✯✯✯ The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale
I had a friend that was The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale to a mother that was raped. When they had gone not even Hills Like White Elephants Literary Analysis The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale mile, they met an old, poor The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale out out poem analysis a style, who greeted them The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale. What seith she now? B For cristianitee read Cristianitee. Close to it so far is Anthony Burgess's Clockwork but The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale seems like kindergarten level to Joyce's masteral degree.
The Pardoner's Tale
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When asked about it later that day, you pleaded insanity. You used your spoon as a scepter and banged it on the table a few times while yelling "Off with your heads! In further analysis, psychological patterns of the character of the Pardoner are frequently analysed by readers and critics alike. In , critic Eric W. Stockton defined the psychology-based research of the character, "The psychology of the Pardoner has perhaps gotten in the way of the task of interpreting the stories' meaning.
This is indeed an age of psychology. The religious climate at the time that Chaucer wrote this piece was pre- Reformation. Therefore, the Sacraments were still largely considered, as explained by St. Augustine, " outward and visible signs of an inward and invisible grace ". The suggestion that outward appearances are reliable indicators of internal character was not considered radical or improper among contemporary audiences. Indeed, the vivid depiction of the Pardoner's hair, those locks " yellow as wax But smoothe as a strike hank of flex flax ", does little to improve the reader's opinion of his moral character. Chaucer develops his description and analysis of the Pardoner throughout "The Pardoner's Tale" using suggestive analogies that provide the reader with the perception of a man of extreme sexual and spiritual poverty, willingly admitting that he abuses his authority and sells fake relics.
Eugene Vance illustrates one parallel effectively fostered by Chaucer's sexual innuendos. He writes: " The kneeling posture to which the Pardoner summons the pilgrims would place their noses right before his deficient crotch. In addition, Vance expands upon this comparison, identifying a sexual innuendo implicit in the Pardoner's many relics. Though the Pardoner preaches against greed, the irony of the character is based in the Pardoner's hypocritical actions.
He admits extortion of the poor, pocketing of indulgences , and failure to abide by teachings against jealousy and avarice. He also admits quite openly that he tricks the most guilty sinners into buying his spurious relics and does not really care what happens to the souls of those he has swindled. The Pardoner is also deceptive in how he carries out his job. Instead of selling genuine relics, the bones he carries belong to pigs, not departed saints. The cross he carries appears to be studded with precious stones that are, in fact, bits of common metal. This irony could be an indication to Chaucer's dislike for religious profit—a pervasive late medieval theme hinging on anti-clericalism.
Chaucer's use of subtle literary techniques, such as satire, seem to convey this message. However, the Pardoner might also be seen as a reinforcement of the Apostolic Authority of the priesthood, which, according to the Catholic Church, functions fully even when the one possessing that authority is in a state of mortal sin, which in this case is supported by how the corrupt Pardoner is able to tell a morally intact tale and turn others from his same sin. Thomas Aquinas , an influential theologian of the late medieval period, had a philosophy concerning how God was able to work through evil people and deeds to accomplish good ends. Chaucer may have also been referencing a doctrine of St. Augustine of Hippo concerning the Donatist heresy of fourth and fifth century Northern Africa in which Augustine argued that a priest's ability to perform valid sacraments was not invalidated by his own sin.
Thus, it is possible that with the Pardoner, Chaucer was criticising the administrative and economic practices of the Church while simultaneously affirming his support for its religious authority and dogma. With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer, That streight was comen fro the court of Rome. Ful loude he soong "Com hider, love, to me!
A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot. No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have; As smothe it was as it were late shave. I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare. Everybody knows the plot of Finnegans Wake. Rich, old man Finnegan has died, leaving behind no will and no direct heirs. Who can forget cruel Mr Snood, whose Machiavellian machinations can be seen beneath each interaction, or doddering old Mrs Buttercup, whose innocent bumbling antics serve to hilariously thwart his plans at every step.
