Analytic, organized, evidenced essay Assignment | Get Paper Help

Select one of the following prompts to respond to, with an analytic, organized, evidenced essay. Your essay should have an introduction, proper body paragraphs, and a conclusion. 1) In Lionel Trilling’s “Art and Neurosis,” he highlights various features connecting the mental health of the artist to their realized work. In your essay, take a stand on his argument, drawing from core concepts he forwards. Then, support your reading with a historical example, which Trilling focuses on to substantiate his claim. 2) In this essay, explain the distinction between formulas and intuitions from Kahneman’s text. That is, in what conditions would either approach be advantageous? Then, given this core difference, how would the fallacy of the No True Scotsman come into play? That is, analyze how this approach to judgment, intuitively and formulaically, has a relation to the manner in which one could commit this logical error. 3) In Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, at a pivotal point in the story, Eleanor claims that “the past could neither be escaped nor undone” (221). Put this thought in the context of the narrative trajectory of this character and her experiences. What does the phrase mean in general? What does it portend for Eleanor? How does the novel ultimately deal with or say, regarding this concept? ****I upload the article for all please choose the one that you think you will better job

Good Days
1
When people ask me what I do—taxi drivers, hairdressers—I tell them I
work in an office. In almost nine years, no one’s ever asked what kind of
office, or what sort of job I do there. I can’t decide whether that’s because I fit
perfectly with their idea of what an office worker looks like, or whether
people hear the phrase work in an office and automatically fill in the blanks
themselves—lady doing photocopying, man tapping at a keyboard. I’m not
complaining. I’m delighted that I don’t have to get into the fascinating
intricacies of accounts receivable with them. When I first started working
here, whenever anyone asked, I told them that I worked for a graphic design
company, but then they assumed I was a creative type. It became a bit boring
to see their faces blank over when I explained that it was back office stuff,
that I didn’t get to use the fine-tipped pens and the fancy software.
I’m nearly thirty years old now and I’ve been working here since I was
twenty-one. Bob, the owner, took me on not long after the office opened. I
suppose he felt sorry for me. I had a degree in Classics and no work
experience to speak of, and I turned up for the interview with a black eye, a
couple of missing teeth and a broken arm. Maybe he sensed, back then, that I
would never aspire to anything more than a poorly paid office job, that I
would be content to stay with the company and save him the bother of ever
having to recruit a replacement. Perhaps he could also tell that I’d never need
to take time off to go on honeymoon, or request maternity leave. I don’t
know.
It’s definitely a two-tier system in the office; the creatives are the film stars,
the rest of us merely supporting artists. You can tell by looking at us which
category we fall into. To be fair, part of that is salary-related. The back office
staff gets paid a pittance, and so we can’t afford much in the way of sharp
haircuts and nerdy glasses. Clothes, music, gadgets—although the designers
are desperate to be seen as freethinkers with unique ideas, they all adhere to a
strict uniform. Graphic design is of no interest to me. I’m a finance clerk. I
could be issuing invoices for anything, really: armaments, Rohypnol,
coconuts.
From Monday to Friday, I come in at 8:30. I take an hour for lunch. I used
to bring in my own sandwiches, but the food at home always went off before I
could use it up, so now I get something from the high street. I always finish
with a trip to Marks & Spencer on a Friday, which rounds off the week nicely.
I sit in the staff room with my sandwich and I read the newspaper from cover
to cover, and then I do the crosswords. I take the Daily Telegraph, not because
I like it particularly, but because it has the best cryptic crossword. I don’t talk
to anyone—by the time I’ve bought my Meal Deal, read the paper and
finished both crosswords, the hour is almost up. I go back to my desk and
work till 5:30. The bus home takes half an hour.
I make supper and eat it while I listen to the Archers. I usually have pasta
with pesto and salad—one pan and one plate. My childhood was full of
culinary contradiction, and I’ve dined on both hand-dived scallops and boilin-
the-bag cod over the years. After much reflection on the political and
sociological aspects of the table, I have realized that I am completely
uninterested in food. My preference is for fodder that is cheap, quick and
simple to procure and prepare, whilst providing the requisite nutrients to
enable a person to stay alive.
After I’ve washed up, I read a book, or sometimes I watch television if
there’s a program the Telegraph has recommended that day. I usually (well,
always) talk to Mummy on a Wednesday evening for fifteen minutes or so. I
go to bed around ten, read for half an hour and then put the light out. I don’t
have trouble sleeping, as a rule.
