Cambridge International Examinations

Cambridge International Advanced Subsidiary and Advanced Level

LITERATURE IN ENGLISH 9695/63

Paper 6 1900 to the Present October/November 2017
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Answer two questions.

You are reminded of the need for good English and clear presentation in your answers.

All questions in this paper carry equal marks.

This document consists of 14 printed pages, 2 blank pages and 1 insert.

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CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE: Americanah

1 Either (a) ‘Ifemelu is a character searching for an identity she feels comfortable with.’

Discuss Adichie’s presentation of Ifemelu in the light of this comment.

Or (b) Paying attention to the language and tone, analyse the effects of the writing in the
following passage, considering ways in which it is characteristic of Adichie’s methods
and concerns.

Ifemelu had grown up in the shadow of her mother’s hair. It was black-black, so thick
it drank two containers of relaxer at the salon, so full it took hours under the hooded
dryer, and, when finally released from pink plastic rollers, sprang free and full,
flowing down her back like a celebration. Her father called it a crown of glory. “Is it
your real hair?” strangers would ask, and then reach out to touch it reverently. Others 5
would say “Are you from Jamaica?” as though only foreign blood could explain such
bounteous hair that did not thin at the temples. Through the years of childhood,
Ifemelu would often look in the mirror and pull at her own hair, separate the coils, will
it to become like her mother’s, but it remained bristly and grew reluctantly; braiders
said it cut them like a knife. 10
One day, the year Ifemelu turned ten, her mother came home from work looking
different. Her clothes were the same, a brown dress belted at the waist, but her face
was flushed, her eyes unfocused. “Where is the big scissors?” she asked, and when
Ifemelu brought it to her, she raised it to her head and, handful by handful, chopped
off all her hair. Ifemelu stared, stunned. The hair lay on the floor like dead grass. 15
“Bring me a big bag,” her mother said. Ifemelu obeyed, feeling herself in a trance,
with things happening that she did not understand. She watched her mother walk
around their flat, collecting all the Catholic objects, the crucifixes hung on walls, the
rosaries nested in drawers, the missals propped on shelves. Her mother put them
all in the polythene bag, which she carried to the backyard, her steps quick, her 20
faraway look unwavering. She made a fire near the rubbish dump, at the same spot
where she burned her used sanitary pads, and first she threw in her hair, wrapped in
old newspaper, and then, one after the other, the objects of faith. Dark grey smoke
curled up into the air. From the verandah, Ifemelu began to cry because she sensed
that something had happened, and the woman standing by the fire, splashing in 25
more kerosene as it dimmed and stepping back as it flared, the woman who was
bald and blank, was not her mother, could not be her mother.
When her mother came back inside, Ifemelu backed away, but her mother
hugged her close.
“I am saved,” she said. “Mrs Ojo ministered to me this afternoon during the 30
children’s break and I received Christ. Old things have passed away and all things
have become new. Praise God. On Sunday we will start going to Revival Saints. It
is a Bible-believing church and a living church, not like St Dominic’s.” Her mother’s
words were not hers. She spoke them too rigidly, with a demeanour that belonged
to someone else. Even her voice, usually high-pitched and feminine, had deepened 35
and curdled. That afternoon, Ifemelu watched her mother’s essence take flight.
Before, her mother said the rosary once in a while, crossed herself before she
ate, wore pretty images of saints around her neck, sang Latin songs and laughed
when Ifemelu’s father teased her about her terrible pronunciation. She laughed, too,
whenever he said, “I am an agnostic respecter of religion,” and she would tell him 40
how lucky he was to be married to her, because even though he went to church only
for weddings and funerals, he would get into heaven on the wings of her faith. But,
after that afternoon, her God changed. He became exacting. Relaxed hair offended
Him. Dancing offended Him. She bartered with Him, offering starvation in exchange
for prosperity, for a job promotion, for good health. She fasted herself bone-thin: 45
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dry fasts on weekends, and on weekdays, only water until evening. Ifemelu’s father
followed her with anxious eyes, urging her to eat a little more, to fast a little less, and
he always spoke carefully, so that she would not call him the devil’s agent and ignore
him, as she had done with a cousin who was staying with them. “I am fasting for your
father’s conversion,” she told Ifemelu often. For months, the air in their flat was like 50
cracked glass. Everyone tiptoed around her mother, who had become a stranger,
thin and knuckly and severe. Ifemelu worried that she would, one day, simply snap
into two and die.