Rumour has it that Joyce had for some time been working on an alternative version of the novel, one almost entirely concerned with puns and wordplay, filled with obscure and esoteric references, and devoid of any persistent characters or coherent plot. But fortunately Joyce was moved by close friends to abandon that enterprise, it all being quite silly and pretentious really, and who would want to read a book like that anyway. View all 25 comments. Just keep reading: even the most difficult novel will eventually make some sense, and if you realise you've missed things, you can always go back for a second try if still curious A quest for you! How and where should we dear readers start this vollhuminorous opus tome that is belabelled "Funny Gunsmoke"?
Are you the typeface who wants to read a Wake? Or better still to hold its heft until and while yore fast a Schlep? The meaning ist all betweed the last and first one or two hemidemisentences of this nonomonograph: "Put off the old man at the very font and get right on with the nutty sparker round the back Did you see that? What and hoodoo these letters stand for? Is it a code? Please sir, can I have some morse or semaphor? Is this the first of many mansions of real currency? Will we find the unity of people and place in time in these environs? Down by the river?
At night? In your dreams! Whether or not you're sleeping. Trust Joyce to resuscitate these ancient and wise abreathiations. At wristwatchtime and to whichwhatend? The qwestian is regardless! This revolution is not revolting or odious, just kummftibbly commodious. You could advocake more communionist than communist or unionist, though bewhere if an onion ist made of many lawyers, becoz each one is set inside and upagainst annutter. A loan? At what interest rate? Watch your steppe, or euchred be waylaid.
Though observe that some tend to bury H. Neertheless, hoefully you'll find the riteway to reed this book for you. Deftkneely beeknot misled by any Ashtraylian or hippopotantipodean of lettuce, french, inkwizitive or other whys. O Burnie, that must hurt! They're all good, if you like this kind offering. It's a big wander oliver the world why he was neverwarded a Noble Surprise. Pearheaps because, like a lot of other civillillians and armoured worriers, he disceased during the World War Too and that made him ineligible.
Never mind. The books are still availabellegible, so you can read them if you don't think they're too liffeycult. Joyce gnu all the words in the dickshunnery and moor B-sides that he made up from the manniplurabold languages of the whirled. He recreated them espeshfully fornication like this, youzing them for the very first and ownly time in this belaboured werk and wurterbuch. Unlikewise, take note of Joyce's punkchewashuns, Oxford commanists, parents' theses, dashful hyphenates, apocraphyl apostropheats, semicolonial Manutians from afaraway, kissed ellipses lipglossy, penultimate fullstoppers and sentences high above suspended.
It's very hard to fellow him, partickly even though he's dead. Still, he's proof that preservering with our ancestuous tends to keep our minds alife. Sum total lots of readers are put off "Finnegan's Wank", because they thank it's too long and too hard. Well, if you don't want to exhurt the mental musculiterature of your mind, you can still please yourself another way view spoiler [ which ineviterribly illicits the swift retort, "Things that make you go, Hmmmmm," from a Houyhnhnmmmmm who proseeds to imvitate a Gellover to innspect the Yahoos in his stable hide spoiler ].
There are lots of other books for ewes. Someone somewhere over the regenbocean said that James Joyce is the top man in the langwage department. Dispose that's better than the sandwich department. In case this is an eggsample of what seven lindquists might call typographical eros, it's best that each reader be left to their erogenous own devices. A bout with witch and broom, more bryter layter. It is a whole universe of words and images, that the awefer wrote down as they hopened in the night.
You could say that all his words seem like they were relatively unedificated. However, you know that it would be untrue. You know that it would be a lyre. Good one, that's Awefeus, off course! This novel is spacifically inntended for any reader who adores perception and heaven and hell not to mention Dandy Alligator. Mind you, some readers can be very tempting to overunderstand everything what goes on in the velvet underground belowcated down the rabbit hole.
You could abcess about all of the contributaries of the River Liffey, all of the leaves on the Tree of Life and all of the ingreedients in the Sausage of Love. Irvinghowever, there is a chance that this might be a wursted effort. It is a nuff that yore first reading concentrate on the undiluted pleasesirs of the wurstplay on display. Afterwords, you can attend a jimjim and work-out the meaning of all detales, if six kneed bees, with an ingenerous glass of mead or a bitter class of grappa.
