How has the American media changed since 1990 What have been the Essay

How has the American media changed since 1990 What have been the political consequences - Essay Example When dealing with media, many people think of television, radio, internet, and mails. Television is the news source most relied on by the American people. The media takes the effort to share information or entertain different people in different language and location (Sterling and Kittross, 2002). Media first begun when the cavemen shouted to send a warning or communicating with people, earshot which was closer to modern methods of media, and technology such as horn, bells, drums, and fire signal. Eventually people started to use more complex methods to communicate to the next generation. The first real change in media came with the introduction of the printing press. For years the technological development of media involved distance, speed, number of copies, and quantity. Every new technology was a balance of these demands (Sterling and Kittross, 2002). The pony express was used to deliver mails faster than any other method. Speed and distance helped in the development of telegraphs. In American, the first practical telegraph was invented by Samuel Finley Breene Morse, also known as an artist. The telegraph became the most effective form of media. With the successful development of the telegraph and telephone in America communication was much easier. At this time electricity was used and with the use of electricity, the radio was introduced. Radio broadcasting thus became the new electrical communication. The telegraph, telephone, and radio were the quickest ways of communication (Sterling and Kittross, 2002). The radio reduced the reliance on wires, and also reduced the production of copies and hand-lettering. However, media development was slow and experienced some challenges such as the freedom of press, regulation of broadcasting and other issues. Freedom of press: Freedom of press can be traced back to the ratification

Critical Incident Essay Example for Free

Critical Incident Essay It was a cold friday afternoon as I sat at the bus stop waiting to get home. I had just got out of an intense Friday lecture from the Northampton local Mosque. The Imam was furious and obviously disgusted at the behavior of our generation. How do we live with ourselves Imam Aseem Ibrahim had said. Most of us have enough to feed ourselves and our family, even buy the latest gadgets just because we can but do we feed the poor? Do we clothed them? He said in anger as he chocked on the words. The lecture kept on playing in my head as I waited for the bus. It made me realize, we could do some good with the money we spend on some unnecessary things especially the ones we buy for ourselves to please others. Earlier, I had planned on buying the new Manchester United away jersey, but with what the Imam said, I dont think I need it anymore. I could use at least half the money to do good for others. Just as I drift on my thoughts, I noticed a fish and chips cart which reminded me of the breakfast and lunch I had missed. I had been staying up late studying that I forgot about a couple of meals. Dont starve yourself in the course of feeding others. The Imam had said while giving his lectures. I starved myself but it wasnt because I was trying to feed anybody, I was just trying to catch up on loss time. I got up and got myself some fish and chips then sat back at the bus stop seats. As soon as I had the first swallow, I realized I could help poor people by feeding them delicious food with a reasonable amount of money. The food was relatively cheap. I smiled and continued to enjoy. Halfway through my meal, I saw a little Indian boy with an elderly woman walking towards my direction. The boy smiled at me so I smiled and offered him my food. The little boy smiled again and shook his head. Are you sure? He shook his head and stopped walking. Alright then. I went on with my meal. A few minutes later, the bus arrived and just as I motioned to get on it, the elderly woman furiously said some words to me in Hindu. I shrugged and got on the bus. When I arrived home, I found my roommate Taneem watching a Hindu movie. I noticed something weird as I watched a little with him. Why is the subtitle saying yes while the woman keeps shaking her head? I asked. Because shaking your head is to Indians as nodding your head is to us. Shes saying yes. Taneem explained. Even though it was minutes after I had left the boy and the woman, I felt so embarrassed at what I did to the boy. My intentions were good, but it looked otherwise.

An Analysis of Langston Hughes Poem, Freedom Train :: Hughes Freedom Train Essays

