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Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd Flag for inappropriate content of 1 Oranges are not the only fruit- by Jeanette Winterson (struggle for identity = Oranges are not the only fruit: Winterson, Jeanette, Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming: Internet Archive Loading viewer Favorite Oranges are not the only fruit by 24/11/ · Now required reading in contemporary literature, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is a funny, poignant exploration of a young girl’s adolescence. Jeanette is a bright and rebellious Demon fruit, passion fruit, rotten fruit, fruit on Sunday. Orange are the only fruit. I filled my little bucket with peel and the nurses emptied it with an ill grace. I hid the peel under my pillow and headscarf, but not on Sunday. We sat on the stone's base and she thanked the Lord we had managed the ascent. Then she extemporised on the nature of the world, the folly of its ... read more
They got a lot of work between them, and usually needed an extra hand. I went along to help with the laying out and make up. At first I was very clumsy. I used too much rouge, and smeared it down the cheekbones. I went round making sure that the dead had everything they wanted. Some just asked for a prayer book or their Bible, or their wedding ring, but some were positively Egyptian. It was about a week in a telephone box with a pair of pyjamas called Adolf Hitler. The heroine was a piece of string with a knot in it. But we put it in anyway. It reminded me of Rossetti who flung his new poems into the grave of his wife, and had to ask permission from the home secretary to get them out again six years later.
I liked my work. I learned a lot about wood and flowers, and I enjoyed polishing the handles as a final touch. One year, the Society had a special conference in our town. May and Alice went posting invitations through letter boxes and Miss Jewsbury was billed to play the oboe. It was an open meeting to inform and encourage new members. The only place we could find to host the meeting was the Rechabite Hall on the corner of Infant Street. The conference was booked for a Saturday, and there was always a market near Infant Street on Saturdays, so my mother gave me an orange box, and told me to shout at everyone what was happening.
I had a bad time. Eventually Mrs Arkwright from the Factory Bottoms shop took pity on me. She had a stall at the weekend mostly with pet food though she would advise on vermin if it was urgent. She let me put my orange box inside the shelter of her stall, so that I could give out tracts without getting too wet. She might have been right, but there was nothing I could do about it. Àll of them. It was very gloomy with lots of pictures of the apostles. The sermon was on perfection, and it was at this moment that I began to develop my first theological disagreement.
Perfection, the man said, was a thing to aspire to. It could only be truly realised in the next world, but we had a sense of it, a maddening, impossible sense, which was both a blessing and a curse. She was very wise too, being well acquainted with the laws of physics and the nature of the universe. Her great delight was to spin, and to sing songs as she turned the wheel. Meanwhile, in a part of the forest that had become a town, a great prince roamed sadly along the corridors of his palace. He was considered by many to be a good prince, and a valuable leader. He was also quite pretty, though a little petulant at times. As he walked, he spoke aloud to his faithful companion, an old goose. The prince gazed into space for a moment, then flung his body to the turf. But the prince took no notice. Ì want a woman, without blemish inside or out, flawless in every respect.
I want a woman who is perfect. The goose was much moved by this display, and shuffled off to see if she could find some advisors. After a long search, she stumbled on a clump of them under the royal oaks, playing bridge. She must be perfect. They found many lovely and virtuous women, but the prince refused them all. It was called The Holy Mystery of Perfection. He divided it into three sections. Part one: the philosophy of perfection. The Holy Grail, the unblemished life, the final aspiration on Mount Carmel. Saint Teresa and the Interior Castle. Part two: the impossibility of perfection. The restless search in this life, the pain, the majority who opt for second best. Their spreading corruption. The importance of being earnest.
Part three: the need to produce a world full of perfect beings. The possibility thereby of a heaven on earth. A perfect race. An exhortation to single- mindedness. The prince was very pleased with his book, and had a copy given to all his advisors, so that they should not waste his time with the merely second-best. One of them took it with him to a distant corner of the forest, where he could read in peace. While he was lying under a tree, he heard the sound of singing coming from somewhere on the left. Curious, and a music lover, he got up to find out who was making the noise. In a clearing, there was a woman spinning thread and accompanying herself with a song.
