21st Century Quarter 2
21st Century Quarter 2
21st Century Quarter 2
11/12
21st Century Literature from the
Philippines and the World
QUARTER 2
WEEK 1
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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CapSLET
Capsulized Self-Learning Empowerment Toolkit
21st
Century
Literature
from the
SUBJECT & ___________________________________
World
Grade 11/12
st
TOPIC Features of 21 Century World Literature
Explain the texts in terms of literary elements, genres, and
traditions.
Objectives:
LEARNING Code:
∗ distinguish 21st Century literature through
COMPETENC
Y EN12Lit-llb-32
identifiable themes and/or features; and
∗ infer technoculture from the excerpt of a literary text.
UNDERSTAND
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Features of 21 Century World Literature
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World literature in the 21 Century (published from 2001 until present) may be distinguished
through the following themes and techniques:
Irony, playfulness and black humor are used to treat serious subjects, topics and themes in a
playful and humorous way.
Intertextuality is the relationship between one text and another or one text within literary
history and can be a reference to another literary work, an extended discussion of a work, or
the adoption of a style.
Metafiction is about a character who is writing another literary piece –usually done for
emotional distance and to comment on the act of storytelling. There are two types of
metafiction. Fabulation challenges the normal structure of a literary piece. Historiographic
metafiction concerns about works that fictionalize real historical events.
Temporal distortion is when the time setting of a story may overlap, repeat, or break into
multiple possibilities.
Magic realism uses themes and subjects that are often imaginary and fantastic and with a
certain dream-like quality but are treated as real and factual.
Technoculture and hyperreality refer to how people have become flooded with information,
and how technology has become central focus in many lives so much that the understanding of
real or true is doubted.
Paranoia is the fear that every chaos happening in the world is intentional or caused.
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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SAQ-1: How unique are literary works considered as 21st Century literature?
SAQ-2: How does literature reflect the 21st Century life we are living at the moment?
Published in 2013, The Circle tells the story of Mae Holland who is hired to work for the
Circle, the world’s most powerful internet company that links users’ personal emails, social media,
banking, and purchasing with their universal operating system, resulting in one online identity and a
new age of civility and transparency. In the excerpt below, one of the CEOs of the Circle introduces a
new device called SeeChange.
At the end of every Circle workweek was Dream Friday, when Circlers gathered and were
inspired — by products in development or a milestone the company had reached. This Friday,
Annie told Mae, would be particularly significant, and they went to the Great Hall together. It was
in the Enlightenment, and when they entered the venue, a 3,500-seat cavern appointed in warm
woods and brushed steel, it was loud with anticipation. Mae and Annie found one of the last pairs
of seats in the second balcony and sat down.
“Just finished this a few months ago,” Annie said. “Forty-five million dollars. Bailey
modeled the stripes off the Duomo in Siena. Nice, right? Oh, here he comes.”
Mae’s attention was pulled to the stage, where a man was walking to a Lucite podium, amid
a roar of applause. Eamon Bailey, one of the company’s three C.E.O.’s, the most social and
personable of the Three Wise Men, was a tall man of about 45, round in the gut but not unhealthy,
wearing jeans and blue V-neck sweater. There was no discernible microphone, but when he began
speaking, his voice was amplified and clear.
“Hello, everyone. My name is Eamon Bailey,” he said, to another round of applause that he
quickly discouraged. “Thank you. I’m so glad to see you all here. I know you’re used to hearing
from one of our engineers or developers, but today, for better or for worse, it’s just me. For that I
apologize in advance. But what I have to show you today, something we’re calling SeeChange, I
think it’ll knock your socks off.”
A screen descended behind him, and on it appeared a rugged coastline in perfect resolution.
“O.K., this is live video of Stinson Beach. This is the surf right at this moment. Looks pretty good,
right?”
Annie leaned into Mae. “The next part’s incredible. Just wait.”
“Now, many of you still aren’t so impressed. As we all know, many machines can deliver
high-res streaming video, and many of your tablets and phones can already support them. But there
are a couple new aspects to all this. The first part is how we’re getting this image. Would it surprise
you to know that this crystal-clear image isn’t coming from a big camera, but actually just one of
these?”
