Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships—lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels—a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion.
So they are dangerous. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me. Out there! The general chuckled. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut. We try to be civilized here. I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow. I have about a dozen pupils down there now.
A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle.
Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in check. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan.
Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs. The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.
If anyone should try to get into my house—or out of it—something extremely regrettable would occur to him. Will you come with me to the library? He looks resourceful—Well, good night, Mr. The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep.
He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers.
The lights of the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard.
There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol. General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon.
He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. I am worried, Mr. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint.
The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. Will you have another glass of Chablis , Mr. The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.
This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel—at last. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?
Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here. Then a businesslike air animated him. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island.
We call it Death Swamp. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack.
Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I shall not follow till dusk. Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir. From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist. Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him.
His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.
He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge.
He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark.
But perhaps the general was a devil—. An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the jungle.
Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. That which was approaching was a man. It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him.
He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Rainsford held his breath. Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come.
The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.
It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back? Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists.
The general was playing with him! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror. He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.
The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse. Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss.
So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape.
But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. The point is that Whitney has reduced these animals down to the level where their deaths can be justified.
On a similar note Rainsford shares his views: "Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes-- the hunters and the huntees.
Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet? But what these people usually forget to describe is the care that is taken to disarming those that they want to hunt. At any rate, we continue: "I can't tell in the dark. I hope so. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God- forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today? Not only have old maps named the place, but it has a generally negative reputation.
This is how white people who end up going to the ghetto or barrio end up getting their asses kicked and their money taken. In the case of Rainsford, the lust is that of wanting to kill something — a defenseless animal — and the craving is so strong that these racist assholes simply decide to throw caution to the wind. These are trained sailors, men who have been all over the world.
But the crew were lower class men and probably men of color from some other country. Therefore they had no rights that Rainsford really gave a shit about. Rainsford is talking all these clues far too lightly: "Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light.
Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill. What it boils down to is that neither Rainsford or Whitney have any respect for anyone who is not American-born. The old Swede is a fellow white man —why would they question his credibility. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then.
What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Evil is as evil does. Who would be able to feel dread and the presence of evil with more precision than the white man? He has given Rainsford every reason to wait for another day.
But, like the man that he would inevitably meet, Rainsford has major issues. And one of those issues is a borderline mood disorder, an obsessive-compulsive disorder. And what is that exactly? People are unable to control either the thoughts or the activities. Usually it refers to people who repeatedly wash their hands, clean or some other trivial matter. I think that like General Zaroff, who he would meet later, he was obsessed with the thrill of the hunt. He was obsessed with the journey, with the hunt itself and with the outcomes.
This kind of behavior smacks of homoeroticism if you ask me, especially when you read the way that the author describes Zaroff and other men in his novel. These white folks create monsters to embody the evil that they the creators of those monsters have felt all along.
From Dracula, Frankenstein and the Wolfman to the present-day crop of zombies, these are all various creatures that possess the failings and orientations of the white man. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford. See you at breakfast. Good night, Whitney.
On the other hand Rainsford is in deep thought and wants to smoke another pipe up on the deck — on a deck where he cannot see because of the darkness, remember? In other words it seems to me that he craves that which he fears most. This could either be an extreme form of courage or the sign of someone with some kind of mental disorder. You be the judge. The story moves on: There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.
Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him. And as is the case in most stories, it is usually calmest before hell breaks loose: An abrupt sound startled him.
Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again.
Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times. Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance.
He makes a series of moves that pave the way for his own undermining and potential destruction. First, he hears gunfire. Instead of grabbing a gun — which he is supposed to be an expert at using — he instead ventures forth with no protection, not having a clue as to where the shots he heard are coming from.
What if the shooter had a night scope or was somehow able to see him standing near that rail? Third, the jumps up on the rail and one has to ask why he would do that.
