Given below is an excerpt from the essay “Gifts”, written by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Study the essay and answer the given subquestions.

He is a good man, who can receive a gift well. We are either glad or sorry at a gift, and both emotions are unbecoming. Some violence, I think, is done, some degradation borne, when I rejoice or grieve at a gift. I am sorry when my independence is invaded, or when a gift comes from such as do not know my spirit, and so the act is not supported; and if the gift pleases me overmuch, then I should be ashamed that the donor should read my heart, and see that I love his commodity, and not him. The gift, to be true, must be the flowing of the giver unto me, correspondent to my flowing unto him. When the waters are at level, then my goods pass to him, and his to me. All his are mine, all mine his. I say to him, How can you give me this pot of oil, or this flagon of wine, when all your oil and wine is mine, which belief of mine this gift seems to deny? Hence the fitness of beautiful, not useful things for gifts. This giving is flat usurpation, and therefore when the beneficiary is ungrateful, as all beneficiaries hate all Timons, not at all considering the value of the gift, but looking back to the greater store it was taken from, I rather sympathize with the beneficiary, than with the anger of my lord Timon. For, the expectation of gratitude is mean, and is continually punished by the total insensibility of the obliged person. It is a great happiness to get off without injury and heart-burning, from one who has had the ill luck to be served by you. It is a very onerous business, this of being served, and the debtor naturally wishes to give you a slap. A golden text for these gentlemen is that which I so admire in the Buddhist, who never thanks, and who says, "Do not flatter your benefactors."

The reason of these discords I conceive to be that there is no commensurability between a man and any gift. You cannot give anything to a magnanimous person. After you have served him, he at once puts you in debt by his magnanimity. The service a man renders his friend is trivial and selfish, compared with the service he knows his friend stood in readiness to yield him, alike before he had begun to serve his friend, and now also. Compared with that good-will I bear my friend, the benefit it is in my power to render him seems small. When I have attempted to join myself to others by services, it proved an intellectual trick-- no more. They eat your service like apples, and leave you out. But love them, and they feel you, and delight in you all the time.

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions.

I asked the policemen to come in. The cry, I said, was my own, in a dream. The old man, I said, was away; he had gone to visit a friend in the country. I took them through the whole house, telling them to search it all, to search well. I led them finally into the old man’s bedroom. As if playing a game with them I asked them to sit down and talk for a while. My easy, quiet manner made the policemen believe my story. So they sat talking with me in a friendly way. But although I answered them in the same way, I soon wished that they would go. My head hurt and there was a strange sound in my ears. I talked more, and faster. The sound became clearer. And still they sat and talked. Suddenly I knew that the sound was not in my ears, it was not just inside my head. At that moment I must have become quite white. I talked still faster and louder. And the sound, too, became louder. It was a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall, a sound I knew well. Louder it became, and louder. Why did the men not go? Louder, louder. I stood up and walked quickly around the room. I pushed my chair across the floor to make more noise, to cover that terrible sound. I talked even louder. And still the men sat and talked, and smiled. Was it possible that they could not hear? No! They heard! I was certain of it. They knew! Now it was they who were playing a game with me. I was suffering more than I could bear, from their smiles, and from that sound. Louder, louder, louder! Suddenly I could bear it no longer. I pointed at the boards and cried, “Yes! Yes, I killed him. Pull up the boards and you shall see! I killed him. But why does his heart not stop beating?! Why does it not stop!?”

(The Tell Tale Heart ~ Edgar Allen Poe)

Jean-Michel Basquiat and the Work Ethic of Creative Flow: A Radio Report

Reporter:

Jean-Michel Basquiat had endless inspiration. He was the embodiment of artistic flow, and while most artists will never approach anything close to his once in a generation talent, there are a few things that you could learn from his work methods that will help you tap into your own creative genius. For example, at the beginning of his career, Basquiat went out and bought two books– two books that would inform all of his works right up until his death. The first of these was a book called Henry Dreyfuss Symbol Sourcebook. This rare book would end up providing source material for almost all of the fifteen hundred drawings and six hundred paintings that he left behind. His art was filled with symbols–ladders, crowns, crosses, copyrights, and all of them came from this rare book. Many of them are gathered on one page– page ninety– a page that almost looks like a dictionary of his whole artistic language. There is, for instance, the symbol that denotes the death of man, which, sadly, he used to symbolise and prophesy his own death.One of the secrets of staying in flow is thus source material. Basquiat used source material like he was J Dilla sampling records, but source material alone will not automatically give you creativity. You have to learn to use it the artist’s way, and it is thus a question of taste– you choose source material that can expose you to the best things that humans have done, and try to bring those things into what you are doing. Picasso had a saying; he said “Good artists copy; great artists steal.” Stealing like an artist means stealing with no judgement. Let your taste make the decisions, not your brain. In an interview at the Fun Gallery in the early 1980s, Marc H. Miller asked Basquiat where the words in his paintings came from. He was interviewing the artist at an exhibition of his paintings at the Fun Gallery in the East Village of New York, and had the rare privilege of being able to refer back from the art to the artist, as both were present there at the gallery.