He was holding a small device in his hand, the shape and size of a lollipop.
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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“This is a video camera, and this is the precise model that’s getting this incredible image
quality. Image quality that holds up to this kind of magnification. So that’s the first great thing. We
can now get high-def-quality resolution in a camera the size of a thumb. Well, a very big thumb.
The second great thing is that, as you can see, this camera needs no wires. It’s transmitting this
image via satellite.”
“Wait. Did I say it runs on a lithium battery that lasts two years? No? Well it does. And
we’re a year away from an entirely solar-powered model, too. And it’s waterproof, sandproof,
windproof, animalproof, insectproof, everything-proof.”
“O.K., so, many of you are thinking, Well, this is just like closed-circuit TV crossed with
streaming technology, satellites, all that. Fine. But as you know, to do this with extant technology
would have been prohibitively expensive for the average person. But what if all this was accessible
and affordable to anyone? My friends, we’re looking at retailing these — in just a few months,
mind you — at $59 each.”
Bailey held the lollipop camera out and threw it to someone in the front row. The woman
who caught it held it aloft, turning to the audience and smiling gleefully.
“You can buy 10 of them for Christmas, and suddenly you have constant access to
everywhere you want to be — home, work, traffic conditions. And anyone can install them. It takes
five minutes tops. Think of the implications!”
The screen behind him cleared, the beach disappearing, and a new grid appeared.
“Here’s the view from my backyard,” he said, revealing a live feed of a tidy and modest
backyard. “Here’s my front yard. My garage. Here’s one on a hill overlooking Highway 101 where
it gets bad during rush hour.”
And soon the screen had 16 discrete images on it, all of them transmitting live feeds.
“Now, these are just my cameras. I access them all by simply typing in Camera 1, 2, 3, 12,
whatever. Easy. But what about sharing? That is, what if my buddy has some cameras posted and
wants to give me access?”
And now the screen’s grid multiplied, from 16 boxes to 32. “Here’s my pal Lionel
Fitzpatrick’s screens. He’s into skiing, so he’s got cameras positioned so he can tell the conditions
at 12 locations all over Tahoe.”
Now there were 12 live images of white-topped mountains, ice blue valleys, ridges topped
with deep green conifers.
“Lionel can give me access to any of the cameras he wants. It’s just like friending someone,
but now with access to all their live feeds. Forget cable. Forget 500 channels. If you have 1,000
friends, and they have 10 cameras each, you now have 10,000 options for live footage. If you have
5,000 friends, you have 50,000 options. And soon you’ll be able to connect to millions of cameras
around the world. Again, imagine the implications!”
The screen atomized into a thousand mini-screens. Beaches, mountains, lakes, cities,
offices, living rooms.
The crowd applauded wildly. “But for now, let’s go back to the places in the world where
we most need transparency and so rarely have it. This is what the name SeeChange is all about —
not oceans and ski resorts. It’s about affecting change through our ability to see and hold the world
accountable, right? Let’s see our cameras in Tiananmen Square.”
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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Fifty live shots from all over the square filled the screen, and the crowd erupted again.
“Imagine the difference these would have made when it mattered!” Bailey roared. Now he cleared
the screen again and stepped toward the audience. “Well, from now on, we’ll be everywhere it
matters. Let’s see the cameras in Damascus. Khartoum. Pyongyang.” He went on, the screen filling
with live views from every authoritarian regime — and everywhere the cameras were so small they
went undetected.
“You know what I say, right? In situations like this, I agree with The Hague, with human
rights activists the world over. There needs to be accountability. Tyrants can no longer hide. There
needs to be, and will be, access and documentation, and we need to bear witness. And to this end, I
insist that all that happens must be known.”