The advisor thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He went up to her, bowing as he came. Meantime, the advisor questioned whoever he met about the woman. How old was she? Who were her family? Did she have any dependants? Was she clever? The advisor turned to her in horror. The prince and his retinue were arriving. The prince himself had lost the use of his legs from sitting still so long, and had to be carried in a litter. The court turned to one another, smiling. They could stop all this nonsense now, and live happily ever after. The woman smiled down on the kneeling price, and stroked his hair.
Then silence. The prince struggled to his feet, and pulled a copy of his book from out of his pocket. Then she frowned, and motioning to the prince, pulled him inside her home. For three days and three nights the court camped in fear. No sound came from the hut. Then on the fourth day, the prince appeared, weary and unwashed. Calling his chief advisors around him, he told them all that had taken place. He, the prince, had been wrong. She was perfect because she was a perfect balance of qualities and strengths. She was symmetrical in every respect. The search for perfection, she had told him, was in fact the search for balance, for harmony.
And she showed him Libra, the scales, and Pisces, the fish, and last of all put out her two hands. The advisor blushed. On the stroke of midnight he heard a sound behind him, and drawing his sword came face to face with his chief advisor. Ì have a solution. The night continued, and the prince fixed his heart to evil. At dawn, there was a great trumpet cry, and all the court and all the village assembled together to hear what the prince had to say. He stood in their midst, newly washed, and called for the woman to come forth. As she came from her home, the first light caught her, and she shone beacon- like across the clearing. There was a murmur of amazement, for she was more beautiful than ever that day. The prince swallowed hard, and began his speech. I had hoped on coming here to find an end to my quest, but I now know that perfection is not to be found, but to be fashioned, there is no such thing as flawlessness on this earth….
Ìt was you who sought me. Suddenly someone cried out. Àrrest that man. Then the woman took a step forward and stood before the prince who began to tremble uncontrollably. The woman took no notice, but continued to address the prince, who had turned deathly pale. Òff with her head. Instantly, the blood became a lake, and drowned the advisors and most of the court. The prince only managed to escape by climbing a tree. Now I must continue my quest, but alas, who will ever advise me? He looked down, and saw a man selling oranges. My dress was pure white and I had a golden crown.
As I walked up the aisle the crown got heavier and heavier and the dress more and more difficult to walk in. I thought everyone would point at me, but no one noticed. Somehow I made it to the altar. The priest was very fat and kept getting fatter, like bubble gum you blow. Sometimes he was blind, sometimes a pig, sometimes my mother, sometimes the man from the post office, and once, just a suit of clothes with nothing inside. I told my mother about it, and she said it was because I ate sardines for supper. The next night I ate sausages, but I still had the dream. There was a woman in our street who told us all she had married a pig. No doubt that woman had discovered in life what I had discovered in my dreams.
She had unwittingly married a pig. I kept watch on him after that. It was hard to tell he was a pig. He was clever, but his eyes were close together, and his skin bright pink. I tried to imagine him without his clothes on. The man who ran the post office was bald and shiny with hands too fat for the sweet jars. He called me poppet, which my mother said was nice. He gave me sweets too, which was an improvement. One day he had a new sort. That day I had almost strangled my dog with rage, and been dragged from the house by a desperate mother. Sweet I was not. But I was a little girl, ergo, I was sweet, and here were sweets to prove it. I looked in the bag. I was confused. Everyone always said you found the right man. My mother said it, which was confusing.
My auntie said it, which was even more confusing. The man in the post office sold it on sweets. But there was the problem of the woman married to the pig, and the spotty boy who took girls down backs, and my dream. That afternoon I went to the library. I went the long way, so as to miss the couples. They made funny noises that sounded painful, and the girls were always squashed against the wall. In this story, a beautiful young woman finds herself the forfeit of a bad bargain made by her father. As a result, she has to marry an ugly beast, or dishonour her family forever. Because she is good, she obeys. On her wedding night, she gets into bed with the beast, and feeling pity that everything should be so ugly, gives it a little kiss.