[Original audio of the interview]

Interviewer: Where do the words come from?

Basquiat: Real life, books, television…

Interviewer: Yeah, and you just skim them and start including…

Basquiat: No man, when I’m working, I hear them, you know, and I just throw them down. Interviewer: Oh yeah? Well, I mean, things like “punic wars” I remember that was in one of your… Basquiat: Uh, yeah, that was from a guidebook on Roman history. “History of Rome in 5 Pages,” you know?

Interviewer: So you snatched a few words from it?

Basquiat (smiling): I didn’t snatch them, you know?

Interviewer: They, they caught your…

Basquiat: They caught my eye and then I took them.

Interviewer points to a painting– what’s this?

Basquiat: That’s Pluto. Based on a drawing of the moon…the first drawing of the moon by Galileo. Interviewer: This looks like an eye

Basquiat: Yeah yeah, that’s the evil eye of the Malocchio

Reporter:

The moment you stop judging “Should I use this? What would people say?”, you open yourself to flow. Stealing like an artist is not to end up as just the sum of your influences. The choices of the artist are choices that serve his message and it is this informed choice that renders an artwork meaningful. The second book that gave Basquiat his unparalleled momentum was Flash of the Spirit- a book about African art. This book was key in helping him zero in on his message. The reason most artists lose flow when they are working is that when they get stuck, they have no guiding ideology to get them out of their tough spot, and because they don’t know what they are trying to communicate to the world, any roadblock could stop them in their tracks for days and open up a vortex of overthinking, staring at a blank canvas, and artist’s paralysis. That’s what happens when you don’t have an overarching message in your works. Basquiat did.

[Original audio]

Basquiat: I think there’s a lot of people that are neglected in art. I don’t know if it’s because of who made the paintings or what. Black people are never portrayed realistically, or not even portrayed in modern art enough.

Reporter:

And because he had a message, art came out of him that much more effortlessly. It’s not just that he had source material; it’s that he had a place to channel it. His work became a commentary on the underrepresentation of black art in the established art world. When you have a message, art comes out of you easily, but a message, tons of source material, and your newfound audacity to steal like an artist is still not enough. You will never have that Basquiat-like limitless inspiration and flow if you don’t master speed. The day Basquiat met Andy Warhol, he ran back home and painted a self-portrait of both of them from a polaroid his idol had just taken. And then he ran back to the restaurant to give it to him as a gift. The paint was still fresh. Warhol couldn’t believe it. All he kept repeating was “Oh, I’m jealous. I’m jealous. He’s faster than me, and these are so great.” That was the beginning of the collaborations between Andy and Jean-Michel. When one of the most prolific artists of all time is jealous of your speed, you know you are doing something right. Work quickly, like a demon. You should work so fast that you don’t have time to think. The brain is your enemy in art. Like they say in the music industry, keep the tape rolling.

If you really want to become the legendary artist that you have the potential to be, if you really want that endless inspiration, you have to understand that most of the flow that you have for making art will come from all the things that you are doing while you’re not making art. In between your creative sessions, while everyone else is busy consuming regurgitated content on social media, you should go offline and you should go deep. Most people need to rev up when they sit down to work. They need hours before they can finally get into the groove. That is because they haven’t been feeding their minds during their downtime.

[Original audio]

Basquiat: I never went to an art school. I failed the art courses that I did take in school. I just looked at a lot of things. And that’s how I think I learned about art, by looking at it. That’s a Roman belt buckle. It’s from a drawing that I did at the Metropolitan. Went all the way to the Metropolitan museum, and I did the drawing of the buckle and I came back with it and I put it right there. Interviewer: Well, that’s kind of a slow process.

Basquiat: I’m a slow person.

Reporter:

The process may seem slow to an outsider, but that slow process is what makes you outrageously fast when you get back into the studio. Make it your mantra to study, memorise and internalise, and those ideas you consume will marinate inside of you, and will eventually become part of your artistic DNA. Suddenly, the oddest things will come out of you at the most unexpected times. It’s all because you made yourself this well of inspiration. You became a student of life– ready at any time to express your genius.

Based on the above data, answer the given subquestions.

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions.