“Folks, we’re at the dawn of the Second Enlightenment. I’m talking about an era where we
don’t allow the majority of human thought and action and achievement and learning to escape as if
from a leaky bucket. We did that once before. It was called the Middle Ages, the Dark Ages. If not
for the monks, everything the world had ever learned would have been lost. Well, we live in a
similar time, when we’re losing the vast majority of what we do and see and learn. But it doesn’t
have to be that way. Not with these cameras, and not with the mission of the Circle.”
He turned again toward the screen and read it, inviting the audience to commit it to memory:
“All that happens must be known.”
Mae rested her head on Annie’s shoulder. “All that happens will be known,” she whispered.
The audience was standing now, and applause thundered through the room.
Directions: Based on your interaction and/or exposure to social media or the internet in general,
explain what for you is the meaning of the phrase “All that happens must be known.” Write your
response on a separate sheet.
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REMEMBER
Key Points
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Many literary works of the 21 Century deal with events, and themes of the past to grasp an
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understanding of the current times. Themes of 21 Century world literature include
technoculture, hyperreality and paranoia.
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Literary works produced in the 21 Century have so far included any of the following
techniques: irony, playfulness and black humor; intertextuality, metafiction (either fabulation or
historiographic metafiction), temporal distortion and magic realism.
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Because of technology, access to literary works in the 21 Century has been easier compared
before, reaching a wider audience from across the world.
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TOPIC Anthology of 21 Century World Literature: Africa
Identify representative texts and authors from Asia, North
America, Europe, Latin America, and Africa.
Objectives:
LEARNING Code: ∗ Identify the predominant themes of 21st Century
COMPETENCY EN12Lit-IIa-22 African literature; and
∗ deduct from a literary text themes of 21st Century
African literature.
UNDERSTAND
Anthology of 21st Century World Literature: Africa
Contemporary African literature has produced many writers of renown including its Nobel
Prize-winners for Literature: John Maxwell Coetzee (South Africa, 2003), Nadine Gordimer (South
Africa, 1991), Naguib Mahfouz (Egypt, 1988), Wole Soyinka (Nigeria, 1986), Claude Simon
(Madagascar, 1985), and Albert Camus (Algeria, 1957).
Most African literature is a reflection of social change –cultural and political influences
coupled by awareness of a national identity and modern problems. These literary pieces often feature
any of the following themes: colonialism (the effects of European colonization to African societies),
liberation (the war and conflict for independence), nationalism (the struggle between Communism
and democracy, and the rise of dictatorships), tradition (precolonial African fables, legends and
myths), displacement (the experiences of refugees or those who have to leave Africa because of war
or conflict) and rootlessness (the narratives of Africans who grow up in a foreign country and their
feelings of being foreign to both their adoptive country and their African heritage).
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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Published in 2006, Ancestor Stones tells the story of a young woman from West Africa
named Abie, who has lived in England. She returns to visit her family after years of civil war. Her
four aunts have decided to leave her the family coffee plantation. On this trip home, she comes to
know the lives of her aunts Mary, Hawa, Asana, and Serah.
It began with a letter, as stories sometimes do. A letter that arrived one day three winters
ago, bearing a stamp with a black and white kingfisher, the damp chill of the outside air, and the
postmark of a place from which no letter had arrived for a decade or more. A country that seemed
to have disappeared, returned to an earlier time, like the great unfilled spaces on old maps here
once map makers drew illustrations of mythical beasts and untold riches. But of course the truth is
this story began centuries ago, when horsemen descended to the plains from a lost kingdom called
Futa Djallon, long before Europe’s map makers turned their minds to the niggling problem of how
to fill those blank spaces.
A story comes to mind. A story I have known for years, it seems, though I have no memory
now of who is was who told it to me.
Five hundred years ago, a caravel flying the colours of the King of Portugal rounded the
curve of the continent. She had become becalmed somewhere around the Cape Verde Islands, and
run low on stocks, food and water. When finally the winds took pity on her, they blew her south-
east towards the coast, where the captain sighted a series of natural harbours and weighed anchor.