Immediately, the beast is transformed into a handsome young prince, and they both live happily ever after. I wondered if the woman married to a pig had read this story. She must have been awfully disappointed if she had. Slowly I closed the book. It was clear that I had stumbled on a terrible conspiracy. There are women in the world. There are men in the world. And there are beasts. What do you do if you marry a beast? And beasts are crafty. They disguise themselves like you and I. Why had no one told me? Did that mean no one else knew? Did that mean that all over the globe, in all innocence, women were marrying beasts? I reassured myself as best I could. The minister was a man, but he wore a skirt, so that made him special. There must be others, but were theree enough? That was the worry.
There were a lot of women, and most of them got married. My own family had done quite badly, I thought. If only there was some way of telling, then we could operate a ration system. She was in the team at church, and needed to practise. He came over to me, and put his face close. I hated him. When I married, I laughed for a week, cried for a month, and settled down for life. Ìt was just a bit of love. I half expected him to have a tail. She spread the cards. I got very depressed and started putting the Beetle legs on the wrong way round, and generally making a mess.
Eventually my auntie stood up and sighed. I went to fetch my mother who was in the parlour listening to Johnny Cash. We set off together down the street. All the time my mother walked along humming What a Friend We Have in Jesus, and peeling me an orange. She stopped peeling and I stopped talking about the same time. I had one last question. Remember Jane Eyre and St John Rivers. Jane Eyre was her favourite non-Bible book, and she read it to me over and over again, when I was very small. Later, literate and curious, I had decided to read it for myself. A sort of nostalgic pilgrimage. It was like the day I discovered my adoption papers while searching for a pack of playing cards. I have never since played cards, and I have never since read Jane Eyre. We continued our walk in silence. She thought I was satisfied, but I was wondering about her, and wondering where I would go to find out what I wanted to know. When it was washday I hid in the dustbin to hear what the women said.
Nellie came out with her bit of rope and strung it up nail to nail across the back alley. She waved to Doreen who was struggling up the hill with her shopping, offering her a cup of tea and a talk. It always put her in a bad mood because she was a member of the Labour party and believed in equal shares and equal rights. She started to tell Nellie about the woman in front buying steak. Nellie shook her head which was small and tufted, and said it had been hard for her too since Bert died. Her skirt was too tight, but she always pretended it had shrunk.
Ì should have guessed though, what kind of a man comes round to court you and ends up drinking with your dad instead? I used to sit all done up playing whist with his mother and one of her friends. I ignored him for fifteen years. Doreen shook her head. Me and Bert had one bed but we did nothing in it. Different from what? I wondered from inside the dustbin. When it was safe, I crept out of the dustbin, as confused as ever and covered in soot. It was a good thing I was destined to become a missionary. For some time after this I put aside the problem of men and concentrated on reading the Bible. Then some years later, quite by mistake, I did. I kicked the dog out of her box, and tried to clip on her lead. My mother spied me. When we got on the bus we saw May with Ida, one of the women who ran the forbidden paper shop, and played bowls for the local team. Have one of these coconut macaroons. Àrt going down town?
My mother nodded. Ì tell you what though. My mother always called it that because of her memories of Paris. I was foolish enough to ask if I could have a new mac. We went into the market next. My mother always got her mince cheap because the butcher had been her sweetheart once. She said he was a devil, but she still took the mince. While he was wrapping it up, I got my mac caught on a meat hook and pulled the sleeve off. At that moment we saw Mrs Clifton, who gave singing lessons, and did her shopping at Marks and Spencers. She was rummaging behind a pile of cardboard boxes that had SURPLUS written on the side, like branded sheep. It was enormous. We walked in silence to the fish stall. I hated her. I looked at the shrimps. They were pink all over too. There was a woman next to me carrying a Battenburg cake. It had pink icing and little pink roses.
I felt sick. Then somebody was sick. A small boy. His mother hit him. I felt miserable. When Keats felt miserable he always put on a clean shirt. But he was a poet. She was boning kippers on a big marble slab. She used a thin stained knife, and threw the gut into a tin bucket. The clean fish she laid on greaseproof paper, and every fourth fish had a sprig of parsley. She smiled and carried on. She looked up, and I noticed her eyes were a lovely grey, like the cat Next Door. She stared at me a moment, then turned away. That damn dog costs enough. I felt wronged. I looked behind me. But Melanie had gone.
