How Module C works:

- This Module will be the last section of Paper II, considering it is new, it will challenge
your ability to write and apply literical features from prescribed texts to your own
pieces of writings. In order to meet the standards for this section, you will need to
know the features of every text you have dealt with in all modules as questions in
Mod C may ask you to put yourself in perspective of characters from texts in other
modules and continue a story with reference to a stimulus. If you decide to use
Christopher Boone in a question talking about perspective, you will need to know
how he writes and reciprocate that exact same style to meet the standards. NOTE:
Questions may ask you to refer to a module you have studied (Common Mod, A, B,
or C) or it may ask to only refer to Mod C or none at all, so read the question
carefully! Text types we will need to know and apply in our writing as questions may
ask us to are; Discursive, Imaginative, Persuasive, and reflective. Ensure you pick
the one you a strong suited to.

Dear Miss Dunkley Analysis

In 1952, when I was nine and my name was Helen Ford, I came from Ocean Grove
State School, where the teachers were kindly country people, to a private girls' school in
Geelong. I was put into your grade five class.

You were very thin, with short black hair and hands that trembled. You wore heels, a
black calf-length skirt and a black jacket with a nipped-in waist.

We had Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopedia at home, and I thought I was pretty good
at general knowledge.

"In what year was the Great Plague of London?" Up flew my hand. "1665."

You stared at me. "I beg your pardon?" You mimicked my flat, nasal, state-school
accent. You corrected it. You humiliated me.

I became such a blusher that other kids would call out, "Hey, Fordie! What colour's red?"

I was weak at arithmetic. On such weakness you had no mercy.

"Stand up, you great mooncalf." You made us queue at your table to show you our
hopelessly scratched out and blotted exercise books. Close up, you emitted a faint and
terrifying odour: a medicinal sort of perfume. On your lapel twinkled a sinister marcasite
brooch.

Every morning, first thing after the bell, you would write in chalk on the blackboard the
numerals of the clock face, then take the long wooden pointer and touch the figures, one
by one, in random order, in a slow, inexorable rhythm. We had to add them silently in our
heads, and have the answer ready when you stopped. The name of this daily practice
was "the digit ring".

You made us keep our hands on the desks so we couldn't count on our fingers, but I
learnt to make my movements too small to be visible: to this day I can add up on my
fingers like lightning. But the psychic cost of the digit ring was high. My mother had to
wake me from nightmares. "You were calling out in your sleep," she'd say. "You were
screaming out 'The digit ring! The digit ring!' What on earth," she asked innocently, "is a
digit ring?"

Dear Mrs Dunkley. You taught us not only arithmetic. One day, making us all sick
with shame that our mothers had neglected their duties, you taught the whole of grade
five to darn a sock. You taught us to spell, and how to write a proper letter: the address,
the date, the courteous salutation, the correct layout of the page, the formal signing off.
But most crucially, you taught us grammar and syntax. On the blackboard you drew up
meticulous columns, and introduced us to parts of speech, parsing, analysis. You
showed us how to take a sentence apart, identify its components, and fit them back
together with a fresh understanding of the way they worked.

One day you listed the functions of the adverb. You said, "An ad-verb can modify an
adjective." Until that moment I had known only that adverbs modified verbs: they
laughed loudly; sadly she hung her head. I knew I was supposed to be scratching away
with my dip pen, copying the list into my exercise book, but I was so excited by this new
idea that I put up my hand and said, "Mrs Dunkley. How can an adverb modify an
adjective?"

You paused, up there in front of the board with the pointer in your hand. My cheeks were
just about to start burning when I saw on your face a mysterious thing. It was a tiny,
crooked smile. You looked at me for a long moment – a slow, careful, serious look. You
looked at me, and for the first time, I knew that you had seen me.

"Here's an example," you said, in an almost intimate tone. "The wind was terribly cold."

I got it, and you saw me get it. Then your face snapped shut.

I never lost my terror of you, nor you your savage contempt. But if arithmetic lessons
continued to be a hell of failure and derision, your English classes were a paradise of
branching and blossoming knowledge.

Many years later, dear Mrs Dunkley, when I had turned you into an entertaining ogre
from my childhood whose antics made people laugh and shudder, when I had published
four books and felt at last that I could call myself a writer, I had a dream about you. In
this dream I walked along the sandstone verandah of the school where you had taught
me, and looked in through the french doors of the staffroom. Instead of the long tables at
which the teachers of my childhood used to sit, marking exercise books and inventing
horrible tests and exams, I saw a bizarre and miraculous scene.

I saw you, Mrs Dunkley, moving in slow motion across the staff room – but instead of
your grim black 1940s wool suit, you were dressed in a jacket made of some wonderfully
tender and flexible material, like suede or buckskin, but in soft, unstable colours that
streamed off you into the air in wavy bands and ribbons and garlands, so that as you
walked you drew along behind you a thick, smudged rainbow trail.

