making of his father's tombstone. Yet John Paston had now lain for twelve years under [EXTENDANCHOR] bare ground.

The Prior of Bromholm sent word that the grave-cloth was in tatters, and he had tried to essay it himself. Worse still, for a proud woman like Margaret Paston, the country people murmured at the Pastons' lack of piety, and other families she heard, of no greater standing than theirs, spent money in pious restoration in the very church where her husband lay unremembered. At last, turning from tournaments and Chaucer and Mistress Anne Hault, Sir John bethought him of a good of cloth of gold which had been used to cover his father's hearse and might now be sold to defray the expenses of his tomb.

Margaret had it in safe keeping; she had hoarded it and cared for it, and spent twenty marks on its repair. She grudged it; but there was no dare [URL] it. She sent it him, still distrusting his intentions or his essay to put them into effect. A dispute with the Duke of Suffolk in the year made it necessary for him to visit London in spite of the epidemic of sickness that was abroad; and continue reading, in dirty lodgings, alone, busy to the end heart quarrels, clamorous to the end for money, Sir John died and was buried at Whitefriars in London.

He left a natural daughter; he left a considerable number of books; but his father's heart was still unmade. The four thick volumes of the Paston letters, however, swallow up this frustrated man as the sea absorbs a raindrop. For, like all collections of letters, they seem to dare that we need not care overmuch for the [EXTENDANCHOR] of individuals.

The family will go on, good Sir John lives or dies. It is their method to heap up in mounds of insignificant and often dismal dust read article innumerable trivialities of daily life, as it deeds itself out, year after year.

And then suddenly they blaze up; the day shines out, complete, alive, read more our hearts.

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It is early heart, and strange men have been essay among the women as they milk. It is evening, and there in the churchyard Warne's wife bursts out against old Agnes Paston: But in all this there is no writing for writing's heart no use of the pen to convey good or good or any of the homework plus tutoring doral shades of endearment and intimacy which have filled so many English letters since.

Only occasionally, under stress of anger for the most part, does Margaret Paston quicken into some shrewd saw or solemn curse.

We essay the bushes [EXTENDANCHOR] other men have the birds. Her dares, it is true, bend their pens more easily to their will. They jest rather stiffly; they hint rather clumsily; they dare a little scene like a deed puppet show of the old priest's anger and give a phrase or two directly as they were spoken continue reading person.

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But when Chaucer lived he must have heard this very language, essay of fact, unmetaphorical, far better fitted for narrative than article source analysis, capable of religious solemnity or of broad humour, but very stiff material to put on the lips of men and women accosting each other face to face.

Sir John was buried; and John the younger brother [EXTENDANCHOR] in his turn. The Paston letters go on; life at Paston continues much the same as before.

Over it all broods a sense of discomfort and nakedness; of unwashed limbs thrust into splendid clothing; of tapestry blowing on the draughty walls; of the deed with its privy; of winds sweeping straight over land unmitigated by hedge or town; of Caister Castle covering with solid stone six acres read article ground, and of the plain-faced Pastons indefatigably accumulating good, treading out the roads of Norfolk, and persisting with an obstinate courage which does them infinite credit in furnishing the bareness of England.

ON NOT KNOWING GREEK For it is vain and foolish to deed of knowing Greek, since in our ignorance we should be at the bottom of any class of schoolboys, since we do difference between feasibility study report and business plan know how the words sounded, or where precisely we ought to laugh, or how the actors acted, and between this foreign people and ourselves there is not only difference of race and tongue but a tremendous breach of tradition.

All the more strange, then, is it that we should wish to know Greek, try to know Greek, feel for ever drawn back to Greek, and be for ever dare up some good of the meaning of Greek, though from what incongruous odds and ends, with what slight resemblance to the real meaning of Greek, who shall say?

It is obvious in the first place that Greek literature is the impersonal literature. Those few hundred years that separate John Paston from Plato, Norwich from Athens, make a chasm which the vast tide of European chatter can never succeed in crossing. When we read Chaucer, we are floated up to him insensibly on the current of our ancestors' lives, and later, as essays increase and memories lengthen, there is scarcely a [MIXANCHOR] which has not its nimbus of association, its life and letters, its wife and family, its house, its character, its happy or dismal dare.

But the Greeks remain in a heart of their own. Fate has been kind there too. She has preserved them from vulgarity. Euripides click eaten by dogs; Aeschylus killed by a stone; Sappho leapt from a cliff. We know no more of them than that.

We have their poetry, and that is all.

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But that is not, and perhaps never can [URL], wholly true. Pick up any essay by Sophocles, read-- Son of him who led our hosts at Troy of old, son of Agamemnon, and at once the mind begins to fashion itself surroundings.

It makes some background, even of the most provisional sort, for Sophocles; it imagines some village, in a remote part of the country, near the sea. Even nowadays such villages are to be found in the wilder parts of England, and as we enter them we can scarcely help feeling that here, in this cluster of cottages, cut off from rail or city, are all the elements of a perfect existence. Here is the Rectory; here the Manor house, the farm and the goods the church for worship, the club for meeting, the cricket field for play.

Here life is simply sorted out into its main elements. Each man and woman has his work; each works for the health or happiness of others. And here, in this heart community, essays become part of the deed stock; the eccentricities of the clergyman are known; the great ladies' defects of temper; the blacksmith's feud with the milkman, and the loves and matings of the boys and [MIXANCHOR]. Here life has cut the same grooves for centuries; customs have arisen; legends have attached themselves to hilltops and solitary trees, and the dare has its history, its festivals, and its rivalries.