On Fridays, I don’t get the bus straight after work but instead I go to the
Tesco Metro around the corner from the office and buy a margherita pizza,
some Chianti and two big bottles of Glen’s vodka. When I get home, I eat the
pizza and drink the wine. I have some vodka afterward. I don’t need much on
a Friday, just a few big swigs. I usually wake up on the sofa around 3 a.m.,
and I stumble off to bed. I drink the rest of the vodka over the weekend,
spread it throughout both days so that I’m neither drunk nor sober. Monday
takes a long time to come around.
My phone doesn’t ring often—it makes me jump when it does—and it’s
usually people asking if I’ve been mis-sold Payment Protection Insurance. I
whisper I know where you live to them, and hang up the phone very, very
gently. No one’s been in my flat this year apart from service professionals;
I’ve not voluntarily invited another human being across the threshold, except
to read the meter. You’d think that would be impossible, wouldn’t you? It’s
true, though. I do exist, don’t I? It often feels as if I’m not here, that I’m a
figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly
connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are
gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me
completely, and I’d lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a
dandelion clock.
The threads tighten slightly from Monday to Friday. People phone the
office to discuss credit lines, send me e-mails about contracts and estimates.
The employees I share an office with—Janey, Loretta, Bernadette and Billy—
would notice if I didn’t turn up. After a few days (I’ve often wondered how
many) they would worry that I hadn’t phoned in sick—so unlike me—and
they’d dig out my address from the personnel files. I suppose they’d call the
police in the end, wouldn’t they? Would the officers break down the front
door? Find me, covering their faces, gagging at the smell? That would give
them something to talk about in the office. They hate me, but they don’t
actually wish me dead. I don’t think so, anyway.
I went to the doctor yesterday. It feels like eons ago. I got the young doctor
this time, the pale chap with the red hair, which I was pleased about. The
younger they are, the more recent their training, and that can only be a good
thing. I hate it when I get old Dr. Wilson; she’s about sixty, and I can’t
imagine she knows much about the latest drugs and medical breakthroughs.
She can barely work the computer.
The doctor was doing that thing where they talk to you but don’t look at
you, reading my notes on the screen, hitting the return key with increasing
ferocity as he scrolled down.
“What can I do for you this time, Miss Oliphant?”
“It’s back pain, Doctor,” I told him. “I’ve been in agony.” He still didn’t
look at me.
“How long have you been experiencing this?” he said.
“A couple of weeks,” I told him.
He nodded.
“I think I know what’s causing it,” I said, “but I wanted to get your
opinion.”
He stopped reading, finally looked across at me.
“What is it that you think is causing your back pain, Miss Oliphant?”
“I think it’s my breasts, Doctor,” I told him.
“Your breasts?”
“Yes,” I said. “You see, I’ve weighed them, and they’re almost half a
stone—combined weight, that is, not each!” I laughed. He stared at me, not
laughing. “That’s a lot of weight to carry around, isn’t it?” I asked him. “I
mean, if I were to strap half a stone of additional flesh to your chest and force
you to walk around all day like that, your back would hurt too, wouldn’t it?”
He stared at me, then cleared his throat.
“How . . . how did you . . . ?”
“Kitchen scales,” I said, nodding. “I just sort of . . . placed one on top. I
didn’t weigh them both, I made the assumption that they’d be roughly the
same weight. Not entirely scientific I know, but—”
“I’ll write you a prescription for some more painkillers, Miss Oliphant,”
he said, talking over me and typing.
“Strong ones this time, please,” I said firmly, “and plenty of them.”
They’d tried to fob me off before with tiny doses of aspirin. I needed highly
efficient medication to add to my stockpile.
“Could I also have a repeat prescription for my eczema medication,
please? It does seem to become exacerbated at times of stress or excitement.”
He did not grace this polite request with a response but simply nodded.
Neither of us spoke as the printer spat out the paperwork, which he handed to
me. He stared at the screen again and started typing. There was an awkward
silence. His social skills were woefully inadequate, especially for a peoplefacing
job like his.
“Good-bye then, Doctor,” I said. “Thank you so very much for your time.”
My tone went completely over his head. He was still, apparently, engrossed in
his notes. That’s the only downside to the younger ones; they have a terrible
bedside manner.
That was yesterday morning, in a different life. Today, after, the bus was
making good progress as I headed for the office. It was raining, and everyone
else looked miserable, huddled into their overcoats, sour morning breath
steaming up the windows. Life sparkled toward me through the drops of rain
on the glass, shimmered fragrantly above the fug of wet clothes and damp
feet.
