Once, when he had been making a synopsis of a paragraph at the blackboard, his English teacher had stepped to his side and attempted to guide his hand.
He lay still and closed his eyes and let the tide of things wash over him. Nor was he lonely later in the evening, in his loge at the Metropolitan. Paul on the other hand is not prepared to do the same. So, in the midst of that smoke-palled city, enamored of figures and grimy toil, Paul had his secret temple, his wishing carpet, his bit of blue-and-white Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine.
So why is Paul the way he is.
The thing was winding itself up; he had thought of that on his first glorious day in New York, and had even provided a way to snap the thread. There had always been the shadowed corner, the dark place into which he dared not look, but from which something seemed always to be watching him—and Paul had done things that were not pretty to watch, he knew.
Presently he came out of his white bath-room, resplendent in his new silk underwear, and playing with the tassels of his red robe. It lay on his dressing-table now; he had got it out last night when he came blindly up from dinner, but the shiny metal hurt his eyes, and he disliked the looks of the thing.
He needed only the spark, the indescribable thrill that made his imagination master of his senses, and he could make plots and pictures enough of his own.
How astonishingly easy it had all been; here he was, the thing done, and this time there would be no awakening, no figure at the top of the stairs. He went slowly about the corridors, through the writing-rooms, smoking-rooms, reception-rooms, as though he were exploring the chambers of an enchanted palace, built and peopled for him alone.
Paul had often hung about the hotel, watching the people go in and out, longing to enter and leave school-masters and dull care behind him forever. Not once, but a hundred times, Paul had planned this entry into New York.
His clothes were a trifle outgrown, and the tan velvet on the collar of his open overcoat was frayed and worn; but for all that there was something of the dandy about him, and he wore an opal pin in his neatly knotted black four-in-hand, and a red carnation in his buttonhole.
The boy is not strong, for one thing. But the little, clay-bespattered Italians were still sleeping, the slatternly women across the aisle were in open-mouthed oblivion, and even the crumby, crying babies were for the nonce stilled.
When the flowers came, he put them hastily into water, and then tumbled into a hot bath. Paul grinned and said he guessed so. He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the music and the chill sweetness of his wine, that he might have done it more wisely.
When the symphony began Paul sank into one of the rear seats with a long sigh of relief, and lost himself as he had done before the Rico. Willa Cather and the Politics of Criticism. He doubted, more than ever, the existence of Cordelia Street, and for the first time he drank his wine recklessly.
He felt no necessity to do any of these things; what he wanted was to see, to be in the atmosphere, float on the wave of it, to be carried out, blue league after blue league, away from everything.
Paul stopped short before the door. He rather thought he had. After supper was over, and he had helped to dry the dishes, Paul nervously asked his father whether he could go to George's to get some help in his geometry, and still more nervously asked for car fare.
He enjoys nights on the town. A quick gust of wind brought the rain down with sudden vehemence, and Paul was startled to find that he was still outside in the slush of the gravel driveway; that his boots were letting in the water and his scanty overcoat was clinging wet about him; that the lights in front of the concert hall were out and that the rain was driving in sheets between him and the orange glow of the windows above him.
His teachers felt, this afternoon, that his whole attitude was symbolized by his shrug and his flippantly red carnation flower, and they fell upon him without mercy.
Disorder and impertinence were among the offences named, yet each of his instructors felt that it was scarcely possible to put into words the real cause of the trouble, which lay in a sort of hysterically defiant manner of the boy's; in the contempt which they all knew he felt for them, and which he seemingly made not the least effort to conceal.
If anything Paul is living a lie which in many ways mirrors all he has seen from the professional actors at the theatre. The reality being that the freedom that Paul wishes to achieve is in practical terms not possible.
There was a story that, some five years ago—he was now barely twenty-six—he had been a trifle dissipated, but in order to curb his appetites and save the loss of time and strength that a sowing of wild oats might have entailed, he had taken his chief's advice, oft reiterated to his employees, and at twenty-one, had married the first woman whom he could persuade to share his fortunes.
Here he began pacing rapidly up and down the walk, waiting to see her come out. The moment the cracked orchestra beat out the overture from "Martha", or jerked at the serenade from "Rigoletto," all stupid and ugly things slid from him, and his senses were deliciously, yet delicately fired.
Unlike his father who is prepared to put in the work to make advances in life slow as they may seem. The drawing master defends Paul to the other teachers, positing that he is disturbed rather than simply rude.
A quick gust of wind brought the rain down with sudden vehemence, and Paul was startled to find that he was still outside in the slush of the gravel driveway; that his boots were letting in the water, and his scanty overcoat was clinging wet about him; that the lights in front of the concert hall were out, and that the rain was driving in sheets between him and the orange glow of the windows above him.
Paul took one of the blossoms carefully from his coat and scooped a little hole in the snow, where he covered it up. Only here and there the dead grass or dried weed stalks projected, singularly black, above it.
All the actors and singers of the better class stayed there when they were in the city, and a number of the big manufacturers of the place lived there in the winter. The Park itself was a wonderful stage winter-piece.
Paul’s Case by Willa Cather 7 Jan Dermot Random Stories Cite Post In Paul’s Case by Willa Cather we have the theme of hostility, respect, freedom, escape, corruption, determination and commitment. usually attributed to insolence or "smartness." As the inquisition proceeded, one of his instructors repeated an impertinent remark of the boy's, and the principal asked him whether he thought that a courteous speech to have made a woman.
Paul was tall for his age and very thin, with high, cramped shoulders and a narrow chest. His eyes were remarkable for a certain hysterical brilliancy, and he continually used them in a conscious, theatrical sort of way, peculiarly offensive in a boy. “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament” is a short story by Willa Cather, first published in McClure’s Magazine in That year, it also appeared in a collection of Cather’s stories, The Troll thesanfranista.com analysis of “Paul’s Case” is by Sarah Wyman, Associate Professor of English at SUNY-New Paltz.
Analysis of Paul’s Case by Willa Cather Essay examples - According to many readers of Paul’s Case, this is a short story that shows affection.
Paul's Case study guide contains a biography of Willa Cather, literature essays, quiz questions, major themes, characters, and a full summary and analysis. About Paul's Case Paul's Case Summary.Analysis of pauls case by willa cather