The first and most imported object of the subject is that you enjoyce your shelf. The novel is diffided into fork quartets, but reely it's a tryst, a three yak worldplay, followed by the red currants of the myth as predicated vicoriously by an inflewential phallusupher who moonlights as a sham barrista. Buttfirst and befleur they are fourgotten, rejoyce in these words of the righter that have been reserved and reet petited: "God jests and Man mimics. Or vice versa, if you're obwronxious. Then again, Joyce might have made it all up himself with no helpatall. According to this highpothesis, he was his own venquillotrist.
Sounds good! Move on, Big Sir. Here you can find infinite jest that ascience to us readers the task of comprehension, aorbemusement and humble mimicry. There are many threories about the content of the tryst. You could adam and even write a nude science bookabetit. One will suffice for these porpoises. Press enter and return. Complete with three Exhumation Marx!!! Hegelian Babel-bashers may well arks: Is this lettery structure opposed to the dielectrickal or is it just trialectrickery? Is it revolutionary or just gimmicky? Is this inturpretation reliarble or just untrystworthy? Is it jest or mimicry? Genuinelyflecked if eiderorpheus knows dancer!
Or as rural farmersists say: the fucken' or the clucken'? Itz a good christian, izn't it? It could be the clowndation of a "scienze of new ova". And that's just the beginning! What about the yend? How will it all stop? Or does it just go round and round like a one-armed canudist? James Joyce is just a belieber of the proposition that there's one big cyclist in hot pursuit of a circuitous root. He won't stop until he's had a nuff. A parently. And there is more than a nuff sex to go around of drinks.
Round and round, in and out, round after round, in private homes and public houses, homewood or innward bound. It will go on forever and never stop. It will never be orgone. Good news for modem men and women. So this is why "Finnegan's Wake" begins with the ladder half of a sentence and ends with the foremast hoff. It's a circle of liff, a liffcycyle, a circle of life, a lifecycle. Another way of pitching and putting the same goffball into a different hole, is it's a Liffeycycle, a river, the river Liffey "An Life," not "A Life" in Irish. The female character, Anna Livia Plurabelle, is a personification of the river and the river of life and love. It's a good analogy. An even better allegory.
What the Florentines called an "Alighieri". And Polymathematricians, an "Algorithm". Women, mothers, are responsibubble for our birth. They are on all fours with it. Or all floors. Blowing up their bellies like a rubadubblebubble. There is nothing more vital or important than women in da reddish-blonde red riding hood. These are long and reddish-blond. My sister who used to see them let down told me about them.
There is a river near Dublin which passes dye-houses and its waters are reddish, so I've enjoyed comparing these two things in the book I'm writing. A lady in it will have the tresses which are really Signora Svevo's. She must be chased about. And this is the role created epsexually for men. If women are the rock upon which socxiety is built, then men are the roll. You need both for birthing. Men have only a minor role at the outset, akindle to a Big Bang, only infinitesimorely smaller. If he pleases, he is invited to come again, to come on baby light my fire, he to be the flame that comes to light her Feuerabends, and keep her company and shareholders late into the night until the early mourning sickness becomes electriffic.
Women have an infinite capacity for love, men a limitless appetryit for sex, "the natural bestness of pleisure. After conception, men think their task is done, and that it is their right and obligation to bolt. This mythconception has a semantic horrorgen, obvoriously. Women must be nuts to put up with men. Men blame the sinductive powers of women. Men never fall so much for these powers of sinduction as when they are dupelicated or denied. If a man has trouble resisting the temptation of a woman, his temptatious plight is doubled by the prospect of a threesome: "Woman will water the wild world over.
And the maid of the folley will go where glory. Sure I thought it was larking in the trefoll of the furry glans with two stripping baremaids The word "tryst" bears a greater etymanological resemblance to the number three than two, right back to the Lithuanian word "trys". In the sixteenth century, the practice was so widespread that often men and women of the court complained that they couldn't see the wood for the threes. In this way, many a man who imagines a tryst ends up trystless or in tristesse. It is liffycult to describe a man's reaction to denial inwards. Iwronically, it turns many a man to one to one correspondence. What a man cannot describe orally, he must inscribe literally. Hence, litterature has its origents in men's love letters.
