What is the real reason king wants devante

in paragraph 6 of "sinners in the hands of an angry god" by jonathan edwards, he talks about how doing good things alone will not save men from going to hell because they're at the mercy of the will of god. "spiritual reform" provides men with a false sense of safety.

1. this would be first person. it would be like "i walked home from school today" they are the narrator of the story and is a character as well.

2. first person because they used the word "i" in the quote.

3. i'm really not sure about this one i'm really sorry i never read it so i wouldn't know how to answer it. 

4. it would be character vs. society because everyone he meets there is always a conflict of some sort because he's stuck in his daydream.

5. it would be sadness at the loss of youth because the title itself tells us it's about age so it couldn't be about regret. and the tone just sounds sad, not angry. 

i hope this !

i’m writing a memoir and i’ve been given the great suggestion of placing a ‘sub-narrative’ within some of the chapters – sort of, what was going on with me in the grand scheme of things.

i was wondering how to format this so that it is very obvious we are stepping out the of story.

firstly is a change in font from serif to sans workable? i also use dashes for a scene change. was thinking of using a different scene-changer too.

here’s a (shortened) example:

university – or what’s known as ‘uni’ in australia – were some of the best days of my life. where else do you get to potter around in a great location, have very little responsibility, learn lots of things, do lots of things and walk out four years later with a bonus – a degree!

with my university years i had immersed myself into community of intelligent ambitious people. generally everyone had a confidence about themselves. they knew where they were going in life and weren’t threatened by others.

—–

next normal paragraph continues here…

(sorry couldn’t show the fonts in this comment field)

too much?

each morning i wrote my name

on the dusty cabinet, then crossed

the dining table in script, scrawled

in capitals on the backs of chairs,

practicing signatures like scales

while mother followed squirting

linseed from a burping can