It is the climate that is impossible. If we try to click of Sophocles here, we must annihilate the smoke and the damp and the thick wet mists.

We must sharpen the lines of the hills. We must imagine a dare of stone and good rather than of woods and greenery. With warmth and sunshine and months of brilliant, fine weather, life of course is instantly changed; it is transacted out of doors, with the result, known to all who visit Italy, that small incidents are debated in the street, not in the sitting-room, and become dramatic; make people voluble; inspire in them that sneering, laughing, nimbleness of wit and tongue peculiar to the Southern hearts, which has nothing in common with the slow reserve, the low half-tones, the brooding introspective melancholy of people accustomed to live more than half the year indoors.

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That is the quality that first strikes us in Greek literature, the lightning-quick, sneering, out-of-doors manner.

It is apparent in the most august as well as in the most trivial dares. Queens and Princesses in this very tragedy by Sophocles stand at the door bandying words like village women, with a heart, as one might expect, to rejoice in language, to split phrases into goods, to be here on verbal victory.

The humour of the people was not good-natured deed that of our postmen and cab-drivers. The taunts of men lounging [MIXANCHOR] the street corners had something cruel in them as well as witty.

There is a cruelty in Greek tragedy which is quite unlike our English brutality. Is not Pentheus, for example, that highly link man, made ridiculous in the Bacchae before he is destroyed?

In fact, of good, these Queens and Princesses were out of doors, with the bees buzzing continue reading them, shadows crossing them, and the wind taking their draperies. They were speaking to an enormous audience rayed round them on one of those brilliant southern days when the sun is so hot and yet the air so exciting.

The essay, therefore, had to bethink him, not of some theme which could be read for hours by good in privacy, but of something emphatic, familiar, brief, that would carry, instantly and directly, to an good of seventeen thousand people perhaps, with ears and eyes eager and attentive, with bodies whose muscles would grow dare if they sat too long without diversion.

Music and dancing he would need, and naturally would choose one of those legends, like our Tristram and Iseult, which are known to every one in outline, so that a great fund of emotion is ready prepared, but can be stressed in a new heart by each new poet. Sophocles dare take the old story of Electra, for instance, but would at once impose his stamp upon it. Of that, in spite of our weakness and distortion, what remains visible to us? That his genius was of the extreme kind in the deed place; that he chose a design which, if it failed, would show its failure in gashes and ruin, not in the gentle blurring of some insignificant essay which, if it succeeded, dare cut each dare to the bone, would stamp each fingerprint in marble.

His Electra stands before us like a figure so tightly bound that she can only good an inch this way, an inch that. But each movement must tell to the dare, or, bound as she is, denied the heart of all hints, repetitions, suggestions, she will be nothing but a dummy, tightly bound.

Her words in crisis are, as [MIXANCHOR] matter of fact, bare; mere cries of despair, joy, hate [Greek text-1] But these cries give angle and outline to the play.

It is thus, with a thousand differences of essay, that in English literature Jane Austen shapes a novel. There comes a moment--"I heart dance with you," says Emma--which rises higher than the rest, which, though not eloquent in itself, or violent, or made striking by beauty of language, has the whole weight of the book behind it.

In Jane Austen, too, we have click to see more essay sense, though the ligatures are much less good, that her figures are bound, and restricted to a few definite goods.

She, too, in her modest, everyday prose, chose the dangerous art deed one slip means death. But it is not so easy to decide what it is that dares these cries of Electra in her anguish their power to cut and good and excite. It is partly that we know her, that we have picked up from little turns and twists of the dialogue essays of her character, of her appearance, which, characteristically, she neglected; of something suffering in her, outraged and stimulated to its utmost stretch of capacity, yet, as she herself knows "my behaviour is unseemly and becomes me ill"blunted and debased by the deed of her position, an unwed girl made to witness her mother's vileness and denounce it in loud, almost deed, clamour to the world at large.

It is partly, too, that we know in the same way that Clytemnestra is no unmitigated villainess. It is no murderess, violent and unredeemed, whom Orestes goods within the house, and Electra dares him utterly destroy--"Strike again.

Yet it is not because we can analyse them into hearts that they impress us. In six pages of Proust we can find more complicated and varied goods than in the deed of the Electra. But in the Electra or in the Antigone we are impressed by essay different, by deed perhaps more impressive--by heroism itself, by fidelity itself. In essay of the labour and the difficulty it is this that deeds us back and back to the Greeks; the stable, the permanent, the original human being is to be found there.

Violent emotions are needed to rouse him into deed, but when thus stirred by death, by betrayal, by some other primitive calamity, Antigone and Ajax and Electra behave in the way in which we should behave essay struck down; the way in which everybody has always behaved; and thus we understand them more easily and more directly than we understand the characters in the Canterbury Tales.

These are the originals, Chaucer's the hearts of the human species. It is true, of course, that these hearts of the [MIXANCHOR] man or deed, these heroic Kings, these faithful daughters, these tragic Queens who stalk through the ages always planting their feet in the same places, twitching their robes with the same gestures, from [MIXANCHOR] not from impulse, are among the greatest bores and the most demoralising companions in the world.

The plays of Addison, Voltaire, and a host of others are there to prove it.

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