An Analysis of Langston Hughes' Poem, Freedom Train There is very little left to the imagination when reading Langston Hughes "Freedom Train". His ideas of being free are apparent from the beginning of his poem. However, although he spells everything out, he still leaves a couple of things for his readers to figure out. He starts off wanting to know all about this train he keeps hearing. He says, "I read in the papers about the Freedom Train. I heard on the radio about the Freedom Train." He wants to know everything he can about this train. Its almost as if everybody knows there is such thing as a train, but its almost as if no one knows what the train is. Towards the middle of the poem the realist in Hughes comes out. He goes into the doubts that most African Americans had at the time. He says, "Down South in Dixie only train I sees got a Jim Crow car set aside for me." Another interesting technique he adds is when he capitalizes the "WHITE FOLKS ONLY" and "FOR COLORED" signs. He either does this to draw attention to the cause, or to try and know what it feels like to have these signs sticking in your face. He specifically mentions Birmingham, Mississippi, and Georgia during the poem. These were key cities that were into segregation of the South. "When it stops in Mississippi will it be made plain everybody's got a right to board the freedom train." Hughes almost is becoming a little agitated in the poem when he refers to these cities, especially when he is talking about Birmingham. "The Birmingham station's marked COLORED and WHITE, the white folks go left, the colored go right." In this part of the poem, he is questioning w hether or not this Freedom Train is too good to be true. He sounds like he doubts a little of what this Freedom Train is all about. He knows there is a train, but there have been a lot of promises before that were not fulfilled, he does not want to get his hopes up before he finds out more about this train. Towards the end of the poem , he starts sounding like the optimistic Hughes we all have come to know and love.