In 1996 I described this dream in the introduction to a collection of my essays. A few

months after the book came out, I received a letter from a stranger. She had enjoyed my
book, she said, particularly the introduction. She enclosed a photo that she thought I
might like to see.

The photo shows a woman and a teenage girl standing in front of a leafy tree, in a
suburban backyard. It's an amateurish black-and-white snap of a mother and daughter: it
cuts off both subjects at the ankle. The girl is dressed in a gingham school uniform. Her
hairdo places the picture in about 1960. She is slightly taller than the woman, and is
looking at the camera with the corners of her mouth drawn back into her cheeks, but her
eyes are not smiling; they are wary and guarded.

The woman in the photo is in her late 40s. She has short, dark, wavy hair combed back
off her forehead. Her brows are dark and level, her nose thin, her lips firmly closed in an
expression of bitter constraint. Deep, hard lines bracket her mouth. She's wearing a
straight black skirt, and a black cardigan undone to show a neat white blouse buttoned
to the neck. Her hands are hanging by her sides.

I showed the photo to my husband. "What enormous hands!" he said.

I knew your hands, Mrs Dunkley. Not that they ever touched me, but I recall them as
thin and sinewy and fierce-looking, with purplish skin that seemed fragile. They quivered,
in 1952, with what I thought was rage, as you skimmed your scornful pencil point down
my wonky long divisions and multiplications.

"My mother," wrote the stranger in her letter, "was an alcoholic." I thought I knew you,
Mrs Dunkley. I thought that by writing about you I had tamed you and made you a part of
me. But when I looked at that photo, I felt as if I'd walked into a strange room at night,
and something imperfectly familiar had turned to me in the dark. The real Mrs Dunkley
shifted out from under the grid of my creation, and I saw you at last, my teacher: an
intense, damaged, dreadfully unhappy woman, only just holding on, fronting up to the
school each morning, buttoned into your black clothes, savagely im-patient, craving,
suffering: a lost soul.

Dear Mrs Dunkley, you're long gone, and I'm nearly 70. But oh, I wish you weren't dead.
I've got some things here that I wouldn't be ashamed to show you. And I've got
something I want to say. I would like to thank you. It's probably what you would have
called hyperbole, but, Mrs Dunkley, you taught me everything I know. Other teachers,
later, consolidated it. But you were the one who laid the groundwork. You showed me
the glory and the power of an English sentence, and the skills I would need to build one.
You put into my hands the tools for the job.

Dear Mrs Dunkley. I know that your first name was Grace; I hope you found some, in the
end.

Please accept, in whatever afterlife you earned or were vouchsafed, the enduring love,
the sincere respect, and the eternal gratitude,

Of your Great Mooncalf,

Helen.

Features in Dear Miss Dunkley

- Complex Sentences
- Dialogue
- Short sentences
- Sensory Imagery
- Negative Connotations
- Repetition
- Simile
- Exclamation
- Hyperbole
- Emotive Language
- Metaphor
- Connotations
- Symbolism
- Pun

The Unknown Soldier Analysis

We do not know this Australian's name and we never will. We do not know his rank or his
battalion. We do not know where he was born, nor precisely how and when he died. We do
not know where in Australia he had made his home or when he left it for the battlefields of
Europe. We do not know his age or his circumstances – whether he was from the city or the
bush; what occupation he left to become a soldier; what religion, if he had a religion; if he
was married or single. We do not know who loved him or whom he loved. If he had children
we do not know who they are. His family is lost to us as he was lost to them. We will never
know who this Australian was.

Yet he has always been among those whom we have honoured. We know that he was one
of the 45,000 Australians who died on the Western Front. One of the 416,000 Australians
who volunteered for service in the First World War. One of the 324,000 Australians who
served overseas in that war and one of the 60,000 Australians who died on foreign soil. One
of the 100,000 Australians who have died in wars this century.
 He is all of them. And he is one of us.

This Australia and the Australia he knew are like foreign countries. The tide of events since
he died has been so dramatic, so vast and all-consuming, a world has been created beyond
the reach of his imagination.

He may have been one of those who believed that the Great War would be an adventure too
grand to miss. He may have felt that he would never live down the shame of not going. But
the chances are he went for no other reason than that he believed it was his duty - the duty
he owed his country and his King.

Because the Great War was a mad, brutal, awful struggle, distinguished more often than not
by military and political incompetence; because the waste of human life was so terrible that
some said victory was scarcely discernible from defeat; and because the war which was
supposed to end all wars in fact sowed the seeds of a second, even more terrible, war - we
might think this Unknown Soldier died in vain.

But, in honouring our war dead, as we always have and as we do today, we declare that this
is not true.

For out of the war came a lesson which transcended the horror and tragedy and the
inexcusable folly.

It was a lesson about ordinary people – and the lesson was that they were not ordinary.

On all sides they were the heroes of that war; not the generals and the politicians but the
soldiers and sailors and nurses – those who taught us to endure hardship, to show courage,
to be bold as well as resilient, to believe in ourselves, to stick together.

