s4 Reading Character Perspective
s4 Reading Character Perspective
s4 Reading Character Perspective
Character perspective
Stage 4
Learning focus
Students will learn to identify character feelings, perspective and motivation in narrative texts.
Syllabus outcome
The following teaching and learning strategies will assist in covering elements of the following outcomes:
EN4-1A: Responds to and composes texts for understanding, interpretation, critical analysis,
imaginative expression and pleasure
EN4-2A: Effectively uses a widening range of processes, skills, strategies and knowledge for
responding to and composing texts in different media and technologies
EN4-3B: Uses and describes language forms, features and structures of texts appropriate to a range
of purposes, audiences and contexts
UnT9
selects reading/viewing pathways appropriate to reading purpose (scans text for key phrase or close
reading for learning (P)
UnT10
synthesises relevant information from a variety of complex texts (C)
selects reading/viewing pathways appropriate to reading purpose (scans text for key phrase or close
reading for learning (P)
education.nsw.gov.au
UnT11
derives a generalisation from abstract ideas in texts (C)
identifies relevant and irrelevant information in texts (P)
Resources
Range of persuasive, informative and imaginative texts to refer to throughout the learning. These can
be short texts, texts already explored or unfamiliar examples
Quality picture book. Suggestions include: John Heffernan’s ‘The Island´, Margaret Wild’s ‘Fox’ or
Margaret Wild’ and Rob Brooks’ The Dream of the Last Thylacine.
Cartoon graffiti ‘The Island’ John Heffernan (Appendix 1)
‘A Pocketful of Rye’ Teacher guide and text excerpt (Appendix 2)
Graphic organiser for feelings, motivations and perspective (Appendix 3)
Text examples to analyse (Appendix 4)
Background information
Perspective
A way of regarding situations, facts and texts.
Point of View
The particular perspective brought by a composer, responder or character within a text to the text or to
matters within the text. Narrative point of view refers to the ways a narrator may be related to the story. The
narrator, for example, might take the role of first or third person, omniscient or restricted in knowledge of
events, reliable or unreliable in interpretation of what happens.
Modality
Aspects of language that suggest a particular perspective on events, a speaker or writer's assessment of
possibility, probability, obligation, frequency and conditionality. Modality forms a continuum from high
modality (for example obliged to, always, must) to low modality (for example might, could, perhaps, rarely).
Modality is expressed linguistically in choices for modal verbs (for example can, may, must, should), modal
adverbs (for example possibly, probably, certainly, perhaps), modal nouns (for example possibility,
probability, certainty) and modal adjectives (for example likely, possible, certain).
(NSW K-10 English Syllabus Glossary, 2012 NESA)
Where to next?
Characterisation
Author perspective and bias
Inference
On the first day of my first term I set out by taxi in the afternoon with my mother to catch the paddle-steamer
from Cardiff Docks to Weston-super-Mare. Every piece of clothing I wore was brand new and had my name
in it. I wore black shoes, grey woollen stockings with blue turnovers, grey flannel shorts, a grey shirt, a red
tie, a grey flannel blazer with the blue school crest on the breast pocket and a grey school cap with the
same crest just above the peak. Into the taxi that was taking us to the docks went my brand new trunk and
my brand new tuck-box, and both had R. DAHL painted on them in black.
A tuck-box is a small pinewood trunk which is very strongly made, and no boy has ever gone as a boarder to
any English Prep School without one. It is his own secret store-house, as secret as a lady’s handbag, and
there is an unwritten law that no boy, no teacher, not even the Headmaster himself has the right to pry into
the contents of your tuck-box. The owner has the key in his pocket and that is where it stays. At St Peter’s,
the tuck-boxes were ranged shoulder to shoulder all around the four walls of the changing-room and your
own tuck-box stood directly below the peg on which you hung your games clothes. A tuck-box, as the name
implies, is a box in which to store your tuck. At Prep School in those days, a parcel of tuck was sent once a
week by anxious mothers to their ravenous little sons, and an average tuck-box would probably contain, at
almost any time, half a home-made currant cake, a packet of squashed fly biscuits, a couple of oranges, an
apple, a banana, a pot of strawberry jam or Marmite, a bar of chocolate, a bag of Liquorice Allsorts and a tin
of Bassett’s lemonade powder. An English school in those days was purely a money-making business
owned and operated by the Headmaster. It suited him, therefore, to give the boys as little food as possible
himself and to encourage the parents in various cunning ways to feed their offspring by parcel-post from
home.
