Atonement.

Overall, I think that all the major characters in the novel gain some sort of Atonement by the end of the novel. While I do not believe that each character receives the same amount of peace by the end of the story. I believe that if you look at the final part of the story, where Brione is receiving an almost peace of mind for her last novel, I believe that is the point at which she releases all that she has been carrying for all those years. I feel like that in itself yields more than any other scene in the novel and therefore puts her above the other characters in the level of atonement that she gains.

Stream of Conscience

The course so far has been very interesting with many different characters, authors, and situation. However, one story has stood out to me as being the most entertaining and fun. Boyle's, "Descent of Man," has been my favorite story because it made me think more so than any other short story that we have read. While it is clear that many people did not enjoy it due to its confusing nature, I felt like that was the reason that I enjoyed it. Because of the overall lack of set ideas about what was truly going on, it allowed me to decide for myself what was going on in the short story. It allowed me to question what was going on without a set standard of what was correct in the eyes of others. It was truly a great way to see literature.

The Stare

She searches me. Asking. Questioning. Wondering. For she knows where I have been. Her face is full of distrust. She stares at me.

Face
Eyes
Hair
Clothing.

She knows the night has not been lonely. She watches and waits. Echos on the demented face which stares from an empty heart. For the time she sees me in battle. The fight everlasting. The fear, the passion. She can not take anymore. Her eyes float, as if on water. The increasing depths as it overflows and sets me free. Her eyes have let me go. For the red on my shirt is no more a problem. Her enemy has got me. Hit me hard she said. But that did not faze me. I said I survived, I got out without a scrap. But she knew I was wounded. Empty, taken, lost.

She did not hit me as though another did. The red came from her this time. For the silver screaming of metal took her from me. She stopped her crying. Her eyes were now like an ocean of peace. It was over. She had left.