The Unknown Australian Soldier we inter today was one of those who by his deeds proved
that real nobility and grandeur belong not to empires and nations but to the people on whom
they, in the last resort, always depend.

That is surely at the heart of the ANZAC story, the Australian legend which emerged from
the war. It is a legend not of sweeping military victories so much as triumphs against the
odds, of courage and ingenuity in adversity. It is a legend of free and independent spirits
whose discipline derived less from military formalities and customs than from the bonds of
mateship and the demands of necessity.

It is a democratic tradition, the tradition in which Australians have gone to war ever since.

This Unknown Australian is not interred here to glorify war over peace; or to assert a
soldier's character above a civilian's; or one race or one nation or one religion above
another; or men above women; or the war in which he fought and died above any other war;
or of one generation above any that has or will come later.
The Unknown Soldier honours the memory of all those men and women who laid down their
lives for Australia.

His tomb is a reminder of what we have lost in war and what we have gained.

We have lost more than 100,000 lives, and with them all their love of this country and all
their hope and energy.

We have gained a legend: a story of bravery and sacrifice and, with it, a deeper faith in
ourselves and our democracy, and a deeper understanding of what it means to be
Australian.

It is not too much to hope, therefore, that this Unknown Australian Soldier might continue to
serve his country - he might enshrine a nation's love of peace and remind us that in the
sacrifice of the men and women whose names are recorded here there is faith enough for all
of us.

The Hon. P.J. Keating MP

Prime Minister of Australia

Features in The Unknown Soldier

- Anaphora
- Inclusive language
- Repetition
- Collective pronoun
- Statistics
- Distinct sombre
- Emotive Tone
- Contrast
- Dramatic pause
- Cumulative listing
- Juxtaposition
- Emotive Rhetoric Language
 Discursive Persuasive

Purpose To engage in a thought-provoking To argue a single perspective.

discussion by exploring multiple
perspectives on a topic.

Structure Includes an introduction, body and a Includes an introduction, body and a conclusion.
conclusion. Varied number of paragraphs Usually 3-4 body paragraphs, sometimes more.
and paragraph length – you have a bit of Body paragraphs typically follow a strict PEEL
freedom here. structure and paragraphs are of similar length.

Style Try to strike a balance between formal and Formal, academic language. Don't write how you
informal. You’re writing for an educated would talk.
audience, yes, but you want your tone to
also reflect who you are as a person – so
hopefully something a little more friendly
and open.

Use of Third Go for it. Generally avoided unless the question lends itself
Person well to first person (e.g. something asking you to
reflect).

Use of Evidence Include it, but you don’t need to conduct the Included throughout body paragraphs and analysed
literary analysis you would do in an essay. following a particular structure (PEEL).

Figurative Welcomed. Only include it if it’s part of a quote you’re analysing.

Language

Imaginative Writing
Pros Cons

- You have a lot of freedom here. As you are - Can be incredibly subjective when it comes
effectively writing a fictional text, you can to marking - at least, it has been in past years.
pretty much make things up how you want to.

- As a fictional text type, what you can write

- You can get away with being a lot more casual about is virtually limitless… this means that
in your language - you can attribute it to coming up with a good idea can be rather
characterisation. time-consuming!

- You don’t have to worry about analysing - More unstructured than other text types,
something within your writing. this can sometimes be overwhelming -
especially if you’re prone to indecision!

- Easy to write from your own experiences,

while also giving you the opportunity to explore - As many students (and teachers/tutors) are
another world. likely to already be familiar with imaginative
writing, it may be a safe option.

- Has dominated previous HSC syllabuses when

it comes to creative writing - meaning lots of
pre-existing resources you can use to develop a
good story.

How to Write a Reflection

Reflection is;

Self Awareness: Thinking of yourself, your experiences, and your view of the world

Self Improvement: Learning from experiences and writing to improve some area of your life
Empowerment: Putting you in control of making changes and reading writing and learning
in a different way.

Structure of Reflective writing

Experience: Read then write

Think: What did you read and write? How did you do this?
Learn: What might be your strengths and weaknesses as a writer? What benefits are
the result for your experience of reading and writing? What might you do in the
future?

1. Communicate your expert understanding of the ideas or the subject matter

2. The deliberate choices you have made about form and language features
used
3. Identify the specific texts that have influenced your deliberate choices as a
writer
4. Quote from and/or refer to specific sections of your own writing to prove how
texts have shaped and influenced your writing

“No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words,
that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.”
– Alexander Pope

Use this quote as a stimulus for a piece of persuasive, discursive or imaginative writing that
expresses your perspective about a significant concern or idea that you have engaged with
in ONE of your prescribed texts from Module A, B or C.

- Discursive
- Significant Idea = Change of Character due to a moment which is represented by
Helen Garner realising what kind of woman Miss Dunkley was and the contrast in her
initial and final thought of her