Listening by eudora welty answers

One of the most honored and respected writ-

ers of the twentieth century, Eudora Welty
was born in 1909 in Jackson, Mississippi,
where she lived most of her life and where she
died in 2001. Her first book, A Curtain of
Green (1941), is a collection of short stories.
Although she went on to become a successful
writer of novels, essays, and book reviews,
among other genres (as well as a published
photographer), she is most often remembered as a master of the short story. In 1980, Welty was awarded the prestigious Presidential Medal of Freedom. The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty was published in 1982. Her other best-known works in- clude a collection of essays, The Eye of the Story (1975); her auto- biography, One Writer’s Beginnings (1984); and a collection of book reviews and essays, The Writer’s Eye (1994). Welty’s novel The Optimist’s Daughter won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1973, and in 1999 the Library of Congress published two collec- tions of her work: Welty: Collected Novels and Welty: Collected Essays and Memoirs.

Welty’s description of the corner store, taken from an essay in The Eye of the Story about growing up in Jackson, recalls for many readers the neighborhood store in the town or city where they grew up. As you read, pay attention to the effect Welty’s spatial arrangement of descriptive details has on the dominant impression of the store.

our Little Store rose right up from the sidewalk; standing in a street 1 of family houses, it alone hadn’t any yard in front, any tree or flower bed. It was a plain frame building covered over with brick. Above

the door, a little railed porch ran across on an upstairs level and four windows with shades were looking out. But I didn’t catch on to those.

Running in out of the sun, you met what seemed total obscurity 2 inside. There were almost tangible smells—licorice recently sucked in a child’s cheek, dill pickle brine1 that had leaked through a paper sack in
a fresh trail across the wooden floor, ammonia-loaded ice that had been hoisted from wet croker sacks2 and slammed into the icebox3 with its sweet butter at the door, and perhaps the smell of still untrapped mice.