Chapter 3

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ARAVIND ADIGA: The White Tiger

2 Either (a) Discuss some of the ways in which Adiga makes the opposition between ‘The
Darkness’ and ‘The Light’ significant in the novel.

Or (b) Paying close attention to language and tone, discuss the effects of the writing in the
following passage and consider in what ways it is characteristic of Adiga’s narrative
methods and concerns.

For the Desk of:

His Excellency Wen Jiabao

Now probably fast asleep in the
Premier’s Office
In China 5

From the Desk of:

His Midnight Educator

On matters entrepreneurial:
‘The White Tiger’

Mr Premier. 10

So.
What does my laughter sound like?
What do my armpits smell like?
And when I grin, is it true – as you no doubt imagine by now – that my lips
widen into a devil’s rictus? 15
Oh, I could go on and on about myself, sir. I could gloat that I am not just any
murderer, but one who killed his own employer (who is a kind of second father),
and also contributed to the probable death of all his family members. A virtual mass
murderer.
But I don’t want to go on and on about myself. You should hear some of these 20
Bangalore entrepreneurs – my start-up has got this contract with American Express,
my start-up runs the software in this hospital in London, blah blah. I hate that whole
fucking Bangalore attitude, I tell you.
(But if you absolutely must find out more about me, just log on to my Web site:
www.whitetiger-technologydrivers.com. That’s right! That’s the URL of my start-up!) 25
So I’m sick of talking about myself, sir. Tonight, I want to talk about the other
important man in my story.
My ex.
Mr Ashok’s face reappears now in my mind’s eye as it used to every day when
I was in his service – reflected in my rearview mirror. It was such a handsome face 30
that sometimes I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Picture a six-foot-tall fellow, broad-
shouldered, with a landlord’s powerful, punishing forearms; yet always gentle
(almost always – except for that time he punched Pinky Madam in the face) and kind
to those around him, even his servants and driver.
Now another face appears, to the side of his, in memory’s mirror. Pinky Madam 35
– his wife. Every bit as good-looking as her husband; just as the image of the
goddess in the Birla Hindu Temple in New Delhi is as fair as the god to whom she is
married. She would sit in the back, and the two of them would talk, and I would drive
them wherever they wanted, as faithfully as the servant-god Hanuman carried about
his master and mistress, Ram and Sita. 40

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Thinking of Mr Ashok is making me sentimental. I hope I’ve got some paper

napkins here somewhere.
Here’s a strange fact: murder a man, and you feel responsible for his life –
possessive, even. You know more about him than his father and mother; they knew
his foetus, but you know his corpse. Only you can complete the story of his life; only 45
you know why his body has to be pushed into the fire before its time, and why his
toes curl up and fight for another hour on earth.
Now, even though I killed him, you won’t find me saying one bad thing about
him. I protected his good name when I was his servant, and now that I am (in a
sense) his master, I won’t stop protecting his good name. I owe him so much. 50

The Second Night

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ELEANOR CATTON: The Rehearsal

3 Either (a) Discuss the significance of the role and characterisation of Stanley in the novel.

Or (b) Paying close attention to language and tone, analyse the effects of the writing in the
following passage and consider in what ways it is characteristic of Catton’s narrative
methods and effects.