The sailors, stooped with hunger, curly haired from scurvy, rowed ashore, dragged themselves
through shallow water and on up the sand where they entered the shade of the trees. And there they
stood and gazed about themselves in disbelief. Imagine! Dangling in front of their faces: succulent
mangoes, bursts of starfruit, avocados the size of a man's head. While from the ends of their elegant
stalks pineapples nodded encouragingly, sweet potatoes and yams peeped from the earth, and great
hands of bananas reached down to them. The sailors thought they had found no less a place than the
Garden of Eden.
And for a time that’s what Europeans thought Africa was. Paradise.
The last time I thought about that story was a week after the letter came. By then I had left
London—the city I now call home—to retrace the letter's route to the place from where it had come
and beyond. I was standing in a forest just like the one the sailors had stumbled into. And I
remembered how in the early morning I used to watch my grandmothers, my grandfather’s wives,
leave their houses and make their way, down the same path upon which I was standing, towards
their gardens. One by one each woman parted from her companions and went to her own plot,
whose boundaries were marked by an abandoned termite hill, a fallen tree, and upright boulder.
There, among the giant irokos, the sapeles and the silk-cotton trees of the forest, she tended the
guavas, pawpaws and roseapples she had planted there. Then she weeded her yams and cassava
where they grew in the soft, dark earth and watered the pineapple plant that marked the centre of
her plot.
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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I thought of the sailors’ story. And for a long time, I thought it was just that. A story. About
how Europeans discovered us and we stopped being a blank space on a map. But months later, after
the letter arrived and I traced its arc and came to land with a soft thud in an enchanted forest, and
after I had listened to all the stories contained in this book and written them down for you, that one
story came back to me. And I realised the story was really about something else. It was about
different ways of seeing. The sailors were blind to the signs, incapable of seeing the pattern or
logic, just because it was different to their own. And the African way of seeing: arcane, invisible
yet visible, apparent to those who belong.
The sailors saw what they took to be nature’s abundance and stole from the women’s
gardens. They thought they had found Eden, and perhaps they had. But it was an Eden created not
by the hand of God, but the hands of women.
The letter that brought me back to Africa came from my cousin Alpha. I didn’t recognise
his hand on the envelope: he had never written to me before. Alpha had once been a teacher, but in
those changed days he made his living composing letters for other people. People who took their
place opposite him one by one, clutching a scrap of paper bearing the address of an overseas
relative or else the business card of some European traveller, unwittingly exchanged in a moment
of good humour for a lifetime of another person’s hopes. Alpha conveyed greetings, prayed for the
recipient’s health, invoked the memory of the dead, and wrote hereby merely to inform them of the
sender’s situation, the dislocations and hardships of the war. Sought their help in solving their
many difficulties. By God’s grace. Thanking them in advance.
And then he swivelled the letter around to face his customer, for their perusal and signature.
They nodded, feigning comprehension. And signed with a knitted brow and a wobbling hand the
letters of their name learned by heart. Or else they pushed a thumb on to the opened ink pad, and
left a purple thumbprint like a flower on the bottom of the page.
My own letter was written on a single side of paper taken from a school exercise book. No
crossing out, no misspellings—suggesting it had been drafted beforehand and carefully copied out.
Alpha’s signature was at the bottom of the page. Alpha Kholifa, plainly executed without
flourishes, a simply statement. He used our grandfather’s name, the same as mine, so there could be
no mistake. The other thing I noticed, only after I had read the letter through, was the absence of a
post-office box address. Knowingly, he had denied me the opportunity to write back with ready
excuses, to enclose a cheque bloated with guilty zeros.
The letter contained not a single request or plea. The sum of it was held within two short
sentences.
O yi di. In our language: it is there. Alpha had written to me in English, but the words, the
sensibility, was African. In our country a person might enquire of another after the health of a third.
And the respondent, wishing to convey that the individual was less than well, requiring the help of
God or man, might reply: ‘O yi di.’ He is there. She is there. The coffee plantation at Rofathane is
yours. It is there.
The letter finished in the conventional manner. Alpha enquired after my husband, whom he
had met once, the last time I went back. We had taken the children, to be seen and admired by
family and friends, though they—the children, that is—were too small then to have any memory of
the visit. I remember my aunts called my husband the Portuguese One, the potho, which had
become my people’s word for any European. After those sailors who landed and kept coming back.
