Oregon State University Loner by Teddy Wayne Novel Analysis Paper

Oregon State University

Question Description

Can you help me understand this Writing question?


Please write 250 words (1 page) from the perspective of Veronica. This exercise still has the same "you" format, but in this case the "you" would of course be David Federman (or...someone else?) who is on Veronica's mind. This should be fun., but also hammer home the point that Veronica and David are, arguably, very similar characters in terms of lack of empathy, sociopathy, etc (I posit "loner" in the title refers to both of them). Of course David is more violent so he's probably worse but Veronica is written as his equal (whether this is a good or bad thing).

This is creative so the only rule is to write from Veronica's POV. It can be a scene in the book, or a scene you added; can feature people in the book, or people you add: perhaps Veronica has a back story with her family that makes her not trust, etc.


We are living through history now, and we should be mindful of this. We will survive, don't worry, but this is going to change the way we live very much....maybe good or bad idk. But we should be paying attention. Write 250 words about how this is affecting you, how your personal life has changed, an economic development you think is noteworthy, something you've noticed.... Anything. Think of it like a diary you are writing to read to your children some day.

3- this is the important things

see the attached quiz I will post a file that have a quiz and you have to answer it


I will post the book

the social network is movie see it in google

just see the first episode in YOU

that's for the quiz

and I will post an example for assignment 1

put yo focus 💯 in the quiz

if I got a full mark I will give you high tip

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Quiz: The Social Network, Loner, You, etc. 30 pts. 2-3 sentences. Skip 2 questions. 1. The Social Network essentially begins and ends with Erika, although this relationship never happened in real life. Why do you think Sorkin added this to what was marketed as a “biopic”? 2. What is the advantage, as a writer, to pairing a normal douchebag kind of character with a really really terrible guy? For instance, Mark is obtuse, self-centered, and a misogynist, but Sean Parker is: a drug addict, a sexual assaulter, presumably into under-age girls, suffers from psychological issues such as paranoia and narcissism, etc. What effect does this character have on our perception of Mark? 3. Loner is obsessed with being a literary text. It basically couldn’t exist without some of the intertextual references it contains. Name 3 texts referenced in the novel and explain their thematic value. What is the #1 book that it references every time David starts writing in terrible purple, super-precocious prose? 4. IMO, The Social Network is the best movie of the century. Research the director, screenwriter, and music guy (score guy?) and name 2 other things they’re involved in. They’re all geniuses, and I don’t toss that word around. 5. According to Sorkin’s screenplay, why did Mark invent Facebook? Hint: NOT to make money. Two options here…. 6. Why is it important that You is set in a bookstore? Like Loner, it’s about reading, it’s about pretending to be other people….try to finish that thought I can’t:) 7. Grade David, Joe, and Mark from worst to not-worst as Toxic Masculinity people. Explain why. 8. Once FB was launched and became popular, Eduardo and Mark conducted a sustained argument about whether they should start doing what with the website? 9. Describe the point/thesis of Veronica’s paper/"study" on David and what her professor thought of it. 10. Explain why nobody uses FB anymore but the stock is still through the roof. Hint: does FB own other companies? 11. Type “surveillance capitalism” into duckduckgo.com and give me a brief sentence on what it denotes. Then describe what a search engine like DuckDuckGo is doing that’s in opposition to surveillance capitalism? 12. Name 3 male characters in You that are very bad men. I think they are all introduced in the first episode you should have watched. Why is that show SURROUNDING Joe with nobody but terrible people, especially terrible male people? Loner: Creative Writing Exercise (example) [p. 70] “How’s it coming?” I asked. I’d returned to the table with coffee I placed in front of you as you proudly showed me the paragraph you’d typed. You let me down, you were so easy; you were unworthy of me. From the time when I was a very young girl, I had a preternatural sense for men around me: their pulse, their smell, their eyes. By touching your elbow, I knew I was setting off a veritable biological explosion inside you, but I didn’t think you’d write an entire essay for me, at least without more effort from me. Your prose was so male, what every David Foster Wallace fanboy thinks is impressive: hitting the reader over their head with your huge long words (making up for something?). My gender studies teacher would say about you what she’d said about John Updike: “just a thesaurus with a penis.” “Pulchritude?” I asked. “Beauty,” you mansplained. “Nice writing,” I said, sarcastically. While you typed away like a pampered golden retriever, I thought about my brother and my uncle. Were you capable of what they were? It never ceases to amaze me, I’d told my counselor in the city that weekend, how harmless men can seem. They are so immature, so boyish, so superficial, simian mouthbreathers with neanderthal foreheads. Cure, in a pathetic, helpless way; but not cute at all when they touch you. I was beginning to understand that if you ever did touch me, I would kill you. You think you knew so much about me (meaning just the details I wrote for you on Facebook), but you have no idea, do you David, that the gun under my pillow is loaded? Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster eBook. Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Simon & Schuster. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP or visit us online to sign up at eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com To Kate, and with her Man can indeed do what he wants, but he cannot will what he wants. —Arthur Schopenhauer, Essay on the Freedom of the Will “After I go out this door, I may only exist in the minds of all my acquaintances,” he said. “I may be an orange peel.” —J. D. Salinger, “Teddy” Chapter 1 David,” my mother said, “we’re here.” I sat up straight as we passed through the main gate of Harvard Yard in a caravan of unassuming vehicles, rooftops glaring under the noonday sun. Police officers conducted the stammering traffic along the designated route. Freshmen and parents lugged suitcases and boxes heaped with bedding, posing for photos before the redbrick dormitories with the shameless glee of tourists. A pair of lanky boys sailed a Frisbee over the late-summer grass in lazy, slanted parabolas. Amid welcome signs from the administration, student banners interjected END ECONOMIC INEQUALITY, SILENCE IS VIOLENCE, and YALE = SAFETY SCHOOL. A timpani concerto pounded in my chest as we made landfall upon the hallowed ground that had been locked in my sights for years. We’d arrived. I’d arrived. “For the tuition we’re paying,” my father said, carefully reversing into a spot, “you’d think they could give us more than twenty minutes to park.” My parents climbed out of the car and circled around to the popped trunk. After tugging in vain at my door handle, I tapped on the window. “Where’d he go?” I could hear my mother ask. “In here,” I shouted, knocking louder. “Sorry, thought you got out,” my father said following my liberation. I checked in under a white tent teeming with my new classmates and received my room key and a bulky orientation packet. As we approached Matthews Hall, a girl emerged from the building. Seeing our hands were full, she paused to hold the door. I stepped inside and my orientation packet slid off the top of the box in my arms. “Thanks,” I said when she stooped down to get it. “You would’ve been completely disoriented,” said the girl, smiling, her nose streaked with contrails of unabsorbed sunscreen. “She seems nice,” my mother said encouragingly as we shuffled upstairs to the fourth floor. The doors were marked with signs listing the occupants and their hometowns, stamped with Harvard’s Veritas shield. Beneath these were rosters of previous inhabitants, surname first. My room’s read like an evolutionary time line of American democracy, beginning with a procession of gilded Boston Brahmins, gradually incorporating a few Catholics, then Goldbergs and Jacksons and Yangs and Guptas, and, in the 1970s, Karens and Marys and Patricias. My mother was impressed to discover an NPR correspondent on the list (I’d never heard of her). In fifty years, I thought, I’d humbly recall this moment in career-retrospective interviews, insisting that never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my name would someday be the one people noticed. For the time being, though, I knew it didn’t quite emblazon itself across the heavens like a verbal comet. David: blandly all-purpose, a three-pack of white cotton undershirts (CREWNECK, MEDIUM); Alan, an ulcerous accountant in Westchester circa 1957; then Federman, long a sound for the first vowel, an entity who is hardly here, or maybe he just left— Wait, who were we talking about, again? It was as if my parents, upon filling out my birth certificate, couldn’t be bothered. Tap is fine, they always told waiters. But now my ID card read David Alan Federman, Harvard Student. My roommate, Steven Zenger, had yet to arrive. I claimed the front room, envisioning it would lead to impromptu visitors, a ​revolving door of campus characters popping in, lounging on my bed, gossiping late into the night. My parents took my student card and fetched the remaining stuff as I unpacked. After setting down the final box, my lawyer father checked his watch. “Thirteen minutes,” he announced, pleased with himself. “Seven minutes to spare,” my mother, also a lawyer, chimed in. Through the door the hallway hummed with the chatter of other families. “Well,” said my mother, surveying the room. “This is exciting. I wish I were starting college again. All the interesting courses and people.” “And I bet you’ll be beating the girls off with a stick,” my father added. “There are a lot of late bloomers here.” My mother scowled. “Why would you say something like that?” “I’m just saying he’ll find his tribe.” He turned to me. “You’ll have a great time here,” he said with the hollow brightness of an appliance manual congratulating you on your purchase. “Just be yourself,” my mother advised. “You can’t go wrong being yourself.” “Yep.” Sensing more imperatives and prophecies, I opened the door to let them out. “Just one little thing, David,” she said, raising a finger. “Sometimes when you talk, you do this thing where you swallow your words. I did it when I was younger, too. I think it comes from a place of feeling like what you say doesn’t matter. But it’s not true. People want to hear what you have to say. So try to enunciate.” I nodded. “It helped me before I spoke to think of the word ‘crisp,’ ” she said. “Just that word: crisp.” After our own swift hug, my mother prodded my father into initiating an avuncular, backpatting clinch. They seem comfortable