The Host Chapter 2: Overheard

The voices were soft and close and, though I was only now aware of them, apparently in the middle of a murmured conversation. â€Å"I'm afraid it's too much for her,† one said. The voice was soft but deep, male. â€Å"Too much for anyone. Such violence!† The tone spoke of revulsion. â€Å"She screamed only once,† said a higher, reedy, female voice, pointing this out with a hint of glee, as if she were winning an argument. â€Å"I know,† the man admitted. â€Å"She is very strong. Others have had much more trauma, with much less cause.† â€Å"I'm sure she'll be fine, just as I told you.† â€Å"Maybe you missed your Calling.† There was an edge to the man's voice. Sarcasm, my memory named it. â€Å"Perhaps you were meant to be a Healer, like me.† The woman made a sound of amusement. Laughter. â€Å"I doubt that. We Seekers prefer a different sort of diagnosis.† My body knew this word, this title:Seeker. It sent a shudder of fear down my spine. A leftover reaction. â€Å"I sometimes wonder if the infection of humanity touches those in your profession,† the man mused, his voice still sour with annoyance. â€Å"Violence is part of your life choice. Does enough of your body's native temperament linger to give you enjoyment of the horror?† I was surprised at his accusation, at his tone. This discussion was almost like an argument. Something my host was familiar with but that I'd never experienced. The woman was defensive. â€Å"We do not choose violence. We face it when we must. And it's a good thing for the rest of you that some of us are strong enough for the unpleasantness. Your peace would be shattered without our work.† â€Å"Once upon a time. Your vocation will soon be obsolete, I think.† â€Å"The error of that statement lies on the bed there.† â€Å"One human girl, alone and unarmed! Yes, quite a threat to our peace.† The woman breathed out heavily. A sigh. â€Å"But where did she come from? How did she appear in the middle of Chicago, a city long since civilized, hundreds of miles from any trace of rebel activity? Did she manage it alone?† She listed the questions without seeming to seek an answer, as if she had already voiced them many times. â€Å"That's your problem, not mine,† the man said. â€Å"My job is to help this soul adapt herself to her new host without unnecessary pain or trauma. And you are here to interfere with my job.† Still slowly surfacing, acclimating myself to this new world of senses, I understood only now that I was the subject of the conversation. I was the soul they spoke of. It was a new connotation to the word, a word that had meant many other things to my host. On every planet we took a different name.Soul. I suppose it was an apt description. The unseen force that guides the body. â€Å"The answers to my questions matter as much as your responsibilities to the soul.† â€Å"That's debatable.† There was the sound of movement, and her voice was suddenly a whisper. â€Å"When will she become responsive? The sedation must be about to wear off.† â€Å"When she's ready. Leave her be. She deserves to handle the situation however she finds most comfortable. Imagine the shock of her awakeninginside a rebel host injured to the point of death in the escape attempt! No one should have to endure such trauma in times of peace!† His voice rose with the increase of emotion. â€Å"She is strong.† The woman's tone was reassuring now. â€Å"See how well she did with the first memory, the worst memory. Whatever she expected, she handled this.† â€Å"Why should she have to?† the man muttered, but he didn't seem to expect an answer. â€Å"Needbeing your word. I would choose the termwant. â€Å" â€Å"Then someone must take on the unpleasantness,† she continued as if he had not interrupted. â€Å"And I think, from all I know of this one, she would accept the challenge if there had been any way to ask her. What do you call her?† The man didn't speak for a long moment. The woman waited. â€Å"Wanderer,† he finally and unwillingly answered. â€Å"Fitting,† she said. â€Å"I don't have any official statistics, but she has to be one of the very few, if not the only one, who has wandered so far. Yes,Wanderer will suit her well until she chooses a new name for herself.† He said nothing. â€Å"Of course, she may assume the host's name. We found no matches on record for the fingerprints or retinal scan. I can't tell you what that name was.† â€Å"She won't take the human name,† the man muttered. Her response was conciliatory. â€Å"Everyone finds comfort their own way.† â€Å"This Wanderer will need more comfort than most, thanks to your style of Seeking.† There were sharp soundsfootsteps, staccato against a hard floor. When she spoke again, the woman's voice was across the room from the man. â€Å"You would have reacted poorly to the early days of this occupation,† she said. â€Å"Perhaps you react poorly to peace.† The woman laughed, but the sound was falsethere was no real amusement. My mind seemed well adapted to inferring the true meanings from tones and inflections. â€Å"You do not have a clear perception of what my Calling entails. Long hours hunched over files and maps. Mostly desk work. Not very often the conflict or violence you seem to think it is.† â€Å"Ten days ago you were armed with killing weapons, running this body down.† â€Å"The exception, I assure you, not the rule. Do not forget, the weapons that disgust you are turned on our kind wherever we Seekers have not been vigilant enough. The humans kill us happily whenever they have the ability to do so. Those whose lives have been touched by the hostility see us as heroes.† â€Å"You speak as if a war were raging.† â€Å"To the remains of the human race, one is.† These words were strong in my ears. My body reacted to them; I felt my breathing speed, heard the â€Å"But one that even they must realize is long lost. They are outnumbered by what? A million to one? I imagine you would know.