Named the country. Set up trading posts. Bred bronze-coloured Pedros and Marias. And
disappeared leaving scattered words as remnants of their stay. Oporto. Porto. Potho. The tip of the
tongue pushed against the back of the teeth, a soft sound. Over the years the word had moulded
itself to the shape of an African mouth. It did not matter to them—my aunts—that my husband was,
in fact, a Scot.
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
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The morning after the letter arrived I woke to a feeling, which I mistook at first for the chill
that follows the end of a warm dream. A sense of apprehension, of an undertaking ahead. Every
year for years I had told my Aunt Serah I was coming home. But every year Aunt Serah told me to
wait. ‘Come at Christmas. When things have settled down.’ I knew I had left it long enough. A
spectator, I had watched on my television screen images of my country bloodied and bruised. The
burned out façade of the department store where we bought mango ice cream on Saturdays.
Corpses rolling in the surf of the beach where we picnicked on Sundays, where I rolled for hours in
those very waves. A father with his two sons dodging sniper bullets on a street I travelled every
Monday morning on my way to school. Peace had been declared and yet the war was far from over.
It was like witnessing, from a distance, somebody you know being set upon by thieves in the street.
And afterwards, seeing them stagger, still punch drunk, hands outstretched as they fumble for their
scattered possessions. Or else, shocked into stillness, gazing around themselves as if in wonder,
searching for comfort in the faces of strangers.
And so there I was, standing in the forest among the women’s gardens, remembering my
grandmothers. Beyond the trees their daughters were waiting for me. Four aunts. Asana, daughter
of Ya Namina, my grandfather’s senior wife: a magnificent hauteur flowed like river water from
the mother’s veins through the daughter’s. Gentle Mary, from whom foolish children ran in fright,
but who braided my hair, cared for me like I was her own and talked of the sea and the stars. Hawa,
whose face wore the same expression I remembered from my childhood—of disappointment
already foretold. Not even a smile to greet me. Enough of her. And Serah, belly sister of my father,
who spoke to me in a way no other adult ever had—as though I might one day become her equal.
They were the ones whose presence filled the background to my childhood. Not my only
aunts, by any means, rather my husbandless aunts. Asana, widow. Mary, spinster. Serah, divorcee.
The fate of Hawa’s husband had never been quite clear, it remained something of a mystery. I had
heard some of their stories before, though I didn’t remember who had told me or when. As a child I
had spent my evenings at home doing schoolwork, or trying to get a picture on the black and white
TV, as a teenager I’d lain in my room fiddling with my yellow transistor radio, waiting for my
favourite tunes. Without men of their own to occupy them these four aunts had always been
frequent visitors to my father’s house until he left to take up a series of appointments overseas and I
followed in his slipstream to university.
Coming back, I thought about my aunts and all the things that had never been spoken. And I
saw them for what they were, the mirror image of the things that go unsaid: all the things that go
unasked.
The stories gathered here belong to them, though now they belong to me too, given to me to
do with as I wish. Just as they gave me their father’s coffee plantation. Stories that started in one
place and ended in another. Worn smooth and polished as pebbles from countless retellings. So that
afterwards I thought maybe they had been planning it, waiting to tell me for a long time.
That day I walked away from the waiting women, into the trees and towards the water: the
same river that further on curled around the houses, so the village lay within its embrace like a
woman in the crook of her lover’s arm. Either side of the path the shadows huddled. Sharp grasses
reached out to scratch my bare ankles. A caterpillar descended on an invisible filament to twirl in
front of my face, as if surveying me from every angle before hoisting itself upwards through the air.
A sucker smeared my face with something sticky and unknown. I paused to wipe my cheek in front
of a tall tree with waxy, elliptical leaves. Along the branches hung sleeping bats, like hundreds of
swaddled babies. As I watched, a single bat shifted, unfurled a wing and enfolded its body ever
more tightly. For a moment a single eye gleamed at me from within the darkness. Here and there
scarlet berries danced against the green. I reached through the cobwebs, careful of the stinging tree-
ants, and plucked a pair. I pressed a fingernail into the flesh of a berry and held it to my nose.