enough with my sisters, but for as long as I can remember, my parents have acted slightly unnatural around me, radiating the impression of Good Samaritan neighbors who dutifully assumed guardianship following the death of my biological parents in a plane crash. The door swung shut with a muted click. My bereft mattress and bookcase and motionless rocking chair stared at me like listless zoo animals. It was hard to picture people gathering here for fun, but a minute later someone knocked. It was my mother. “Your ID.” She held out my student card. “It’s very important—you can’t open the door without it. Don’t forget it again.” “I didn’t,” I said. “You guys did.” I resumed unpacking, yanking the price tags off a few items. Earlier that week my mother had dragged me to the mall, where I’d decided to adhere, for now, to my usual sartorial neutrality of innocuous colors and materials. It would serve me these first few weeks to look as benign as possible, the type of person who could be friends with everyone. I was standing inside my closet, hanging shirts, when the door flew open and my roommate bounded into the room, his equally enthusiastic parents in tow. “David!” he said. “Almost didn’t see you. Steven.” He walked over with his arm puppetishly bobbing for me to shake. “If I look different from my Facebook photo, it’s because I got braces again last week,” he said. “But just for six months. Or five and three-quarters now.” All hopes I had of a roommate who would help upgrade me to a higher social stratum snagged on the gleaming barnacles of Steven’s orthodontia. He would have fit right in at my cafeteria table at Garret Hobart High (named for New Jersey’s only vice president), where I sat with a miscellaneous coalition of pariahs who had banded together less out of camaraderie than survival instinct. We were studious but not collectively brilliant enough to be nerds, nor sufficiently specialized to be geeks. We might have formed, in aggregate, one thin mustache and a downy archipelago of facial hair. We joked about sex with the vulgar fixation of virgins. We rarely associated outside of school and sheepishly nodded when passing in the halls, aware that each of us somehow reduced the standing of the other—that as a whole we were lesser than the sum of our parts. While Steven’s mother fussed over his room’s décor, his father uncorked a geysering champagne bottle of hokey puns and jokes. “Matthews” became “math-use,” so now “students can finally find out how learning math will help them later in life!” When his son remarked that the Internet in the dorms was free, Mr. Zenger chortled uncontrollably. “Free!” he roared, clapping his hands. “I didn’t notice that when I wrote them a check last month! What a bargain! Free Internet!” After a prolonged, maternally teary farewell—Mrs. Zenger smothered even me in her arms and assured me I was about to have the best year of my life—Steven invited me into his room. Nestled into a bean bag chair, he linked his hands behind his head, his ​collared shirt’s elbow-length sleeves encircling ​hangman-figure arms. “There’s no lock on my door,” he said. “So feel free to come in whenever you feel like hanging out.” “Okay,” I said, lingering at the threshold. “So what are you majoring in?” he asked. “I mean concentrating in,” he threw in conspiratorially, now that we were in on the secret handshake of Harvard parlance. “We don’t have to declare until sophomore year, right?” “Yeah, but I already know I’m going to concentrate in physics. How about you? What’s your passion? What’re you into?” I was into success, just like everyone else who’d gotten in here, but admitting that was taboo. Though I’d excelled in all subjects, I didn’t have the untrammeled intellectual curiosity of the true polymath. I was more like a mechanically efficient Eastern European decathlete grimly breaking the finish-line tape. Yet almost anyone could thrive in a field that consumed them. To lack ardor and still reach the zenith—that was a rare combination. Because I never mentioned my grades to anyone and seldom spoke in class unless I had silently rehearsed my comments verbatim, my academic reputation never approached the heights of Alex Hines (yearbook prediction: Fortune 500 CEO), Hannah Ganiv (poet laureate), or Noah Schwartz (President of the United States). When the college acceptance list was posted, my classmates were shocked that I was our grade’s lone Harvard-bound senior. (David Federman’s yearbook prediction: ??? FILL IN LATER.) But my teachers weren’t. My letter of recommendation from Mrs. Rice made that much clear. (Eager to read her formal appraisal of my virtues, I overstated the number of copies I needed. When she handed me the stack of envelopes, I giddily retreated to the boys’ bathroom, tore one open, and inhaled her praise like a line of cocaine in the fetid stall.) She wrote that I was “one of the most gifted students I have encountered in my twenty-four years teaching ​English at Garret Hobart High, already in possession of quite a fancy prose style (that sometimes goes over my head, I must admit!), although I can sense the immense strain human interactions put on him, whether in classroom discussions or ​individual conversations. It would be wonderful if David shared his observations more in class with his peers, who would surely benefit. But I have the utmost confidence that, with the properly nurturing environment, this young man, somewhat of a loner, will come out of his shell and be as expansive and eloquent in person as he is on the page.” I looked at Steven, the extroverted physicist in training, the trajectory of his impassioned career already plotted with a suite of differential equations he had memorized, his shell long since shucked. “I guess I’m still waiting to really get into something,” I said. “And if that doesn’t happen, there’s always a life of crime.” Steven waited a moment before laughing. Later that afternoon, the two of us headed downstairs for an orientation meeting. Steven swatted the casings of all the doorframes we passed through and leapt the last three steps of each flight of stairs while holding the railing. A few dozen freshmen mingled in the basement common room, key cards dangling over chests from crimson lanyards. Taxonomies hadn’t been determined yet, hierarchies hadn’t formed. We were loose change about to be dropped into a sorter that would roll us up by denomination. “Lot of cute girls here,” Steven said to me. He plopped himself on a couch and began chatting up a girl who wore a pink pair of those rubber shoes that individuate one’s toes like gloves. I took the seat on his other side. A number of “cute” girls did indeed dot the couches and folding chairs, even one or two who could compete with Hobart High’s Heidi McMasters. (Our sole exchange, in eighth-grade earth science: HEIDI: “Do you have a pen?” DAVID: [immediately hands her his best pen, never sees it again]) A boy with chiseled forearms fuzzed with blond hair sat on the floor to my left. He was also not speaking to anyone, but seemed indifferent. I could tell he’d be popular. “David,” I said, extending my hand. He shook it and looked around the room. “Jake.” “Are you from New York?” I asked, gesturing to his Yankees hat. “Connecticut.” His face lit up as he raised his hand. Another freshman swaggered up to him and slapped it. I introduced myself to the new guy. “Phil,” he said. They began talking about several people to whom they referred only by last names. “You guys know each other from high school?” I asked. “Same athletic conference,” Phil said. “Oh, what sport?” “Baseball,” he answered without looking at me. Llabaseb, I thought—no, llabesab. I hadn’t reversed a word in a month or two; I was getting rusty, far from the fluency of my younger years. At twelve, without many interlocutors to speak of (or to), I began a dialogue with language itself, mentally reversing nearly every word I encountered in speech, signs, objects I saw: tucitcennoc (Connecticut), citelhta (athletic), draynal (lanyard). Doing so came naturally—I’d visualize the word, reading it from right to left, syllable by syllable— and it surprised me when it impressed others. My verbal ability was discovered that year at summer camp, where for three days all the kids besieged me with requests to apply it to their names; Edward Park’s was a crowd-pleaser. For those seventy-two hours I reveled in a social power I’d never had before, awaiting all the gnolefil spihsdneirf that would sprout from a few disordered words. Then the boy who could flip his eyelids inside out stole my thunder and, upon returning to the solitude of my parents’ house, I graduated to a new lexical pastime: memorizing vocabulary lists in my older sister’s SAT books. Words turned around in my mind only intermittently thereafter. When the Harvard application solicited me to write about a meaningful “background, identity, interest, or talent,” though, I was reminded of that summer I felt genuinely special. “To continuously reflect the world in a linguistic mirror,” I postulated in the essay, “is to question the ontological arbitrariness of everything and everyone. Why is an apple not an elppa, nor, for that matter, an orange? Why am I me and not you?” I titled it “Backwords” and typed the whole thing in a reverse font and word order (by line), preparing to mail in a hard copy so that the reader needed to hold it up in front of a mirror. My parents, however, feared the admissions committee would think it was gibberish. Bowing to prudence, I compromised by writing the body of the essay normally and changing just the title to . My “unique” essay had “rather intrigued” the Harvard admissions committee, my guidance counselor later informed me. I waited for a lull in conversation between the baseball players. “Ekaj and lihp,” I said. “What?” Jake asked. “A li ...
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Final Answer


Surname 1

Professors Name
Students Name
1. Veronica perspective
Loner has the same context as "You" since David is madly in love with Veronica that he
went a mile to date his friend to be close to her. In the film "You," Joe, also a lover of books, got
obsessed with Beck after their first encounter in the library. Joe went an extra mile in tracing and
stocking every Becks' information to understand her life (Teddy Wayne, 2016).
In the book, the immense obsession of David and the fact that he dated Sarah did not
bother him that he could lose his relationship in search of false love. David started to stock
Veronica where he learned that he was dating a wealthy man. He becomes a sociopath and lacks
empathy since he broke his virginity forcefully to Sarah to be ready for Veronica (Teddy Wayne,
Same as David, Veronica had a bad habit of using other students to write her
assignments. Veronica had been using David the whole time as an item of -study for noxious
male behavior, stating to him as "Beta" in contrast to her "Alpha" boyfriend. Fueled by anger,
David breaks into her dormitory, hides in her closet, and waits until she is a sleep and intoxicated
in her bed. He then attempts to rape her, but she wakes up and alerts Sara, who rescues her.
From Veronica's Point of view, David was a rapist, a sociopath who was unstable in
mind. Though he was in love with Veronica, he had no r...

University of Virginia

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