‘I enjoyed your performance last week,’ the saxophone teacher says when Julia
arrives. ‘Your performance of the ride home after the concert, both of you in the car
together. What you were feeling. What you saw. I enjoyed it.’
‘Thanks,’ Julia says.
‘Did you practise?’ the saxophone teacher says eagerly. ‘Like I asked?’ 5
‘Some,’ Julia says.
‘What have you been focusing on?’
‘I guess big-picture,’ Julia says. ‘How one girl comes to seduce another.’
‘Let’s start big-picture then,’ the saxophone teacher says, and gestures with her
palm for Julia to begin. 10
‘I’ve been looking at all the ordinary staples of flirting,’ Julia says, ‘like biting
your lip and looking away just a second too late, and laughing a lot and finding
every excuse to touch, light fingertips on a forearm or a thigh that emphasise and
punctuate the laughter. I’ve been thinking about what a comfort these things are,
these textbook methods, precisely because they need no decoding, no translation. 15
Once, a long time ago, you could probably bite your lip and it would mean, I am
almost overcome with desiring you. Now you bite your lip and it means, I want you
to see that I am almost overcome with desiring you, so I am using the plainest and
most universally accepted signal I can think of to make you see. Now it means,
Both of us know the implications of my biting my lip and what I am trying to say. We 20
are speaking a language, you and I together, a language that we did not invent, a
language that is not unique to our uttering. We are speaking someone else’s lines.
It’s a comfort.’
Julia’s saxophone is lying sideways across the lap of the cream armchair, the
mouthpiece resting lightly on the arm, and the curve of the bell tucked in against the 25
seam where the seat-cushion meets the steep upholstered curve of the flank. The
posture of the instrument makes the saxophone teacher think of a girl curled up with
her knees to her chest and her head upon the arm, watching television alone in the
dark.
‘I don’t know how to seduce her,’ Julia says. Her eyes are on the saxophone 30
too, travelling up and down its length. ‘Sometimes I think that it would be like trying
to bewitch her with a spell of her own invention if I tried to smile at her and bite my
lip and cast my eyes down, if I tried to look vulnerable and coy. Would it even work?
Even the thought makes me feel disarmed and sweaty and undone. But what’s the
alternative? Should I behave like a boy, play the part of a boy, do things she might 35
want a boy to do?
‘Is that how it works?’ Julia says, rhetorical and musing now. She is still
looking at the saxophone, lying on its side upon the chair. ‘Like a big game of let’s-
pretend? Like a play–act? It feels like there’s this duologue about a girl and a boy
who fall in love with each other. And maybe the actors are both girls but there’s 40
only these two parts in this play, only two, so one of them has to dress up: one of
them has to be moustached and breast-strapped and wide-legged and broad to play
the boy.
‘If you’re just looking at the costumes and the script and the curtains and the
lights, all the machinery of it, then you’ll just see a boy and a girl having a love affair. 45
But if you look at the actors underneath, if you choose not to be deceived by the
spectacle of the thing, then you’ll see that it’s actually two girls. Maybe that’s what it
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has to be like whenever two girls get together: one of the girls always plays the part
of the boy, but it’s both of them that are pretending.’
‘Oh, but why can’t the two girls just perform a duologue about themselves?’ the 50
saxophone teacher says, enjoying herself. ‘A play written for two girls.’
‘There aren’t any,’ Julia says. ‘There aren’t any plays about two girls. There
aren’t any roles like that. That’s why you have to pretend.’
‘Surely you’re mistaken, Julia,’ the saxophone teacher says. ‘Surely that isn’t
right.’ 55
Julia shrugs and looks away into the sheen of the piano and her own blurry
image reflected back. She says, ‘There is one thing going for me, despite all this.
Danger.’
Chapter 9

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ATHOL FUGARD: My Children! My Africa! and The Road to Mecca

4 Either (a) Discuss some of the ways Fugard presents conflict in both of the plays. You should
refer to specific moments in your answer.

Or (b) Paying close attention to language and tone, analyse the effects in the following
extract and consider ways in which it is characteristic of Fugard’s methods and
concerns.

Elsa: I wasn’t much of a help tonight, was I?

Helen: You were more than that. You were a ‘challenge’. I like that
word.
Elsa: But we didn’t solve very much.
Helen: Nonsense! Of course we did. Certainly as much as we 5
could. I am going to see a doctor and an optician, and
Katrina … [She remembers.] … or somebody else, will
come in here a few times a week and help me with the
house.
Elsa: My shopping list! 10
Helen: It is as much as ‘we’ could do, Elsa. The rest is up to myself
and, who knows, maybe it will be a little easier after tonight.
I won’t lie to you. I can’t say that I’m not frightened any more.
But at the same time I think I can say that I understand
something now. 15
The road to my Mecca was one I had to travel alone. It
was a journey on which no one could keep me company,
and because of that, now that it is over, there is only me
there at the end of it. It couldn’t have been any other way.
You see, I meant what I said to Marius. This is as far 20
as I can go. My Mecca is finished and with it – [Pause.] I
must try to say it, mustn’t I? – the only real purpose my
life has ever had. [She blows out a candle.] I was wrong
to think I could banish darkness, Elsa. Just as I taught
myself how to light candles, and what that means, I must 25
teach myself now how to blow them out … and what that
means. [She attempts a brave smile.] The last phase of my
apprenticeship … and if I can get through it, I’ll be a master!
Elsa: I’m cold.
Helen: Cup of tea to warm you up and then bed. I’ll put on the 30
kettle.
Elsa: And I’ve got just the thing to go with it. [She goes into the
bedroom alcove and returns with her toilet bag, from which
she takes a small bottle of pills.] Valiums. They’re delicious.
I think you should also have one. 35
Helen [all innocence]: So tiny! What are they? Artificial sweeteners?
[The unintended and gentle irony of her question is not lost
on ELSA. A little chuckle becomes a good laugh.]
Elsa: That is perfect, Helen. Yes, they’re artificial sweeteners.
Helen: I don’t know how I did it, but that laugh makes me as proud 40
of myself as of any one of those statues out there.