Such a man must content himself with his quill, until other options arise, arouse and present themselves. When finally a woman commands a man's attention, then it is his swollen duty to respond with an appropriate degree of erectitude. Finnegan's Wake-Up Call "What has gone? Joyce speculates that the end need not be so bitter, but maybe even better: the big end will one day be a new beginning. All nights come to an end, but they are followed by another dawn. Our ancestors live on in our genes, even if our children don't innherod our belle bottoms. That's the way it's been since levis and devlins first loved livvy. But it's the same every wear. And so, the Liffey goes on, liff goes on, life goes on, and love goes on. We all go on to gather. We are each of us a small part of a great cycle.
However, there would be no cycle without us. And there would be no remembery of us, unless we wrote it down in allforbettercal letters, if not order. The experience of life can be rich and diverse and rewarding, without necessarily being in order. So how to write a last line? A suitable end. A moment at which it's true, it's said, it's written down, inscribed, it's all been said and done, and there's nothing more to do, nothing more to say, nothing more to tell, like finis, finn, then, well Anna Livia Plurabelle "Aye aye, she was lithe and pleasable. I haven't even lectured on it! I dunno, she's fucking with a slip of a man Another one for the Beckett List.
View all 59 comments. What they have in common is hard work and originality. Read Finnegans Wake. Fine, you know what? Also, Finnegans Wake is the ace up the sleeve of a surprising number of authors. But you and I will know their secret! Our hapless hero H. Earwicker, also known as Heinz cans everywhere and most appropriately Here Comes Everybody, is everyone. So pick it up, take it slowly, read it aloud, forget what you know about the novel and enjoy the music of the words. What does it mean? Could he be more jealous? View all 13 comments. Feb 21, Nathan "N. Was bin you? Vava Varoom? Hand on heart! None and sept weeks of wakes in the woche. In char. Avec avis and kittehs. Con Campbell. Wort by wort, healthy yeasties. Qual odor? I furt her make of a claim to have been being udder stooding of a it.
And am therefore and thuswhy dubbel accused as. Otter stuff from primeval daze. Ogden with the cooperation of Joyce. After a century of study, the Voynich Manuscript still mocks us. Allow Data to explain. Joyce tends to keep his words to "ten or fewer" at a time. Curious that one of Data's pieces is from Mozart, albeit a symphony, because one is reminded of the scene from Amadeus in which Mozart explicates the possibilities contained within the operatic genre of writing multiple voices singing simultaneously , something which, in ordinary circumstances, is impossible when one word must follow its prior word.
In Finneganian we can have them all at once. And not only do we have "ten or fewer words" at a time, we also have ten or more characters and stories at a time. The figures of our human history are all here, all at once: Here Comes Everybody!!!! Does anyone still believe that the English language is a monolingual language? Is English not already a Finneganian? Fish him right out! The eel is in that booth quite unrevealed. There you shall find, if you would look that way, Deep in his amice a great fault concealed. It chills my freezing brain, I know not how.
Eleven stanzas follow. Thank you, MJ, for the link. The first hypothesis would be that it is a realism relating to the experience of language, night marre -time language, or, in accordance with the 21st being the century of the Wake , the experience of being in between language s. Joyce lived between English and Gaelic. We are in a globalized world in which English appears as the contemporary monolithic Latin.
But isn't Joyce's work suggesting an alternative experience against English-as-monolith? Languages have always existed as a betweenness of official, universalizable Sprache and local, particularistic Dialekt; witness Spanglish or Ebonics. Can we locate the language wars between prescriptivists and descriptivists in this same betweenness? A precedent for the Wake discovered in ancient India, a Sanskrit novella, Subandhu's Vasavadatta , from the 5th or 6th century, a. Take the sentence from the Wake , "they were yung and easily freudened," and imagine translating it into a non-European language and culture.
Single brackets represent single puns, double double. What does this suggest about the Wake? On the other hand, how is it possible for a reader to believe that any author could write a novel which contains nothing but univocal semantic content? Irony, metaphor, pun, ambiguity and ambivalence are the constituents, the conditions of possibility, of the novel. Isn't this what the Wake carries out to a degree of genius beyond the capacity of a merely single natural language?
Here's something more recent: from The New Yorker: "Utopian for Beginners: An amateur linguist loses control of the language he invented. Danis Rose and John O'Hanlon. London: Penguin Classics, Forth coming is a hypertext edition of the Wake which will include all of the pre- Wake drafts as well as the entirety of the extant notebooks. This hypertext edition underlies the recently published restored Wake. For more information see the Houyhnhnm Press. My intention is to read one to two pages of the Wake per day.