Ida was doing her pools coupon and eating raspberry ripple. My mother sank down. Her glasses were at a funny angle, and stuck together with band-aid. Ì said to her, I said, Doreen, what you pay at Marks and Sparks you get for half the price down here. My mother was getting desperate. My mother turned to Ida for some help, but Ida was busy with her coupon. There was nothing I could do but stare and stare at the whelks. Whelks are strange and comforting. They have no notion of community life and they breed very quietly. But they have a strong sense of personal dignity.
Even lying face down in a tray of vinegar, there is something noble about a whelk. Which cannot be said for everybody. Then, just as I was about to turn away and buy myself a baked potato for comfort, I saw Melanie walking round to the stall. I went straight up to her. She looked a bit surprised. How could I make her stay? I was very nervous, and the pigeons got most of mine. She talked about the weather and her mother, that she had no father. It sounded odd for a moment, but I knew that was because I felt nervous. I asked her if she went to church, and she said she did, but not a very lively one, so of course I invited her to ours the next day.
He arrived in an old Bedford van with the terrified damned painted on one side and the heavenly host painted on the other. He was very proud of the bus, and told of the many miracles worked inside and out. Inside had six seats, so that the choir could travel with him, leaving enough room for musical instruments and a large first-aid kit in case the demon combusted somebody. We were very impressed. There was a collapsible cross that fitted across the back doors, and a very small sink so that the pastor could wash his hands after every operation. Ìt came to me from the Lord, just as I left Sandbach Motorway Services. The first verse went like this…. Some men like their beer others like their wine, But open your mouth to the Spirit, if you want to feel fine. The chorus went like this…. Danny got out his guitar and picked up the chords, then May started beating out that twelve-bar on her tambourine. Before long we were all in a long line going clockwise round the church singing the chorus over and over again.
He told us about the doings of his tour, how many souls had been saved, how many good souls, oppressed by the demon, had found peace once again. Then we were shocked as he described the epidemic of demons, even now spreading through the north west. Lancashire and Cheshire had been particularly blighted; only the day before he had cleansed a whole family in Cheadle Hulme. Ùnnatural Passions. Not all of us were sure what he meant, but all of us knew it was dreadful. I glanced across at Melanie; she looked like she was going to be sick. She jumped, and stared at me. Yes, definitely the Spirit. At the end of his very fine sermon, Pastor Finch made an appeal, he urged any sinner to raise their hand, and ask forgiveness there and then. We bowed our heads in prayer, squinting up now and again, to see if it was working.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on mine. It was Melanie. A ripple of joy ran through the church. There was no one else, so Melanie had plenty of attention at the end of the service. Not that she wanted it. Then she asked me to be her counsellor, and I agreed to go round to her house every Monday, while her mum was at the club where she worked. We left together, me on a cloud, and her with a handbag full of tracts on the gifts of the Spirit, and advice for new converts. As we reached the town hall, Pastor Finch shot past us, his gospel radio full on, windows wide open, and on the top of the van, a flag flying triumphant.
I was delighted. Somehow, this was different. I talked about her all the time at home, and my mother never responded. Then one day she bundled me into the kitchen and said we had to talk seriously. I was teaching him to play the guitar, and trying to make him understand the importance of regular Bible study. I was enthralled. She had lived off the Rue St Germain, eaten croissants and lived a clean life. Then, one sunny say, without warning, she had been walking towards the river when she met Pierre, or rather Pierre had jumped from his bicycle, offered her his onions, and named her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It was then that my mother experienced a feeling she had never known before: a fizzing and a buzzing and a certain giddiness. Not only with Pierre, but anywhere, at any time. Perhaps he was handsome? Then, on a quiet night, after a quiet supper, Pierre had siezed her and begged her to stay with him that night.
The fizzing began, and as he clutched her to him, she felt sure she would never love another, and yes she would stay and after that, they would marry. I begged her to finish the story, proffering the Royal Scots. A couple of days afterward, my mother had gone to see the doctor in a fit of guilty anxiety. She lay on the couch while the doctor prodded her stomach and chest, asking if she ever felt giddy, or fizzy in the belly. She had given away her all for an ailment. Needless to say, the next time they met, and again by chance, she felt nothing, nothing at all, and shortly fled the country to avoid him. She got up and told me to go and find something to do.