Coffee. The lost groves. All this had once been great avenues of trees.
Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School
9
And for a moment I found myself in a place that was neither the past nor the present, neither
real nor unreal. Rothoron, my aunts called it. Probably you have been there yourself, whoever you
are and wherever in the world you are reading this. Rothoron, the gossamer bridge suspended
between sleep and wakefulness.
In that place, for a moment, I heard them. I believe I did. A child’s laugh, teasing and
triumphant, crowning some moment of glory over a friend. The sound of feet, of bare soles, flat
African feet pat-patting the earth. A humming—of women singing as they worked. But then again,
perhaps it was just the call of a crane flying overhead, the flapping of wings and the drone of the
insects in the forest. I stood still, straining for the sound of their voices, but the layers of years in
between us were too many.
I passed through the ruined groves of the coffee plantation that by then was mine. Not in
law, not by rights. Customary law would probably deem it to belong to Alpha, Asana’s son. But it
was mine if I wished, simply because I was the last person with the power to do anything with it.
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Directions: Identify which of the themes of 21 Century African literature are the following lines
from the excerpt of Ancestor Stones exemplifying. Copy this table on a separate sheet and fill it out.
THEME LINES
1. A country that seemed to have disappeared, returned to an earlier time,
like the great unfilled spaces on old maps here once map makers drew
illustrations of mythical beasts and untold riches.
2. And for a time that’s what Europeans thought Africa was. Paradise.
3. About how Europeans discovered us and we stopped being a blank
space on a map.
4. In our country a person might enquire of another after the health of a
third. And the respondent, wishing to convey that the individual was
less than well, requiring the help of God or man, might reply: ‘O yi di.’
5. A spectator, I had watched on my television screen images of my
country bloodied and bruised.
REMEMBER
Key Points
All of Africa is considered as Third World because of the many European countries that held
colonies in the continent. The long period of colonization has greatly influenced the way
Africans identify themselves and this is particularly evident in postcolonial African literature.
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The following are the common themes in Contemporary and 21 Century African literature:
colonialism, liberation, nationalism (asserting an identity that is uniquely African and anti-
colonial), tradition (use of cultural and traditional African beliefs), displacement (the
experiences of African refugees) and rootlessness (Africans who have conflicting identities
because of their being born and raised in a foreign country far from their African heritage).
For further readings:
BOOKS
Source: Bienvenido L. Lumbera, Philippine Literature: A History and Anthology, ed.
Cynthia N. Lumbera Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing, 2005, 1-458
WEBSITES
Source: “'Ancestor Stones:' Life and War in Sierra Leone,” Renee Montagne, July 2, 2007,
accessed August 11, 2020, https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php
Source: “Aminatta Forna,” British Council, n.d., accessed August 11, 2020,
https://literature.britishcouncil.org/writer/aminatta-forna#:~:text=%C2%A9
Source: “Dave Eggers,” Melisa Albert, July 30, 2020, accessed August 10,
2020, REFERENCE/S https://www.britannica.com/biography/Dave-Eggers
Source: “Themes in African Literature,” Aneeta Joseph, n.d., accessed August 11, 2020,
https://www.academia.edu/10296390/THEMES_IN_AFRICAN_LITERATURE
Source: “We Like You So Much and Want to Know You Better,” Dave Eggers, September 29,
2013, accessed August 10, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/29/magazine/dave-
PHOTOGRAPHS
Source: Deborah Treisman, Dave Eggers, photograph, December 02, 2018, accessed
August 10, 2020, https://www.wnyc.org/story/dave-eggers-reads-sam-
Source: Jonathan Ring, Aminatta Forna, photograph, n.d., accessed August 11,
2020, https://literature.britishcouncil.org/writer/aminatta-forna#:~:text=%C2%A9
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Written by: JOHN PHILIP M. EIJANSANTOS (SST-II) DPLMHS Stand-Alone Senior High School