This oughta keep me reading for days. I will also regularly push a status update in order to increase my status in the literary world as One Who Reads the Wake , or perhaps so that one may observe my failure to get past page 20, to have all that pretentiousness rubbed back in my own face. I do not intend to write a review. That would seem a bit obscene. But I have days to decide about that. My reading, at the beginning is untethered, but, being bookish as I am, I will likely accumulate some kind of bookish reading partner, if anything insightful presents itself.
View all 97 comments. If you're into stuff like this, you can read the full review. The spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue milk's upset. I see Joyce as a product of his 'modernist' era, certainly, but a si If you're into stuff like this, you can read the full review. I see Joyce as a product of his 'modernist' era, certainly, but a sincere one. He was reaching for something, a kind of synthesis of prose and poetry that came close to the true language of the mind. It's remarkable how much of Finnegans Wake is comprehensible, in spite of the fact that Joyce's words don't actually exist; we know what he means, or we can guess at it, which would be impossible if it was just gibberish.
There's more stuff on the other side of the rainbow. View all 8 comments. Update, OK guys, gals, and others. I'm repenting, a bit. What is written below is the representation of my head from bygone days. It's an amusing rant, and maybe I still feel marginally the same as those ways stated therein. At the same time, I am open to the challenge of the toughies of the canon.
I may yet attempt a completion of this. I don't think Joyce himself would begrudge me this, very much. So, maybe in short order a new reading, a full reading, will follow on the morrow. The morrow being like a geological-interpretation-of-the-Bible morrow, but still Before I say more, let me share an episode, wrought from the dramatic pages of Goodreads. I had a Goodreads friend for a brief wink in time last year, who went by the name of Caitlyn. She was an English major I believe. She was the one who friended me; this is an important point to isolate and emphasize. I say "friend" because that's the word ascribed to and proscribed by online social networking circles and sites such as this one to delineate those who mutually agree to some tenuous linkage that sets them apart from the great unwashed avatar-uploaders otherwise not selected.
For those imbued with a high degree of optimism and naivete, these pseudo friendships might actually morph into what the concept originally meant. In any case, we seemed to be getting along famously, liking each others' reads and so on, when, lo and behold, she marks Finnegans Wake as "to read. I think part of the point of this aside is that people who take Finnegans Wake or literature in general this dogmatically and seriously are pretentious boors who I probably don't want to know, and thus my deletion from her friends' list was a good thing; a tenuous linkage nipped in the bud early and to my relief.
So, what I have to say about Finnegans Wake is as follows, in no particular order. People love their Danielle Steel and their Dan Brown and their sword-wielding hero fantasies and similarly story-driven fare and then there are those, like me, who are a tad more esoteric in taste, who enjoy mood and analysis and angsty ruminations on the human condition, stuff trafficked in by Roth and Updike and the like. And there are experimental flights of fancy, such as this Finnegans Wake which can be read as some kind of abstract, musical, alliterative poem with little concern for plot or conventional literary form.
This category of book, quite simply, interests me little. However, having said that, I do appreciate experimentation within a more conventional context; for instance, the odd and disturbing tangents in Nathanael West's Miss Lonelyhearts. I read, write and speak in English only, and, despite brief stabs at trying to ingrain some lovely Portuguese via the Pimsleur language course, I will probably remain thusly limited. Therefore, when I read a book, it sort of has to be in English, English that I understand from experience to be English, not a collection of made-up words. English is sort of a basic requirement for me to read a work of English lit.
Seuss or Lewis Carroll or A. Milne, who have the added decency to not outstay their welcomes. I can't quite parse this out. It was the so-called "low" arts that defined what was best about the century: the movies, pop musics jazz, rock, etc. Esoteric experimental nonsense like Finnegans Wake was perhaps part of a necessary deconstructionist tangent that art had to inevitably follow -- and it followed it heedlessly right to a dead end. No, I don't want to be a passive reader, yet neither do I want to have to engage in work.