Why elevate yourself in a situation where you already cannot see anything? Why place yourself in such a precarious position. What is the big deal about having a pipe knocked out of your mouth and then foolishly lunging for it, inevitably losing your balance. Now this man is supposed to be a world-class hunter.
He thinks that humans are smarter than the animals being hunted. And yet he turns himself into a form of animal with the four mistakes I just outlined because in my book, he made a complete and total ASS out of himself! He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle.
Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place.
There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He has no bearings but starts swimming as he watches the ship disappear. He would have probably been able to relax much sooner had he accepted responsibility for his role in the predicament he found himself in. No sea serpent or spook snatched him off the boat; no mummified mermaid hurled him into the water. He was in the drink because of a series of stupid mistakes he made.
In my book, he was therefore deserving of the fate that was befalling him. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.
Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then—Rainsford heard a sound. Shouting and screaming like a bitch. And then he gets a brilliant idea: swim in the direction that you heard the shots coming from!
Swim toward the bullets. You stupid muthafucka! But this is a white man writing this story and their concept of survival is different than that of black people. He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato. So he hears all this and continues swimming toward sounds of pain and anguish.
He can identify the shooting and that an animal has been yelping in pain. Bipolar, perhaps? The swim continues: Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears —the most welcome he had ever heard—the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand.
Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. Rainsford hears the sound of the shore and for some reason is relieved. The jagged rocks are right there and he clims up them, hand-over-hand. Check this out. A man is walking down the street and cops pull up.
They grab him, cuff him and throw him in the car. He is whisked off to jail and, printed and then taken to a prison. Once in the prison he is thrown into solitary confinement where he remains for two weeks. But to him, it is not progress because he was unjustly arrested and imprisoned in the first place! So what is taking place here is that Rainsford has jumped from the frying pan into the proverbial fire. He is now on land, but at what price? What awaits him? We shall see what we shall see.
Rainsford observes, What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him.
He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life. How was the sea an enemy when it was he, Rainsford, who fucked up in the first place? Did he not have every opportunity to get the hell out of the situation? Did he not see the vibrations of foreboding that surrounded him? Did he not intentionally overlook what his intuition was telling him? Again, a racial metaphor and comparison comes to mind. Based on the circumstances just described, Rainsford is very much like the black man of He wants to blame the condition on the sea of whiteness that surrounds him and that may be true.
But by not exercising every possible internal alternative and option that he has at his disposal, much of the blame for our plight rests at our door and the decisions we continue to make. He cralws into jungle grass and actually goes to sleep. With all that discomfort including wet clothing and the knowledge that a gun and some kind of beast lurk nearby, he can still sleep.
Again, a sign of a true mental disorder, and one that should have been addressed in more detail. When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him.
He looked about him, almost cheerfully. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore. This guy slept for more than eight hours under the conditions just described. Not far from where he landed, he stopped. Some wounded thing—by the evidence, a large animal—had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson.
A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge. In other words, this man has plenty to be concerned about.
He notices all these little traces of blood and even an empty cartridge. Again, we see that when all is said and done, Rainsford is a conglomeration of his own contradictions.
Now he transforms into Sherlock Holmes or apparently thinks so : "A twenty-two," he remarked. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it.
The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it. Is this muthafucka joking or has the gun changed that much since the s? Let me tell you something. Just the fact that Rainsford recognized the cartridge again contradicts his general naivete when it comes to basic laws of physics balance, navigating in the dark, etc. The writer, in my view, was playing a guessing game with the concept of guns, and was probably more committed to the process of jungle-hunting than with shooting and marksmanship.
According to the story, He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find—the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.
So now he knows that there is a human being that wears boots. So what? And what does he come across, you might ask? Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights.
He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building—a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom.
His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows. So now we have a palatial estate, gun shots, foot prints and a dead animal. This sounds like something pretty damn weird, does it not?
Is the booty taken from the ships that are trapped financing the payment of the utilities that it takes to keep those lights burning? But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality. He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed.
Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then—opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring—and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out.
And from this point come the racist and homoerotic references and inferences. Check it out for yourself: The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen—a gigantic creature, solidly made and black bearded to the waist.
In his hand the man held a long- barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart. Moving on: Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford. I fell off a yacht. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform —a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan. He automatically believes that the man believes that he is a robber.
And that as a result, the man would be alarmed. The man was in a uniform which further meant that he knew how to handle himself. It was Rainsford who was scared shitless, not the man with the gun. I am hungry. Then Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels together and stand at attention.
Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.
So now we know the relationship of the large man to whomever is coming down the hallway: the latter is the commander of the former. And so the introduction begins: In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home. Who did this guy command? Where was he stationed? These are key points that are not made or mentioned in the story. All we know is that Zaroff is a white man with an English accent who is well-read.
He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare, dark face —the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat.
Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew. Although neither one of these men is worth a shit as a human being, it is clear that Zaroff receives short shrift because he is lacking in white, Anglo features.
For instance, although considered handsome and tall, his eyebgrows and mustache were black, as were his eyes. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage. Did he not say the same thing about the African?
The Native American? The Mexican? This is the white way, and the sooner that they can admit to it and stop trying to deny, censor or revise it, the sooner they can get on about the business of working to develop some sense of cultural relativity. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot. Rainsford," said the general.
I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think. He has not asked the General if he has a car that he could use to take him to an airport or a dock. All that is omitted. By a strange coincidence, the clothes provided by the General evidently must have fit Rainsford. He describes the room and the clothing, thusly: It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the silent giant.
Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke. At no point in t his story are women mentioned at all. There are no references to interaction between the sexes or any mention of a concern for children. Did he have any children?
And what about Rainsford — a man who had been all over the world and was from the United States. No mention of women? This was , and women were becoming more independent. And perhaps both Rainsford and Dr. Zaroff were symbols of men who fled from that independence. Perhaps their hunting of animals was a form of displaced aggression. Even in the movie there is a woman included for some reason.
But not in the text. Weomen were transformed following World War I, and everything that had todo with consumption was in style — drinking, smoking and sex. All this and during their conversations, not a single mention of family, children or women. This is why I earlier alleged that the book had a homoerotic tinge to it, subtle perhaps, but sometimes more can be said by what is omitted than what is stated.
There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where two score men could sit down to eat.
About the hall were mounted heads of many animals —lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone. Who mopped those floors? Who buffed those trophies and that huge dining room able? What did Zaroff do for pussy? Was he impotent or suffering from some form of sexual dysfunction? Or was he gay? What about the author of the novel?
During the days when he was murdering off Native Americans in this country, he was riding on trains and shooting out of windows gunning down buffalo. No, not to eat — but for the sport of it. If not that, he would ride them down off of cliffs and then skin them, leaving the previous meat that natives had to live on, to rot on the plains.
He wants trophies and memorabilia of his kills. As Rainsford enters the dining area, we find more of what I view as hints of femininity on the part of Zaroff: "You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of the finest—the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china. Who selected the linen and the china? Those are normally feminine-type obligations, are they not? He chose the cocktail. One source put it this way: In regard of male homosexuality such documents depict a world in which relationships with women and relationships with youths were the essential foundation of a normal man's love life.
Same- sex relationships were a social institution variously constructed over time and from one city to another. The formal practice, an erotic yet often restrained relationship between a free adult male and a free adolescent, was valued for its pedagogic benefits and as a means of population control, though occasionally blamed for causing disorder.
Plato praised its benefits in his early writings[11] but in his late works proposed its prohibition Wikipedia, Chauncey, for one, documents that, When we talk about the roaring twenties, most folks think about flappers, the Charleston, bootleggers, Jazz, moonshine, speakeasies, Charlie Chaplin and such iconic imagery. Not in NYC and especially not in Manhattan.