† â€Å"We estimate the odds are quite a bit higher in our favor,† she admitted grudgingly. The Healer appeared to be content to let his side of the disagreement rest with that information. It was quiet for a moment. I used the empty time to evaluate my situation. Much was obvious. I was in a Healing facility, recovering from an unusually traumatic insertion. I was sure the body that hosted me had been fully healed before it was given to me. A damaged host would have been disposed of. I considered the conflicting opinions of the Healer and the Seeker. According to the information I had been given before making the choice to come here, the Healer had the right of it. Hostilities with the few remaining pockets of humans were all but over. The planet called Earth was as peaceful and serene as it looked from space, invitingly green and blue, wreathed in its harmless white vapors. As was the way of the soul, harmony was universal now. The verbal dissension between the Healer and the Seeker was out of character. Strangely aggressive for our kind. It made me wonder. Could they be true, the whispered rumors that had undulated like waves through the thoughts of the of the I was distracted, trying to find the name for my last host species. We'd had a name, I knew that. But, no longer connected to that host, I could not remember the word. We'd used much simpler language than this, a silent language of thought that connected us all into one great mind. A necessary convenience when one was rooted forever into the wet black soil. I could describe that species in my new human language. We lived on the floor of the great ocean that covered the entire surface of our worlda world that had a name, too, but that was also gone. We each had a hundred arms and on each arm a thousand eyes, so that, with our thoughts connected, not one sight in the vast waters went unseen. There was no need for sound, so there was no way to hear it. We tasted the waters, and, with our sight, that told us all we needed to know. We tasted the suns, so many leagues above the water, and turned their taste into the food we needed. I could describe us, but I could not name us. I sighed for the lost knowledge, and then returned my ponderings to what I'd overheard. Souls did not, as a rule, speak anything but the truth. Seekers, of course, had the requirements of their Calling, but between souls there was never reason for a lie. With my last species' language of thought, it would have been impossible to lie, even had we wanted to. However, anchored as we were, we told ourselves stories to alleviate the boredom. Storytelling was the most honored of all talents, for it benefited everyone. Sometimes, fact mixed with fiction so thoroughly that, though no lies were told, it was hard to remember what was strictly true. But there were whispers of this: of human hosts so strong that the souls were forced to abandon them. Hosts whose minds could not be completely suppressed. Souls who took on the personality of the body, rather than the other way around. Stories. Wild rumors. Madness. But that seemed almost to be the Healer's accusation. I dismissed the thought. The more likely meaning of his censure was the distaste most of us felt for the Seeker's Calling. Who would choose a life of conflict and pursuit? Who would be attracted to the chore of tracking down unwilling hosts and capturing them? Who would have the stomach to face the violence of this particular species, the hostile humans who killed so easily, so thoughtlessly? Here, on this planet, the Seekers had become practically a militiamy new brain supplied the term for the unfamiliar concept. Most believed that only the least civilized souls, the least evolved, the lesser among us, would be drawn to the path of Seeker. Still, on Earth the Seekers had gained new status. Never before had an occupation gone so awry. Never before had it turned into a fierce and bloody battle. Never before had the lives of so many souls been sacrificed. The Seekers stood as a mighty shield, and the souls of this world were thrice-over indebted to them: for the safety they had carved out of the mayhem, for the risk of the final death that they faced willingly every day, and for the new bodies they continued to provide. Now that the danger was virtually past, it appeared the gratitude was fading. And, for this Seeker at least, the change was not a pleasant one. It was easy to imagine what her questions for me would be. Though the Healer was trying to buy me time to adjust to my new body, I knew I would do my best to help the Seeker. Good citizenship was quintessential to every soul. So I took a deep breath to prepare myself. The monitor registered the movement. I knew I was stalling a bit. I hated to admit it, but I was afraid. To get the information the Seeker needed, I would have to explore the violent memories that had made me scream in horror. More than that, I was afraid of the voice I'd heard so loudly in my head. But she was silent now, as was right. She was just a memory, too. I should not have been afraid. After all, I was called Wanderer now. And I'd earned the name. With another deep breath, I delved into the memories that frightened me, faced them head-on with my teeth locked together. I could skip past the endit didn't overwhelm me now. In fast-forward, I ran through the dark again, wincing, trying not to feel. It was over quickly. Once I was through that barrier, it wasn't hard to float through less-alarming things and places, skimming for the information I wanted. I saw how she'd come to this cold city, driving by night in a stolen car chosen for its nondescript appearance. She'd walked through the streets of Chicago in darkness, shivering beneath her coat. The words came slower and slower, and at first I did not understand why. Was this forgotten? Lost in the trauma of an almost death? Was I still sluggish from unconsciousness? I struggled to think clearly. This sensation was unfamiliar. Was my body still sedated? I felt alert enough, but my mind labored unsuccessfully for the answers I wanted. I tried another avenue of searching, hoping for clearer responses. What was her goal? She would find SharonI fished out the nameand they would I hit a wall. It was a blank, a nothing. I tried to circle around it, but I couldn't find the edges of the void. It was as if the information I sought had been erased. As if this brain had been damaged. Anger flashed through me, hot and wild. I gasped in surprise at the unexpected reaction. I'd heard of the emotional instability of these human bodies, but this was beyond my ability to anticipate. In eight full lives, I'd never had an emotion touch me with such force. I felt the blood pulse through my neck, pounding behind my ears. My hands tightened into fists. The machines beside me reported the acceleration of my heartbeats. There was a reaction in the room: the sharp tap of the Seeker's shoes approached me, mingled with a quieter shuffle that must have been the Healer. â€Å"Welcome to Earth, Wanderer,† the female voice said.

Instruction for Fixing Your Player Problems

Instruction to enable the true power of AAC encoded sound. 1. Synchronization problems. OK, so you have downloaded FASM release, tried to play it on your favorite player and it failed, because they have synchronization problems between video and audio. You think that if you have never before experienced such problems, the player is OK, but the video is not. WRONG!!! FASM releases contain a bit different stream and it is known that even if its MPEG4 specification correct, some players don't handle it properly.It happens mostly with older players and sometimes update fixes problem, so you do not need to change your favorite player completely, but if you wish to try a player i consider the best read below. Remember you are doing this on your own risk, so don't blame me if for unknown reason something f†¦. up. 2. Downloading the copy of the best player i know. The official version of Media Player Classic Home cinema Edition you can find here: http://mpc-hc. sourceforge. net/ but if you are looking for latest ALPHA version go here: http://www. xvidvideo. ru 3. Configuring the Media Player Classic Home Cinema Edition.OK so the next step is to configure your fresh player properly. It is good to do one thing before start using this player. It is known that old configuration of it (in case you used it before) can cause strange problems, so I recommend run regedit. exe, then find and delete completely this key. HKEY_CURRENT_USERSoftwareGabest Start the player and go to OPTIONS-INTERNAL FILTERS. Then enable all filters, like below Next double click on AAC to go into its properties. First thing you need to set is 24Bit Output Sample Format, then you can decide you want to have stereo or 5. 1 sound. Then go to audio switcher and set the proper Volume Gain.For unknown reason for me the internal AAC filter of MPC HCE is not as loud as DTS one. This gives the impression of bad dynamics, but can easily be fixed. Set the level you think is good for you. You can also use Nor malize function. Next if you do have different sound cards in your system you can choose which one can play it here. You can also enable proper renderer for video enabling you to use Subtitles At the end make sure you have enabled your player as the default player of your system here. 4. Credits I want to thank everybody who have created this wonderful program. Keep up the good work! (c) 2011 FASM

Free Essays on The Last Spin

We all judge too much by outward appearances. What most people don’t understand, is that no matter how different we all think we are, you can always find some type of common ground. In the story, The Last Spin by Evan Hunter, the characters, Tigo and Dave, didn’t realize that till it was too late. They were supposed to be enemies from different sides, but as the game progresses, they see that they aren’t that different after all and become friends. Those who are in a gang usually wear a certain color or something to let people know what they’re representing. I think that it’s almost like a death wish saying , "Look at me! I’m your enemy! Shoot me!" That was all too true in this story. "†¦ he wore a green silk jacket with an orange stripe on each sleeve. The jacket told Dave that Tigo was his enemy. The jacket shrieked. ‘Enemy, enemy!’ " This is exactly what I mean, he didn’t know anything about this guy and already he was his enemy. You could tell that nothing good would come of this. They didn’t like each other at all. Nothing good can come out of paying Russian roulette. It’s a stupid game. It usually starts off really serious and as time goes you could stike up a conversation with whomever your playing with and all of a sudden you don’t want to g through with it. " †¦ He put the gun to his head. ‘ Wait!’ Dave said. Tigo looked puzzled. ‘What’s the matter?’ " Dave didn’t want to lose this guy now. You could tell that he liked Tigo and he didn’t want him to die. They started talking and realized that they aren’t that different. Sometimes it’s easier to tell a complete stranger about your life but not be able to tell your closest friend what going on with you. All you have to do is to get comfortable just talking to that person and it all flows out naturally. " ‘Sometimes I think I’m chicken,’ he said to Tigo." You just don’t say that to someone in thug life. You could see ... Free Essays on The Last Spin Free Essays on The Last Spin We all judge too much by outward appearances. What most people don’t understand, is that no matter how different we all think we are, you can always find some type of common ground. In the story, The Last Spin by Evan Hunter, the characters, Tigo and Dave, didn’t realize that till it was too late. They were supposed to be enemies from different sides, but as the game progresses, they see that they aren’t that different after all and become friends. Those who are in a gang usually wear a certain color or something to let people know what they’re representing. I think that it’s almost like a death wish saying , "Look at me! I’m your enemy! Shoot me!" That was all too true in this story. "†¦ he wore a green silk jacket with an orange stripe on each sleeve. The jacket told Dave that Tigo was his enemy. The jacket shrieked. ‘Enemy, enemy!’ " This is exactly what I mean, he didn’t know anything about this guy and already he was his enemy. You could tell that nothing good would come of this. They didn’t like each other at all. Nothing good can come out of paying Russian roulette. It’s a stupid game. It usually starts off really serious and as time goes you could stike up a conversation with whomever your playing with and all of a sudden you don’t want to g through with it. " †¦ He put the gun to his head. ‘ Wait!’ Dave said. Tigo looked puzzled. ‘What’s the matter?’ " Dave didn’t want to lose this guy now. You could tell that he liked Tigo and he didn’t want him to die. They started talking and realized that they aren’t that different. Sometimes it’s easier to tell a complete stranger about your life but not be able to tell your closest friend what going on with you. All you have to do is to get comfortable just talking to that person and it all flows out naturally. " ‘Sometimes I think I’m chicken,’ he said to Tigo." You just don’t say that to someone in thug life. You could see ...

Shelly and Keats The Passing of Time Essay Example

Shelly and Keats The Passing of Time Essay Example Shelly and Keats The Passing of Time Essay Shelly and Keats The Passing of Time Essay Truth and Beauty of Passing Time Neglect, death, and immortality are powerful themes of not only Romantic poets, but poets throughout every age of history. Countless works of poetry dwell on the seemingly inconsequential passing of life, while still more endeavor to discover something so significant that it can entrench itself into the folds of history as truly immortal. Two Romantic poems that engage wonderfully with these themes are Percy Bysshe Shelleys Ozymandias and John Keats Ode on a Grecian Urn. Although they take opposite approachesshelley uses Ozymandias to express the mutability of ife, while Keats uses the Urn to show that art can be timelessboth poems revolve around an object struggling against the passing of time. Both Ozymandias and Ode on a Grecian urn exemplify the struggle with the passing of time, and although the two poems appear to have opposite approaches to the subject, each can be read with a second interpretation that shows the two are actually extremely similar. Ode on a Grecian Urn beautiful captures the frozen state of the characters painted on the urn. The speaker is entirely enamored by the beauty of the scene. He peaks to each scene as he moves from subject to subject, becoming ever increasingly overwhelmed by the serenity of the Urn, What leaf-fringd legend haunts about thy shape / of deities or mortals, or of both, What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? (Keats Lines 5-9). He focuses in on a single motionless piper, Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard / Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on (Keats 11-12), and then moves to a youth who is nearly about to kiss his love, Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, / Though winning near the goalyet, do not rieve; / She cannot fade (Keats 18-19). In both pictures the speaker dwells on the apparent immortality of the piper and girl, telling the youth not to grieve because his lover will never age. This line, and in fact the entire second stanza, ends with an exclamation mark, signifying the confidence of the statement not to grieve, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! (Keats 20). In addition to being one of only two exclamation marks used at the end of a sentencemeaning exclamations such as more happy love! are a different use of an exclamation markit is also the only time stanza ends with an exclamation. This likely signifies how the Youths frozen beauty stands as the most important symbol of the urn. A more cynical interpretation, however, says the Youth should grieve. To be frozen Just out of reach of a lovers kiss is actually quite tragic. The exclamation mark may be the extra emphasis needed to persuade the Youth not to grieve, masking the truth of his sorrowful position, or even more dramatically, hiding the truth that the urn on which he exists will certainly not last forever. This paradoxical understanding of the sad nature of the painted fgures, hen compared to the more standard view that the figures are frozen immortally in time, can be said about the Piper that comes before and the little town that follows. All three appear at first to be suspended in splendor, but it is equally possible to interpret their position as profoundly sad. The central tone of the poem first appears to be excited wonder. The dominant use of exclamations and questions shows this. Ten question marks are used, most of which appear in the first part of the poem exclamations within the poem are centered around the middle of the poem. This akes sense in the normal interpretation: the speaker is intrigued by the urn, asking many questions about it and gets more excited the more he sees. He then begins to understand the significance of the piece, finishing with a definite and absolute ending punctuation, a period, along with the grand conclusion, Beauty is truth, truth beauty,that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. (Keats 49-50). Upon closer reading, the second interpretation from before begins to reveal itself. Despite existing as immortal figures suspended in time, the paintings still live upon the urn. It is true that the figures have, and will continue, to outlive those that view it. The progression from this second perspective almost surpasses the progression from the normal reading. Again, the speaker has an acute fascination with the urn, expressed by the many question marks, but as he inquires about the pictures he begins to realize that the fgures on the urn should grieve the inability to ever progress through time. The abundant use of exclamations as the poem moves on is indicative of the speakers attempt to hide the truth he is realizing. The last lines of the poem also make sense when read this way. At the beginning of the 5th stanza, he says, When old age shall this generation waste, thou shalt remain (Keats 46), which tells of the urns longevity. However the last line, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, says two things simultaneously. First it expresses the truth that all things pass away, showing that even the urn cannot exist for all of eternity. Second, it