I decided to go and see Melanie, but just as I reached the door she called me back with a word of warning. She was always pleased, but then, I never told her where they came from. We read the Bible as usual, and then told each other how glad we were that the Lord had brought us together. She stroked my head for a long time, and then we hugged and it felt like drowning. There was something crawling in my belly. I had an octopus inside me. And it was evening and it was morning; another day. After that we did everything together, and I stayed with her as often as I could. My mother seemed relieved that I was seeing less of Graham, and for a while made no mention of the amount of time I spent with Melanie. Melanie and I had volunteered to set up the Harvest Festival Banquet, and we worked hard in the church throughout the day.
When everyone arrived and started to pass the potato pie, we stood on the balcony, looking down on them. Our family. It was safe. Now and again a tremour shakes the chandelier, dropping tiny flakes of plaster into the sherbet. The guests look up more in interest than alarm. The women suffer most. Their shoulders bared and white like hard-boiled eggs. Outside, under the snow, the river lies embalmed. These are the elect, and in the hall an army sleeps on straw. Outside a rush of torches. Laughter drifts into the hall. The elect have always been this way. Getting old, dying, starting again. Not noticing. Father and Son. remove-circle Share or Embed This Item. EMBED for wordpress. com hosted blogs and archive. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help!
Publication date Topics Teenage girls , Lesbians , Lesbians , Teenage girls Publisher New York, N. Originally published: London ; New York : Pandora Press, Genesis -- Exodus -- Leviticus -- Numbers -- Deuteronomy -- Joshua -- Judges -- Ruth "Winner of the Whitbread Prize for best first fiction, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is a coming-out novel from Winterson, the acclaimed author of The Passion and Sexing the Cherry. The narrator, Jeanette, cuts her teeth on the knowledge that she is one of God's elect, but as this budding evangelical comes of age, and comes to terms with her preference for her own sex, the peculiar balance of her God-fearing household crumbles. org Scanningcenter shenzhen Worldcat source edition Show More. Full catalog record MARCXML. plus-circle Add Review. Gutierres on June 21, Internet Archive logo A line drawing of the Internet Archive headquarters building façade.
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PDF EPUB Download in Fiction Jeanette Winterson Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit Author : Jeanette Winterson Publisher: Random House ISBN: Category: Fiction Page: View: My father liked to watch the wrestling, my mother liked to wrestle; it didn't matter what' This is the story of Jeanette, adopted and brought up by her mother as one of God's elect. Zealous and passionate, she seems destined for life as a missionary, but then she falls for one of her converts. At sixteen, Jeanette decides to leave the church, her home and her family, for the young woman she loves. Innovative, punchy and tender, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is a few days ride into the bizarre outposts of religious excess and human obsession. extraordinary and exhilarating' The Times 'She is a master of her material, a writer in whom great talent abides' Vanity Fair 'Many consider her to be the best living writer in this language In her hands, words are fluid, radiant, humming' Evening Standard 'A novel that deserves revisiting' Observer 'A wonderful rites-of-passage novel' Mariella Frostrup.
Winterson went on to fulfill that promise, producing some of the most dazzling fiction and nonfiction of the past decade, including her celebrated memoir Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal?. Jeanette is a bright and rebellious orphan who is adopted into an evangelical household in the dour, industrial North of England and finds herself embroidering grim religious mottoes and shaking her little tambourine for Jesus. But as this budding missionary comes of age, and comes to terms with her unorthodox sexuality, the peculiar balance of her God-fearing household dissolves. Team research project undertaken at Zaragoza University , designed to explore the origins and development of contemporary, historiographic metafiction in Britain. In Vintage Living Texts, teachers and students will find the essential guide to the writer's works, together with an in-depth interview relating specifically to the texts under discussion.
Each guide deals with the writer's themes, genre and narrative technique and a close reading will provide a rich source of ideas for intelligent and inventive ways of approaching the novels. Texts: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit The Passion Sexing the Cherry The Powerbook. in Marie Herholdt Jorgensen Empty Space and Points of Light The Self,Time,Sex, and Gender in Selected Works by Jeanette Winterson Author : Marie Herholdt Jorgensen Publisher: Museum Tusculanum Press ISBN: Category: Page: View: The book presents a study of key issues in Winerson's oeurve.
