Boo Radley is essential to the book "To Kill a Mockingbird" because he is a catalyst for many other things to happen through out the book. For example he allows the reader to see what the mentality of some of the people in Maycomb. For example Miss. Stephanie Crawford‚ who demonises Boo as a monster and also a large proportion of the community who‚ for example‚ will not eat the nuts produced by the tree on the Radley’s property as they will be poisoned. "Miss. Stephanie Crawford said she woke up
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the idea that you can’t understand someone because you can’t always see through their point of view. In To Kill a Mockingbird‚ Jem talks about Boo Radley‚ stating‚ “There was a long jagged scar that ran across his face; what teeth he had were yellow and rotten; his eyes popped‚ and he drooled most of the time” (Lee 16). Scout and Jem judge who Boo Radley based off of rumors. They never really get to understand who he is as a person. People perceive things differently and view situations
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In the novel To Kill a Mockingbird the character “Boo” Radley is portrayed as an evil and creepy specter of a person who prowls the neighborhood at dusk as if to remain invisible to the outside world around him who would otherwise judge and reticule him. He is thought to be all of these horrible accusations as well as others such as dangerous and prone to violence when in reality he is a mockingbird‚ a symbol of good and innocence . It is not until the end of the novel that Boo’s true character
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RAFTS Writing Prompts (Draft 1) No. 2 Boo Radley 12/1/07 I am rarely allowed to go out of my house. I can only go out when the neighbors are in their houses. I can never do anything fun because that is a sin. During the day‚ I peel the paint off my walls to see if there are any holes in the walls. If I do find a hole‚ I dig deeper and deeper until I cannot go on anymore. Then I just leave it. Sometimes‚ I find mice in the holes. When I find them‚ I keep them for a while and then I eat them alive
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My name is Arthur Radley‚ Boo is my nickname. I live with my brother in our parent’s house. I’m shy so stay indoors away from people. I see everything from my window. Next door is a widowed lawyer‚ Atticus Finch‚ and his two children‚ Jem and Scout. They are fairly well off and have a black maid‚ Calpurnia. This particular summer was more interesting than most. The kids made friends with a new boy‚ Dill. They acted out stories together. Dill spends time staring at my house like he is afraid of it
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him from Bob Ewell 15 years ago and I think it’s about time he finds out. It was a warm‚ sunny day when I arrived‚ it was almost like the trees were waving to me. I was early and Jem was always just on time‚ so I waited looking at the Radleys house wondering if Boo is still inside. Jem finally arrived and I smiled saying “ It’s about time you got here‚ time is money”. “I am just on time‚ it’s noon like we said” winked Jem. “You know you never told me why I am here” questioned Jem. He looked at the
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requirements for her class. “Monologues will be due Monday morning.” I heard Ms. White say. My nerves could not catch a break. After class‚ I went home and wrote my monologue. I did not want to present my monologue to the class. I was shy and knew no one in my class. I told myself repeatedly that I could do it. Monday morning was here before I knew it. The feeling of dread filled me‚ and I wanted to back out‚ receive my zero with pride. When I arrived at school‚ my monologue clutched firmly in my hand
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Boo Radley‚ what are you doing?” I said. “ Scout‚ mind if you come with me?” said Mr. Radley. “No‚ I hardly even know you‚” I shouted. “ Please trust me‚ I want us to become friends‚” said Mr. Radley. I looked at him with insanity‚ what interest could this man find in me? “ I’ll need my Dad and Brother’s approval of this‚” I said. “ You’ll be fine‚ I’ll make sure nothing goes the wrong way‚” said Mr. Radley. I thought I could trust him‚ although my instincts were telling me
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saluting enthusiastically to their red-robed leaders under the yellow star; the boat crammed with coughing throats and calloused hands; blood washed away by the rains. She talked about things I had only ever heard about from the kind of tragic monologues that hot-shot actors won Oscars for and only shed real tears for at the podium. But unlike the performers’ melodramatic shouts of magniloquent misdirected emotion and the onion tears I associated with this kind of language‚ she seemed perfectly
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“Toadstools‚ and butterscotch!? What a horrid combination! Why on earth would anyone wish to consume that together?” I flung down the folded (crumpled) letter. The first letter I received from my dearest friend Leonora in months‚ and she talked about how she and her mentor made a new potion with toadstool and butterscotch. Disgusting. “What are ye huffin’ about now‚ child?” My short‚ round mentor shuffled past me with her arms full of some large birds that twitched unnaturally. She was the kind
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