Gregor summoned all his courage to try to bring him back; the manager must have suspected something of the sort, for he leaped several steps at a single bound and disappeared with a cry of, “Huh!” which resounded in the hollow of the stairwell. This flight had the unfortunate effect of causing Gregor’s father—who till now had remained master of himself—to lose his head completely; instead of running after the manager, or at least not interfering with Gregor in his pursuit, he seized in his right hand the manager’s walking stick, which had been left behind on a chair with his overcoat and hat, took up in his left a newspaper from the table, and began stamping his feet and brandishing the newspaper and the cane to drive Gregor back into his room. Gregor’s prayers were unavailing, were not even understood; he had turned to his father a supplicating head, but, meek though he showed himself, his father merely stamped all the louder. In the dining room, despite the cold, the mother had opened the window wide and was leaning out as far as possible, pressing her face in her hands. A great rush of air swept the space between the room and the stairway; the curtains billowed, the papers rustled, and a few sheets flew over the carpet. But the father pursued Gregor pitilessly, whistling and whooping like a savage, and Gregor, who was not used to walking backward, progressed but slowly.

Had he been able to turn around he could have reached his room quickly, but he feared to make his father impatient by the slowness of his turning and feared also that at any moment he might receive a mortal blow on his head or on his back from this menacing stick. Soon Gregor had no choice; for he realized with terror that when he was going backward he was not master of his direction and, still fearfully watching the attitude of his father out of the corner of his eye, he began his turning movement as quickly as possible, which was really only very slowly. Perhaps his father realized his good intention for, instead of hindering this move, he guided him from a little distance away, helping Gregor with the tip of the stick. If only he had left off that insupportable whistling! Gregor was completely losing his head.

(Metamorphosis ~ Franz Kafka)

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions.

The dog was sleeping nearby. He was stirred by the smell of food. He got up, came out of his shelter and stood before the blind man, wagging his tail and gazing expectantly at the bowl, as he was eating his sparse meal. The blind man swept his arms about and asked, 'Who is there?' at which the dog went up and licked his hand. The blind man stroked its coat gently tail to ear and said, 'What a beauty you are. Come with me—' He threw a handful of food, which the dog ate gratefully. It was perhaps an auspicious moment for starting a friendship. They met every day there, and the dog cut off much of its rambling to sit up beside the blind man and watch him receive alms morning to evening. In course of time, observing him, the dog understood that the passers-by must give a coin, and whoever went away without dropping a coin was chased by the dog; he tugged the edge of their clothes by his teeth and pulled them back to the old man at the gate and let go only after something was dropped in his bowl. Among those who frequented this place was a village urchin, who had the mischief of a devil in him. He liked to tease the blind man by calling him names and by trying to pick up the coins in his bowl. The blind man helplessly shouted and cried and whirled his staff. On Thursdays this boy appeared at the gate, carrying on his head a basket loaded with cucumber or plantain. Every Thursday afternoon it was a crisis in the blind man's life. A seller of bright-coloured but doubtful perfumes with his wares mounted on a wheeled platform, a man who spread out cheap storybooks on a gunny sack, another man who carried coloured ribbons on an elaborate frame—these were the people who usually gathered under the same arch. On a Thursday when the young man appeared at the eastern gate one of them remarked, 'Blind fellow! Here comes your scourge—'

Extract from: The Malgudi Days by R.K. Narayan

Read the following passage and answer the given subquestions.

I had been puzzled too when I first discovered how much deference Robi commanded in college. It was hard to understand, for he did not excel particularly in any of the spheres which were held to confer distinction in that milieu: he was not unusually good at sports, just about good enough to keep a place in the college cricket eleven; he was good at his studies but not brilliant; he was not clever, not well dressed, not talented, nor in any way unlike a dozen others in our college, and yet, without asking for it, barely seeming to notice, he commanded a respect immeasurably greater than the best sportsmen and the most brilliant students.

It took me time to see that this respect was really a tribute to the superhuman simplicity of his view of the world: to the fact that he had no hesitation in making judgements – because there were whole domains of conduct within which he would not admit the possibility of argument – and no fear of defending them, because of his abundant physical courage. Once, for example, there was a great uproar in our college because a student had been expelled for some minor misdemeanour – for asking a girl up to his room for a cup of tea or some such thing. The students’ union was unanimous in calling for a strike. But Robi, alone in the whole college, refused to go along with everyone else: he didn’t argue or make speeches, he merely refused to attend the union meetings. And when some of the union’s leaders threatened to give him a beating, they found to their surprise that he was relieved at the prospect of settling the issue by a

straightforward physical contest. Such was his standing in the college that eventually the leaders gave in and the strike was called off.

Later, I asked him: Why wouldn’t you join the strike? Tell me, just as a matter of interest. He wouldn’t answer, so I asked him again, and then reluctantly he said: Because a rule’s a rule; if you break one you have to be willing to pay the price.

Extract from: The Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh