Magic of Speech Evaluation Gain World Class Public Speaking Experience

Define the following, as we did in class (5 points each): citationquotationsustainabilityorganic foodWrite a paragraph explaining each of the following as thoroughly as you can (18 points each): Rules for summarizing When you need to use a citation to avoid plagiarismBiased writingWrite a full reference in APA for each of the following (10 points each): the article “Why German pilots won’t fly Afghan refugees back to Afghanistan” at Sedniev: Magic of Speech Evaluation. You can get the details at a sentence to introduce this source in a paper for the first time (6 points): Gladwell’s “Something borrowed”i uploaded the file of:Gladwell’s “Something borrowed”also the questions on a file( just to make sure everything you need is there)


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Define the following, as we did in class (5 points each):
organic food
Write a paragraph explaining each of the following as thoroughly as you can (18 points each):
5. Rules for summarizing
6. When you need to use a citation to avoid plagiarism
7. Biased writing
Write a full reference in APA for each of the following (10 points each):
8. the article “Why German pilots won’t fly Afghan refugees back to Afghanistan” at
9. Sedniev: Magic of Speech Evaluation. You can get the details at

Write a sentence to introduce this source in a paper for the first time (6 points):
10. Gladwell’s “Something borrowed”
Something Borrowed
Should a charge of plagiarism ruin your life?
By Malcolm Gladwell [excerpted]
Nov. 22, 2004
Downloaded Nov 24, 2014
One day this spring, a psychiatrist named Dorothy Lewis got a call from her friend Betty, who
works in New York City. Betty had just seen a Broadway play called “Frozen,” written by the
British playwright Bryony Lavery. “She said, ‘Somehow it reminded me of you. You really
ought to see it,’ ” Lewis recalled. Lewis asked Betty what the play was about, and Betty said that
one of the characters was a psychiatrist who studied serial killers. “And I told her, ‘I need to see
that as much as I need to go to the moon.’ ”
Lewis has studied serial killers for the past twenty-five years. With her collaborator, the
neurologist Jonathan Pincus, she has published a great many research papers, showing that serial
killers tend to suffer from predictable patterns of psychological, physical, and neurological
dysfunction: that they were almost all the victims of harrowing physical and sexual abuse as
children, and that almost all of them have suffered some kind of brain injury or mental illness. In
1998, she published a memoir of her life and work entitled “Guilty by Reason of Insanity.” She
was the last person to visit Ted Bundy before he went to the electric chair. Few people in the
world have spent as much time thinking about serial killers as Dorothy Lewis, so when her friend
Betty told her that she needed to see “Frozen” it struck her as a busman’s holiday.
But the calls kept coming. “Frozen” was winning raves on Broadway, and it had been nominated
for a Tony. Whenever someone who knew Dorothy Lewis saw it, they would tell her that she
really ought to see it, too. In June, she got a call from a woman at the theatre where “Frozen”
was playing. “She said she’d heard that I work in this field, and that I see murderers, and she was
wondering if I would do a talk-back after the show,” Lewis said. “I had done that once before,
and it was a delight, so I said sure. And I said, would you please send me the script, because I
wanted to read the play.”
The script came, and Lewis sat down to read it. Early in the play, something caught her eye, a
phrase: “it was one of those days.” One of the murderers Lewis had written about in her book
had used that same expression. But she thought it was just a coincidence. “Then, there’s a scene
of a woman on an airplane, typing away to her friend. Her name is Agnetha Gottmundsdottir. I
read that she’s writing to her colleague, a neurologist called David Nabkus. And with that I
realized that more was going on, and I realized as well why all these people had been telling me
to see the play.”
Lewis began underlining line after line. She had worked at New York University School of
Medicine. The psychiatrist in “Frozen” worked at New York School of Medicine. Lewis and
Pincus did a study of brain injuries among fifteen death-row inmates. Gottmundsdottir and
Nabkus did a study of brain injuries among fifteen death-row inmates. Once, while Lewis was
examining the serial killer Joseph Franklin, he sniffed her, in a grotesque, sexual way.
Gottmundsdottir is sniffed by the play’s serial killer, Ralph. Once, while Lewis was examining
Ted Bundy, she kissed him on the cheek. Gottmundsdottir, in some productions of “Frozen,”
kisses Ralph. “The whole thing was right there,” Lewis went on. “I was sitting at home reading
the play, and I realized that it was I. I felt robbed and violated in some peculiar way. It was as if
someone had stolen—I don’t believe in the soul, but, if there was such a thing, it was as if
someone had stolen my essence.”
Lewis never did the talk-back. She hired a lawyer. And she came down from New Haven to see
“Frozen.” “In my book,” she said, “I talk about where I rush out of the house with my black
carry-on, and I have two black pocketbooks, and the play opens with her”—Agnetha—“with one
big black bag and a carry-on, rushing out to do a lecture.” Lewis had written about biting her
sister on the stomach as a child. Onstage, Agnetha fantasized out loud about attacking a
stewardess on an airplane and “biting out her throat.” After the play was over, the cast came
onstage and took questions from the audience. “Somebody in the audience said, ‘Where did
Bryony Lavery get the idea for the psychiatrist?’ ” Lewis recounted. “And one of the cast
members, the male lead, said, ‘Oh, she said that she read it in an English medical magazine.’ ”
Lewis is a tiny woman, with enormous, childlike eyes, and they were wide open now with the
memory. “I wouldn’t have cared if she did a play about a shrink who’s interested in the frontal
lobe and the limbic system. That’s out there to do. I see things week after week on television, on
‘Law & Order’ or ‘C.S.I.,’ and I see that they are using material that Jonathan and I brought to
light. And it’s wonderful. That would have been acceptable. But she did more than that. She took
things about my own life, and that is the part that made me feel violated.”
At the request of her lawyer, Lewis sat down and made up a chart detailing what she felt were
the questionable parts of Lavery’s play. The chart was fifteen pages long. The first part was
devoted to thematic similarities between “Frozen” and Lewis’s book “Guilty by Reason of
Insanity.” The other, more damning section listed twelve instances of almost verbatim
similarities—totalling perhaps six hundred and seventy-five words—between passages from
“Frozen” and passages from a 1997 magazine profile of Lewis. The profile was called
“Damaged.” It appeared in the February 24, 1997, issue of The New Yorker. It was written by
Words belong to the person who wrote them. There are few simpler ethical notions than this one,
particularly as society directs more and more energy and resources toward the creation of
intellectual property. In the past thirty years, copyright laws have been strengthened. Courts have
become more willing to grant intellectual-property protections. Fighting piracy has become an
obsession with Hollywood and the recording industry, and, in the worlds of academia and
publishing, plagiarism has gone from being bad literary manners to something much closer to a
crime. When, two years ago, Doris Kearns Goodwin was found to have lifted passages from
several other historians, she was asked to resign from the board of the Pulitzer Prize committee.
And why not? If she had robbed a bank, she would have been fired the next day.
I’d worked on “Damaged” through the fall of 1996. I would visit Dorothy Lewis in her office at
Bellevue Hospital, and watch the videotapes of her interviews with serial killers. At one point, I
met up with her in Missouri. Lewis was testifying at the trial of Joseph Franklin, who claims
responsibility for shooting, among others, the civil-rights leader Vernon Jordan and the
pornographer Larry Flynt. In the trial, a videotape was shown of an interview that Franklin once
gave to a television station. He was asked whether he felt any remorse. I wrote:
“I can’t say that I do,” he said. He paused again, then added, “The only thing I’m
sorry about is that it’s not legal.”
“What’s not legal?”
Franklin answered as if he’d been asked the time of day: “Killing Jews.”
That exchange, almost to the word, was reproduced in “Frozen.”
Lewis, the article continued, didn’t feel that Franklin was fully responsible for his actions. She
viewed him as a victim of neurological dysfunction and childhood physical abuse. “The
difference between a crime of evil and a crime of illness,” I wrote, “is the difference between a
sin and a symptom.” That line was in “Frozen,” too—not once but twice. I faxed Bryony Lavery
a letter:
I am happy to be the source of inspiration for other writers, and had you asked for
my permission to quote—even liberally—from my piece, I would have been
delighted to oblige. But to lift material, without my approval, is theft.
Almost as soon as I’d sent the letter, though, I began to have second thoughts. The truth was that,
although I said I’d been robbed, I didn’t feel that way. Nor did I feel particularly angry. One of
the first things I had said to a friend after hearing about the echoes of my article in “Frozen” was
that this was the only way I was ever going to get to Broadway—and I was only half joking. On
some level, I considered Lavery’s borrowing to be a compliment. A savvier writer would have
changed all those references to Lewis, and rewritten the quotes from me, so that their origin was
no longer recognizable. But how would I have been better off if Lavery had disguised the source
of her inspiration?
Dorothy Lewis, for her part, was understandably upset. She was considering a lawsuit. And, to
increase her odds of success, she asked me to assign her the copyright to my article. I agreed, but
then I changed my mind. Lewis had told me that she “wanted her life back.” Yet in order to get
her life back, it appeared, she first had to acquire it from me. That seemed a little strange.
Then I got a copy of the script for “Frozen.” I found it breathtaking. I realize that this isn’t
supposed to be a relevant consideration. And yet it was: instead of feeling that my words had
been taken from me, I felt that they had become part of some grander cause. In late September,
the story broke. The Times, the Observer in England, and the Associated Press all ran stories
about Lavery’s alleged plagiarism, and the articles were picked up by newspapers around the
world. Bryony Lavery had seen one of my articles, responded to what she read, and used it as she
constructed a work of art. And now her reputation was in tatters. Something about that didn’t
seem right.
So is it true that words belong to the person who wrote them, just as other kinds of property
belong to their owners? Actually, no. As the Stanford law professor Lawrence Lessig argues in
his new book “Free Culture”:
In ordinary language, to call a copyright a “property” right is a bit misleading, for
the property of copyright is an odd kind of property… . I understand what I am
taking when I take the picnic table you put in your backyard. I am taking a thing,
the picnic table, and after I take it, you don’t have it. But what am I taking when I
take the good idea you had to put a picnic table in the backyard—by, for example,
going to Sears, buying a table, and putting it in my backyard? What is the thing
that I am taking then?
The point is not just about the thingness of picnic tables versus ideas, though that is an
important difference. The point instead is that in the ordinary case—indeed, in practically
every case except for a narrow range of exceptions—ideas released to the world are free.
I don’t take anything from you when I copy the way you dress—though I might seem
weird if I do it every day…. Instead, as Thomas Jefferson said (and this is especially true
when I copy the way someone dresses), “He who receives an idea from me, receives
instruction himself without lessening mine; as he who lights his taper at mine, receives
light without darkening me.”
Bryony Lavery came to see me in early October. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and we
met at my apartment. She is in her fifties, with short tousled blond hair and pale-blue eyes, and
was wearing jeans and a loose green shirt and clogs. There was something rugged and raw about
her. In the Times the previous day, the theatre critic Ben Brantley had not been kind to her new
play, “Last Easter.” This was supposed to be her moment of triumph. “Frozen” had been
nominated for a Tony. “Last Easter” had opened Off Broadway. And now? She sat down heavily
at my kitchen table. “I’ve had the absolute gamut of emotions,” she said, playing nervously with
her hands as she spoke, as if she needed a cigarette. “I think when one’s working, one works
between absolute confidence and absolute doubt, and I got a huge dollop of each. I was terribly
confident that I could write well after ‘Frozen,’ and then this opened a chasm of doubt.” She
looked up at me. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said.
Lavery began to explain: “What happens when I write is that I find that I’m somehow zoning on
a number of things. I find that I’ve cut things out of newspapers because the story or something
in them is interesting to me, and seems to me to have a place onstage. Then it starts coagulating.
It’s like the soup starts thickening. And then a story, which is also a structure, starts emerging.
I’d been reading thrillers like ‘The Silence of the Lambs,’ about fiendishly clever serial killers.
I’d also seen a documentary of the victims of the Yorkshire killers, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady,
who were called the Moors Murderers. They spirited away several children. It seemed to me that
killing somehow wasn’t fiendishly clever. It was the opposite of clever. It was as banal and
stupid and destructive as it could be. There are these interviews with the survivors, and what
struck me was that they appeared to be frozen in time. And one of them said, ‘If that man was
out now, I’m a forgiving man but I couldn’t forgive him. I’d kill him.’ That’s in ‘Frozen.’ I was
thinking about that. Then my mother went into hospital for a very simple operation, and the
surgeon punctured her womb, and therefore her intestine, and she got peritonitis and died.”
When Lavery started talking about her mother, she stopped, and had to collect herself. “She was
seventy-four, and what occurred to me is that I utterly forgave him. I thought it was an honest
mistake. I’m very sorry it happened to my mother, but it’s an honest mistake.” Lavery’s feelings
confused her, though, because she could think of people in her own life whom she had held
grudges against for years, for the most trivial of reasons. “In a lot of ways, ‘Frozen’ was an
attempt to understand the nature of forgiveness,” she said.
Lavery settled, in the end, on a play with three characters. The first is a serial killer named Ralph,
who kidnaps and murders a young girl. The second is the murdered girl’s mother, Nancy. The
third is a psychiatrist from New York, Agnetha, who goes to England to examine Ralph. In the
course of the play, the three lives slowly intersect—and the characters gradually change and
become “unfrozen” as they come to terms with the idea of forgiveness. For the character of
Ralph, Lavery says that she drew on a book about a serial killer titled “The Murder of
Childhood,” by Ray Wyre and Tim Tate. For the character of Nancy, she drew on an article
written in the Guardian by a woman named Marian Partington, whose sister had been murdered
by the serial killers Frederick and Rosemary West. And, for the character of Agnetha, Lavery
drew on a reprint of my article that she had read in a British publication. “I wanted a scientist
who would understand,” Lavery said—a scientist who could explain how it was possible to
forgive a man who had killed your daughter, who could explain that a serial killing was not a
crime of evil but a crime of illness. “I wanted it to be accurate,” she added.
So why didn’t she credit me and Lewis? How could she have been so meticulous about accuracy
but not about attribution? Lavery didn’t have an answer. “I thought it was O.K. to use it,” she
said with an embarrassed shrug. “It never occurred to me to ask you. I thought it was news.”
She was aware of how hopelessly inadequate that sounded, and when she went on to say that my
article had been in a big folder of source material that she had used in the writing of the play, and
that the folder had got lost during the play’s initial run, in Birmingham, she was aware of how
inadequate that sounded, too.
But then Lavery began to talk about Marian Partington, her other important inspiration, and her
story became more complicated. While she was writing “Frozen,” Lavery said, she wrote to
Partington to inform her of how much she was relying on Partington’s experiences. And when
“Frozen” opened in London she and Partington met and talked. In reading through articles on
Lavery in the British press, I found this, from the Guardian two years ago, long before the
accusations of plagiarism surfaced:
Lavery is aware of the debt she owes to Partington’s writing and is eager to
acknowledge it.
“I always mention it, because I am aware of the enormous debt that I owe to the
generosity of Marian Partington’s piece…. You have to be hugely careful when
writing something like this, because it touches on people’s shattered lives and you
wouldn’t want them to come across it unawares.”
Lavery wasn’t indifferent to other people’s intellectual property, then; she was just indifferent to
my intellectual property. That’s because, in her eyes, what she took from me was different. It
was, as she put it, “news.” She copied my description of Dorothy Lewis’s collaborator, Jonathan
Pincus, conducting a neurological examination. She copied the description of the disruptive
neurological effects of prolonged periods of high stress. She copied my transcription of the
television interview with Franklin. She reproduced a quote that I had taken from a study of
abused children, and she copied a quotation from Lewis on the nature of evil. She didn’t copy
my musings, or conclusions, or structure. She lifted sentences like “It is the function of the
cortex—and, in particular, those parts of the cortex beneath the forehead, known as the frontal
lobes—to modify the impulses that surge up from within the brain, to provide judgment, to
organize behavior and decision-making, to learn and adhere to rules of everyday life.” It is
difficult to have pride of authorship in a sentence like that. My guess is that it’s a reworked
version of something I read in a textbook. Lavery knew that failing to credit Partington would
have been wrong. Borrowing the personal story of a woman whose sister was murdered by a
serial killer matters because that story has real emotional value to its owner. As Lavery put it, it
touches on someone’s shattered life. Are boilerplate descriptions of physiological functions in
the same league?
It also matters how Lavery chose to use my words. Borrowing crosses the line when it is used for
a derivative work. It’s one thing if you’re writing a history of the Kennedys, like Doris Kearns
Goodwin, and borrow, without attribution, from another history of the Kennedys. But Lavery
wasn’t writing another profile of Dorothy Lewis. She was writing a play about something
entirely new—about what would happen if a mother met the man who killed her daughter. And
she used my descriptions of Lewis’s work and the outline of Lewis’s life as a building block in
making that …
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