‘By all means, my dear Mrs Dahl, do send your boy some little treats now and again,’ he would say.
‘Perhaps a few oranges and apples once a week’ – fruit was very expensive – ‘and a nice currant cake, a
large currant cake perhaps because small boys have large appetites do they not, ha-ha-ha …Yes, yes, as
often as you like. More than once a week if you wish … Of course he’ll be getting plenty of good food here,
the best there is, but it never tastes quite the same as home cooking, does it? I’m sure you wouldn’t want
him to be the only one who doesn’t get a lovely parcel from home each week.’
Ordinary
I know I’m not an ordinary ten-year-old kid. I mean, sure, I do ordinary things. I eat ice cream. I ride my bike.
I play ball. I have an Xbox. Stuff like that makes me ordinary. I guess. And I feel ordinary. Inside. But I know
ordinary kids don’t make other ordinary kids run away screaming in playgrounds. I know ordinary kids don’t
get stared at wherever they go.
If I found a magic lamp and I could have one wish, I would wish that I had a normal face that no one ever
noticed at all. I would wish that I could walk down the street without people seeing me and then doing that
look-away thing. Here’s what I think: the only reason I’m not ordinary is that no one else sees me that way.
But I’m kind of used to how I look by now. I know how to pretend
I don’t see the faces people make. We’ve all gotten pretty good at that sort of thing: me, Mom and Dad, Via.
Actually, I take that back: Via’s not so good at it. She can get really annoyed when people do something
rude. Like, for instance, one time in the playground some older kids made some noises. I don’t even know
what the noises were exactly because I didn’t hear them myself, but Via heard and she just started yelling at
the kids. That’s the way she is. I’m not that way.
Via doesn’t see me as ordinary. She says she does, but if I were ordinary, she wouldn’t feel like she needs
to protect me as much. And Mom and Dad don’t see me as ordinary, either. They see me as extraordinary. I
think the only person in the world who realizes how ordinary I am is me.
My name is August, by the way. I won’t describe what I look like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably
worse.
THERE was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless
shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs Reed, when there was no company, dined early)
the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor
exercise was now out of the question.
I was glad of it; I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons; dreadful to me was the coming
home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the
nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of y physical inferiority to Eliza, John and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamma in the drawing-room: she lay
reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying)
looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group, saying, ‘She regretted to be under
the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover her own
observation that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a
more attractive and sprightly manner – something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were- she really must
exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy little children.
‘Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her
elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.’
A small breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase; I soon
possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the
window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain
nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.
Ikey Solomon was so entirely a Londoner that he was a human part of the great metropolis, a jigsawed brick
that fitted into no other place. He was mixed into that mould mortar, an ingredient in the slime and smutch of
its rat-infested dockside hovels and verminous netherkens. He was a part of its smogged countenance and
the dark, cold mannerisms of the ancient city itself. He was contained within the clinging mud and the evil-
smelling putrilage. Ikey was as natural a part of the chaffering, quarrelling humanity who lived in the
rookeries amount the slaughterhouses, cesspools and tanneries as anyone born in the square mile known
to be the heartbeat of London Town.
Ikey was completely insensitive to his surroundings, his nose not affronted by the miasma which hung like a
thin, dirty cloud at the level of the rooftops. This effluvian smog rose from the open sewers, known as the
Venice of drains, which carried think soup of human excrement into the Thames. It missed with the fumes
produced by the fat boilers, fell mongers, glue renderers, tripe scrapers and dog skinners, to mention but a
few of the stench-makers, to make London’s atmosphere the foulest-smelling place for the congregation of
humans on earth.
Ikey Solomon was the worst kind of villain, through in respectable company and in the magistrate’s courts
and assizes he passed himself off as a small-time jeweller, a maker of wedding rigs and paste and garnet
brooches for what was at that time described as the respectable poor. But the poor, in those areas of misery
after Waterloo, had trouble enough scraping together the means to bring a plate of boiled potatoes or
toasted herrings to the table. If Ikey had depended for his livelihood on their desire for knick-knackery, his
family would have been poorly served indeed.
In reality, he was a fence, a most notorious receiver of stolen goods, one know to every skilled thief and
member of the dangerous classes of London. In Liverpool, Manchester and Birmingham young pickpockets,
footpads, snakesmen and the like referred to him in awed and reverent tones as the Prince of Fences.
Ikey Solomon was not a man to love, there was too much the natural cockroach about him, a creature to be
found only in the dark and dirty corners of lie.