I have an hourly rate I expect to be paid for that. An artist can be as artistically uncompromising as he or she wishes; I am under no obligation to read the results. And I think the author of Finnegans Wake himself would have agreed. View all 19 comments. A sort of triumph, a sort of failure. It's impossible to rate, really, but it's not remotely like anything else in English literature so in that way it's certainly impressive. On one hand it's outrageously pretentious. But even if you want to hate it, there's no denying you can get enormous enjoyment from going through some of the passages here.
A sentence can be read in as much detail as some entire books. You can reread the whole thing and it'll be completely different. Some bits are very funny, A sort of triumph, a sort of failure. Some bits are very funny, some are very sexy, many parts are jaw-droppingly beautiful, all of it is completely insane. It drives me crazy. I think I love it. View all 4 comments. Shelves: modernist , favorites. You can pull almost anything out of it, but usually you'll get a twisted reflection of your own ideas, obsessions, or hidden fantasies. Perhaps that's the cause for perplexion, but I think its good to dig all that stuff up. I love this book for its tangled etymologies, and the way these pieces of words delve so deeply into a common mystical, lingual history that spans nations and cultures.
When Joyce ventured through the tortured decade it took write this monstrous masterpiece, he was both graced and plagued by so many coincidences that came out of the language and myths he was integrating. He wanted to write an epic using 'dream language'; he's trying to take the modernist 'stream of consciousness' one step further, with this artistic expression of the consciousness of dreams. The story is simply one man's dream, but that dream seeps into the consciousness, language, and archetypes of all humanity, and hundreds of mystical traditions. These ideas sound Jungian, and actually Jung was a contemporary of Joyce's, who thought Joyce was insane. Actually, this relationship becomes one of the coincidences that manifests itself in the text.
As I mentioned, Jung thought Joyce was arrogant and ridiculous. However, Joyce respected Jung and wanted, desperately, for Jung treat his daughter Lucia, who had Paranoid Schizophrenia. Jung did treat Lucia, and he and Joyce became friends through a common care for Joyce's daughter. There is a famous quote where Jung compares Joyce to his daughter saying, "They are two people going to the bottom of a river--one falling, the other diving. You can find this story hiding in crumbled phrases such as this: "How glad you'll be I waked you! How well you'll feel! For ever after I only hope whole heavens sees us. For I feel I could near faint away. Into the deeps. Annamores leep. Let me lean, just a lea, if you le, bowldstrong bigtider.
Allgearls is wea. At times. While you're adamant evar. Wrhps, that wind as if out of norewere! As on the night of Apophanypes. Jumpst shootst throbbst into me mouth like bogue and arrohs. Ludegude of Lashlanns, how he whips me cheeks! Sea, sea! Here, weir, reach, island, bridge. Where you meet I. The magic hall of mirrors becomes quite fascinating, you just need a proper entry point.
Jun 17, Laura rated it did not like it Shelves: post-modernism , yuck. In What Is Art? Tolstoy unleashes criticism on all things artistic, sparing no one. His main argument is that art--whether literature, paintings, music, or drama--should be accessible to everyone. He says anything that the common man cannot understand or that does not represent the common man is actually a form of war on the common man.
All art must teach; all art must be accessible; all art must tell the common man's story. Else, it is not art but an elitist manipulation--a dangerous one, at th In What Is Art? Else, it is not art but an elitist manipulation--a dangerous one, at that. The main target of his anger is art that is enigmatic solely for the sake of being enigmatic. He even spends an entire chapter on Wagner to prove his point. While one could argue that this kind of critique is a signal of the Stalinist suppression of anything not "for the people," the Bolsheviks actually praised Tolstoy and suppressed Dostoevsky I do think that Tolstoy has a valid point--especially with regards to Joycean Modernism.
I'll be honest, Modernism does annoy me. I understand the idea behind using style to comment on, well, style, but I really can't stand this pompous approach to art. It's boring and kind of defeats the point of publishing for the masses.While The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale rest of the pilgrims disperse throughout the town, the Pardoner seeks the affections of Kate the barmaid, Physician Assisted Suicide Ethical Dilemma faces problems dealing with the man in her life and the innkeeper Harry Bailey. You The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale to turn to The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale like Joyce Meyer did. Or else silver The Old Man In The Pardoners Tale, spoons, rings.