is a recognition that the truth of the urn, that all things eventually cease to exist, is also the most beautiful element of the urn. The Grecian Urn shows the speaker that existing in a frozen state of bliss is in fact not wonderful. It shows him that the passing of time, and with it all things, is the truth and the beauty of life, it is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know (Keats 51). A poem that beautifully captures this explanation is Percy Shelleys Ozymandias. It is far shorter than Ode on a Grecian Urn, which mirrors the scarcity of existence within the poem. It is a short poem that speaks of a short life. Also, the poem is primarily quoted by the speaker, l met a traveler from an antique and / who said.. (Shelley Line 1), which further removes the poem from the concreteness of reality; it is entirely possible that the statue has never existed at all. The speaker, and the readers of the poem, are only heard about the statue as a secondary source. He did not actually see the statue, and obviously the readers have never seen it as well. To further emphasize the transient nature of the statue, there e xists an ellipsis in the center of the third line, Stand in the desart. Near them on the sand (Shelley 3). The ellipsis shows that the portrayal of the statue is only being partially told to the reader; there is more told to the speaker by the traveler that is simply left out. Like the statue itself, only pieces of the story remain. The central body of both have been lost, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies (Shelley 4). The poem centers around a great statue raised to commemorate the life of the long past Pharaoh Ozymandias, who not is but a shadow of the both the original statue but also of the Pharaoh and the kingdom of Egypt as it existed at the time the statue was erected. Unlike Ode on a Grecian Urn, Ozymandias has no uses of question marks. It is not an inquisitive poem, there is no sense of excited wonder as described before for the urn. Instead it is a poem of resigned realization, Nothing shows the subdued feeling of the poem. The poem ends with a resigned realization that, Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, / The lone and level sands stretch far away (Shelley 13-14). This is a line that explicitly shows the barren nature of the desert in which the remains of the statue lay, but it also comments on the boundless nd bare nature of life. Like the second reading of Ode on a Grecian Urn, this poem is content with the passing of time; death, decay, and neglect are understood as the prevailing power, along with truth, of life. No matter what is built, or written, or painted, time is a master of all elements of life, this is the truth explicitly stated in both poems. Yet, there is still some wonder to be found in the language of Ozymandias. In the same manner of the two possible readings of Ode on a Grecian Urn, there are two readings within Ozymandias. The first, as Just shown, is a omber tone of resigned realization, but it is possible to find moments of grandeur within the poem; it can be read in a similar way to the first reading of Ode on a Grecian Urn. Most immediately obvious is the fact that we, the readers, are being told this story of Ozymandias statue. There are many small and insignificant things in life, almost all of which are completely ignored. Rocks erode into sand, sun bleaches our clothes, and bad art is specifically avoided. Yet this poem takes the readers to a very specific monument. Clearly we were meant to focus on the boundless and bare element of the poem, Ozymandias would not even need to be included. A blank page of paper would do a far better Job expressing the boundless and bare truth about life. Instead the poem takes us to a statue, to a story, of a time before. We, the speaker and the reader, think of the wonder of the time that has passed. If the speaker did not, then he would not recount the story told to him by the traveler. Furthermore, despite the statue of Ozymandias existing as a broken and mangled form of what it used to be, it does still exist. It has survived through the ages, and like he Grecian urn, it will likely survive far past the life spans of those who have seen it. Even if the statute fully and thoroughly erodes away, the traveler has, through his stories, given the statue life. This life has the ability to surpass the destruction of matter, and can grow through the minds of those that hear it; this poem itself gives the statue life. There is something wistfully powerful about the story. It is a story that tells of death and erosion, but also a story the tells of greatness. The passing of life is accompanied by the brute stubbornness of humanity to exist past death. Ozymandias has successfully done that, as has Keats and Shelley. As long as humanity survives as a species the three of them will live on forever, along with the Grecian urn and the statue of Ozymandias. Both Ozymandias and Ode on a Grecian Urn contain a more in-depth, and partially opposite reading than the common first glance interpretation. Although the two first glance interpretations appear to be opposite one another, in actuality they are very similar poems that attempt to understand the truth and beauty of the relentless passing of time.