Drawing on Jungian ideas of quest and individual and Queer theory, Marie Herholdt Jorgensen shows how these concepts in the works of winterson are grounded in the prospect of numerous potential realities in which several narrations of the self are made possible. Winterson disrupts the notion of one objective reality and instead centers on the individual as the narrator of various versions of reality and the self. The book contains summaries of all of Winterson's novels, making the book accessible for readers previously unfamiliar with jeanette winterson. ISBN: Category: Literary Criticism Page: View: Focusing on a range of twentieth-century texts and including relevant twenty-first century writing, Garden Plots explores the ways in which gardens in fiction represent more than just a familiar theme. Bound up with wider aesthetic and ideological issues, gardens, like literary forms, are subject to transformations.
The term 'plots' is a keyword in this approach. It refers to garden plots, literary plots, and more generally, the plotting that is political, polemical, and subversive. Each of the six chapters includes four texts that are familiar and representative. Authors include Virginia Woolf, Eudora Welty, Carol Shields, J. Coetzee, Toni Morrison, Leslie Marmon Silko, Jamaica Kincaid, and Philip K. The past few years have witnessed a growing academic interest in Italian Studies and an increasing number of symposia and scholarly activities. This volume originates from the Society for Italian Studies Postgraduate Colloquia that took place at the University of Leicester and Cambridge in June and April respectively.
It gathers together articles by young researchers working on various aspects of Italian Studies. It well illustrates current trends in both typical areas of research, like literature and 'high culture', and in those which have gained momentum in recent years, like translation and language studies. The volume offers a taste of the dynamic outlook of current research in Italian Studies: the interdisciplinary approach of the essays in translation and gender studies, and the innovative methodological perspectives and findings offered by the new fields of Italian L2 and ethnography.
The book is divided into three sections, each grouping contributions by broad subject areas: literature and culture, translation and gender studies, language and linguistics. Cross-fertilizations and interdisciplinary research emerge from several essays and the coherent ensemble constitutes an example of the far-reaching results achieved by current research. Best Books The Chief Data Officer Management Handbook Raconte-moi Yannick Nézet-Séguin - Nº 50 Seeing That Frees Whole Beast Butchery Celtic: Pride and Passion Dragon Ball Z, Vol. Animal Book for 2nd Grade Children's Animal Books International Children's Bible.
ORANGES ARE NOT THE ONLY FRUIT,ORANGES ARE NOT THE ONLY FRUIT
ORANGES ARE NOT THE ONLY FRUIT Author: Jeanette Winterson Number of Pages: pages Published Date: 04 Sep Publisher: Vintage Publishing Publication Country: Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd Flag for inappropriate content of 1 Oranges are not the only fruit- by Jeanette Winterson (struggle for identity = Demon fruit, passion fruit, rotten fruit, fruit on Sunday. Orange are the only fruit. I filled my little bucket with peel and the nurses emptied it with an ill grace. I hid the peel under my pillow and Oranges are not the only fruit: Winterson, Jeanette, Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming: Internet Archive Loading viewer Favorite Oranges are not the only fruit by 24/11/ · Now required reading in contemporary literature, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is a funny, poignant exploration of a young girl’s adolescence. Jeanette is a bright and rebellious headscarf, but not on Sunday. We sat on the stone's base and she thanked the Lord we had managed the ascent. Then she extemporised on the nature of the world, the folly of its ... read more
Then she spoke of her enemies, which was the nearest thing to she had to a catechism. A woman of my training without a bathroom, it's shocking. A brave new world. At that moment we saw Mrs Clifton, who gave singing lessons, and did her shopping at Marks and Spencers. What if I died?
It was an open meeting to inform and encourage new members. Authors include Virginia Woolf, Eudora Welty, Carol Shields, J. Then, one morning, when we had got up early to listen to Ivan Popov from behind the Iron Curtain, a fat brown envelope plopped through the letter box. The doctor kept tapping me in different places and shaking his head. I ignored him for fifteen years.