Many brave individuals were open about their homosexuality and participated in a lively and a surprisingly visible gay world Chauncey, — emphasis added. It was a time where people attended drag balls by the thousands, and some of the biggest draws to nightclubs were their gay entertainers. Between and , these entertainers brought gay subculture out onto the stages of midtown Manhattan Chauncey, But my point is that all this macho posturing that the white man was doing, all this military build-up crap and bravado was a cover-up.
It took place in Europe and then they bought their powder wig-wearing asses over here and set up shop with the same types of values.
There is no doubt in my mind that the author of this short story, who was married, omitted any mention of women because with women comes logical thinking and both Rainsford and Zaroff were, in my view, psychotic misogynists. The story moves on: They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates.
Half apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip? What is shows is that Zaroff is not a very polite host. First of all he literally forces the cocktail on Rainsford, not asking him what he wanted but giving him the drink he wanted to have. For all Rainsford knew that drink could have been drugged. Observe the following: He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite.
But there was one small trait of. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt. Then he claims he only has one passion in life and that is the hunt.
Speaking of head, note the following: "You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. Yes, he was a monster. But I got the brute. Who cooked it? How did they know how Rainsford wanted his cooked? What are you doing swimming, surfing and paddling around in the sea, the ocean and large rivers and not expecting to run into some members of the kingdom of thingdom?
Just like the Africans and the Native Americans were labeled savages when they merely defended their respective turfs from white alien invasion, so it is with these hunters and these animals.
Remember that this short story was published in , some 91 years ago. The white man has not changed. As evidence, I ask you to recall how this white dentist from a suburb in Minnesota shot a lion in July. Cecil, a year-old male lion, was protected from hunting while living in Hwange National Park in the Gwayi Conservancy and was fitted with a GPS tracking collar.
The wounded lion was found some 40 hours later and shot dead with a rifle, the task force's chairman Johnny Rodrigues said in a statement Ninemsn, This is the same mentality as Zaroff and Rainsford had.
And in all three cases, the men are white. In the latter case of the dentist, he actually paid huge sums of money so he could shoot down a defenseless lion. But I view this essay as a chance for a teaching lesson.
Check it out: Cecil, who had a distinctive black mane, was being studied by an Oxford University research program, and was a tourist favourite at the park over the past decade.
Palmer, who reportedly pleaded guilty in to poaching a black bear in Wisconsin, said he had "relied on the expertise of my local professional guides to ensure a legal hunt. Instead of accepting responsibility, the white boy blames it on the niggas.
But the problems that Cecil had began with his captivity. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game. I have to stock the island. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. They hunt with guns, a weapon that can enable them to kill from hundreds of yards away. Zaroff is seducing Rainsford with tidbits of luxury, as we can see in the following passage: The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.
I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port? White men have been hunting defenseless animals and unsuspecting human beings for centuries.
Zaroff is setting Rainsford up and the latter is too stupid or drunk to see it: The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Government Censorship d. Profit-driven Media e. Advertising f. Private life of public figures g. Celebrity as a role model h. Blame media for our problems i. Media ethics k. New Media and Democracy 2.
Science and Ethics b. Government and scientist role in science c. Rely too much on technology? Nuclear technology…. Login Join. Open Document. In the story, "The Most Dangerous Game," the author, Richard Connell, uses conflict to question Rainsford's character and principles and makes Rainsford use his skills and knowledge to overcome many conflicts such as Rainsford vs. Zaroff, Rainsford vs.
A In the story, during Rainsford's interesting conversation with General Zaroff, Rainsford discovers Zaroff's secret about the island.
He found out that Zaroff hunts innocent people. Rainsford doesn't like General Zaroff's idea of hunting, and so he turns against him. B Rainsford doesn't approve of hunting people for fun. Therefore, Rainsford wants to leave the myterious and dark island.
Therefore, he decides to leave, " 'I wish to go today,' said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly brightened" Connell
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