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[She exits to put on the kettle. ELSA goes to the window

and looks out at Mecca. MISS HELEN returns.]
Elsa: Helen, I’ve just thought of something. You know what the
real cause of all your trouble is? You’ve never made an 45
angel.
Helen: Good Heavens, no. Why should I?
Elsa: Because I think they would leave you alone if you did.
Helen: The village doesn’t need more of those. The cemetery is
full of them … all wings and halos, but no glitter. [tongue-in- 50
cheek humour ] But if I did make one, it wouldn’t be pointing
up to Heaven like the rest.
Elsa: No? What would it be doing?
Helen: Come on, Elsa, you know! I’d have it pointing to the East.
Where else? I’d misdirect all the good Christian souls 55
around here and put them on the road to Mecca.
[Both have a good laugh.]
Elsa: God, I love you! I love you so much it hurts.
Helen: What about trust?
[Pause. The two women look at each other.] 60
Elsa: Open your arms and catch me! I’m going to jump!

Curtain.

The Road to Mecca, Act 2

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LIZ LOCHHEAD: Selected Poems

5 Either (a) ‘In Lochhead’s poetry there is often something dark and uncertain.’

In the light of this comment, discuss Lochhead’s poetic methods and effects. In your
answer you should refer to three poems from your selection.

Or (b) Paying close attention to language and tone, write a critical appreciation of the
following poem and consider ways in which it is characteristic of Lochhead’s
methods and concerns.

Everybody’s Mother

Of course everybody’s mother always and

so on …

Always never
loved you enough
or too smothering much. 5

Of course you were the Only One, your

mother
a machine
that shat out siblings, listen

everybody’s mother 10
was the original Frigid-
aire Icequeen clunking out
the hardstuff in nuggets, mirror-
silvers and ice-splinters that’d stick
in your heart. 15

Absolutely everyone’s mother

was artistic when she was young.

Everyone’s mother
was a perfumed presence with pearls, remote
white shoulders when she 20
bent over in her ball dress
to kiss you in your crib.

Everybody’s mother slept with the butcher

for sausages to stuff you with.

Everyone’s mother 25
mythologised herself. You got mixed up
between dragon’s teeth and blackmarket stockings.

Naturally
she failed to give you

Positive Feelings 30
about your own sorry
sprouting body (it was a bloody shame)

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but she did

sit up all night sewing sequins
on your carnival costume 35

so you would have a good time

and she spat

on the corner of her hanky and scraped
at your mouth with sour lace till you squirmed

so you would look smart 40

And where
was your father all this time?
Away
at the war, or
in his office, or any- 45
way conspicuous for his
Absence, so

what if your mother did

float around above you
big as a barrage balloon 50
blocking out the light?

Nobody’s mother can’t not never do nothing right.

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ARTHUR MILLER: Death of a Salesman

6 Either (a) Discuss some of the dramatic effects created by Miller’s presentation of women in
the play.

Or (b) Paying close attention to language and action, discuss the dramatic effects in the
following extract and consider how far it is characteristic of Miller’s methods and
concerns.

Willy: Boys!

Content removed due to copyright restrictions

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Content removed due to copyright restrictions

And the stock exchange, friend!

Act 1

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W.B. YEATS: Selected Poems

7 Either (a) Discuss Yeats’s presentation of nature in his poetry. In your answer you should
consider at least two poems from your selection.

Or (b) Paying close attention to language and tone, write a critical appreciation of the
following poem and consider in what ways it is characteristic of Yeats’s poetic
methods and concerns.

Adam’s Curse

We sat together at one summer’s end,

That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, 5
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together 10
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’

And thereupon 15
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There’s many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know –
Although they do not talk of it at school – 20
That we must labour to be beautiful.’

I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing

Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy 25
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;

We saw the last embers of daylight die, 30
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one’s but your ears: 35

That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

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