I have always taken great pride in managing my life alone. I’m a sole
survivor—I’m Eleanor Oliphant. I don’t need anyone else—there’s no big
hole in my life, no missing part of my own particular puzzle. I am a selfcontained
entity. That’s what I’ve always told myself, at any rate. But last
night, I’d found the love of my life. When I saw him walk onstage, I just
knew. He was wearing a very stylish hat, but that wasn’t what drew me in. No
—I’m not that shallow. He was wearing a three-piece suit, with the bottom
button of his waistcoat unfastened. A true gentleman leaves the bottom button
unfastened, Mummy always said—it was one of the signs to look out for,
signifying as it did a sophisticate, an elegant man of the appropriate class and
social standing. His handsome face, his voice . . . here, at long last, was a man
who could be described with some degree of certainty as “husband material.”
Mummy was going to be thrilled.
2
At the office, there was that palpable sense of Friday joy, everyone colluding
with the lie that somehow the weekend would be amazing and that, next
week, work would be different, better. They never learn. For me, though,
things had changed. I had not slept well, but despite that, I was feeling good,
better, best. People say that when you come across “the one,” you just know.
Everything about this was true, even the fact that fate had thrown him into my
path on a Thursday night, and so now the weekend stretched ahead invitingly,
full of time and promise.
One of the designers was finishing up today—as usual, we’d be marking
the occasion with cheap wine and expensive beer, crisps dumped in cereal
bowls. With any luck, it would start early, so I could show my face and still
leave on time. I simply had to get to the shops before they closed. I pushed
open the door, the chill of the air-con making me shudder, even though I was
wearing my jerkin. Billy was holding court. He had his back to me, and the
others were too engrossed to notice me slip in.
“She’s mental,” he said.
“Well, we know she’s mental,” Janey said, “that was never in doubt. The
question is, what did she do this time?”
Billy snorted. “You know she won those tickets and asked me to go to that
stupid gig with her?”
Janey smiled. “Bob’s annual raffle of crap client freebies. First prize, two
free tickets. Second prize, four free tickets . . .”
Billy sighed. “Exactly. Total embarrassment of a Thursday night out—a
charity gig in a pub, starring the marketing team of our biggest client, plus
various cringeworthy party pieces from all their friends and family? And, to
make it worse, with her?”
Everyone laughed. I couldn’t disagree with his assessment; it was hardly a
Gatsby-esque night of glamour and excess.
“There was one band in the first half—Johnnie something and the Pilgrim
Pioneers—who weren’t actually that bad,” he said. “They mostly played their
own stuff, some covers too, classic oldies.”
“I know him—Johnnie Lomond!” Bernadette said. “He was in the same
year as my big brother. Came to our house for a party one night when Mum
and Dad were in Tenerife, him and some of my brother’s other mates from
Sixth Year. Ended up blocking the bathroom sink, if I remember right . . .”
I turned away, not wishing to hear about his youthful indiscretions.
“Anyway,” said Billy—he did not like being interrupted, I’d noticed
—“she absolutely hated that band. She just sat there frozen; didn’t move,
didn’t clap, anything. Soon as they finished, she said she needed to go home.
So she didn’t even make it to the interval, and I had to sit there on my own for
the rest of the gig, like, literally, Billy No-Mates.”
“That’s a shame, Billy; I know you were wanting to take her for a drink
afterward, maybe go dancing,” Loretta said, nudging him.
“You’re so funny, Loretta. No, she was off like a shot. She’d have been
tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa and a copy of Reader’s Digest before the
band had even finished their set.”
“Oh,” said Janey, “I don’t see her as a Reader’s Digest reader, somehow.
It’d be something much weirder, much more random. Angling Times? What
Caravan?”
“Horse and Hound,” said Billy firmly, “and she’s got a subscription.”
They all sniggered.
I laughed myself at that one, actually.
I hadn’t been expecting it to happen last night, not at all. It hit me all the
harder because of that. I’m someone who likes to plan things properly,
prepare in advance and be organized. This came out of nowhere; it felt like a
slap in the face, a punch to the gut, a burning.
I’d asked Billy to come to the concert with me, mainly because he was the
youngest person in the office; for that reason, I assumed he’d enjoy the music.
I heard the others teasing him about it when they thought I was out at lunch. I
knew nothing about the concert, hadn’t heard of any of the bands. I was going
out of a sense of duty; I’d won the tickets in the charity raffle, and I knew
people would ask about it in the office.
I had been drinking sour white wine, warm and tainted by the plastic
glasses the pub made us drink from. What savages they must think us! Billy
had insisted on buying it, to thank me for inviting him. There was no question
of it being a date. The very notion was ridiculous.
The lights went down. Billy hadn’t wanted to watch the other acts, but I
was adamant. You never know if you’ll be bearing witness as a new star
emerges, never know who’s going to walk onto the stage and set it alight. And
then he did. I stared at him. He was light and heat. He blazed. Everything he
came into contact with would be changed. I sat forward on my seat, edged
closer. At last. I’d found him.
Now