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Answer the questions.
1 What is the key idea in the first paragraph?
2 What does the author do in the next two paragraps?
3 How does the author contrast the two students with the narrator and his friends? Pick up evaluative words to illustrate it.
4 Find the key sentence of the 4th paragraph. How many pargraphs extend the idea?
5 What is the next main idea of the story? Formulate it in a sentence.
6 What device does the author emply in the paragraph starting with “ I don’t understand German myself...”?
7 What did the narrator and his friends do to pretend they understood the song?
8 Why do you think the two young men chose to sit behind the Professor?
9 How does the author describe the party’s reaction to the song? Pick up the key words to show the intensity of their emotions.
10 Likewise show the reaction of Mr Slossen Boschen on ending his air.
Analysis of the text. Look for stylistic devices and expresstive means in the text.
1 Say which devices prevail in the text, lexical or syntactic?
2 What purpose does the contrast stated by the author at the beginning of the story play in the story?
3 What function/s do sentences in brackets perform?
4 What did the two young men actually do to the party? Which part of the story proves it?
5 In your opinion, what is the message of the story?
224 Analyse the story considering the following:
· Plot structure
· Narrative structure: type of narration
· The setting and its functions
· Type of conflict: external, internal
· The characters and characterization: direct/indirect
· Means of characterization: lexical, syntactic, others.
· Your appreciation of the story and attitude towards the problem/s raised
The texts below are taken from stories and novels by British and American authors. Read them and prepare their stylistic anaysis.
I think it is vital that I give some instructions concerning the English language. I cannot do better than to repeat – with slight alterations – what I have said on this subject before.
When I was sent to England in 1938 I thought I knew English fairly well. In Budapest my English proved quite sufficient. I could get along with it. On arrival in this country, I found that Budapest English was quite different from London English. I should not like to seem biased, but I found Budapest English much better in many ways.
In England I found two difficulties. First: I did not understand people, and secondly: they did not understand me. It was easier for written texts. Whenever I read a leading article in The Times, I understood everything perfectly well, except that I could never make out whether The Times was for or against something. In those days I put this down to my lack of knowledge of English.
The first step in my progress was when people started understanding me while I still could not understand them. This was the most talkative period of my life. Trying to hide my shortcomings, I went on talking, keeping the conversation as unilateral as possible. I reached the stage of intelligibility fairly quickly, thanks to a friend of mine who discovered an important linguistic secret, namely that the English mutter and mumble. Once we noticed a sausage-like thing in a shop window marked PORK BRAWN. We mistook it for a Continental kind of sausage and decided to buy some for our supper. We entered the shop and I said: ‘A quarter of pork brawn please.’ ‘What was that?’ asked the shopkeeper looking scared. ‘A quarter of pork brawn, please,’ I repeated, still with a certain nonchalance. I repeated it again. I repeated it a dozen times with no success. I talked slowly and softly; I shouted; I talked in the way one talks to the mentally deficient; I talked as one talks to the deaf and finally I tried baby-talk. The shopkeeper still had no idea whether we wanted to buy or sell something. Then my friend had a brain-wave. ‘ Leave it to me,’ he said in Hungarian and started mumbling under his nose in a hardly audible and unintelligible manner. The shopkeeper’s eyes lit: ‘I see,’ he said happily, ‘ you want a quarter of pork brawn. Why didn’t you say so?’
The next stage was that I began to understand foreigners but not the English or the Americans. The more atrocious a foreign accent someone had, the clearer he sounded to me.
But time passed and my knowledge and understanding of English grew slowly. Until the time came when I began to be very proud of my knowledge of English. Luckily, every now and then one goes through a sobering experience which teaches one to be more humble. Some years ago, my mother came her from Hungary on a visit. She expressed her wish to take English lessons at an L.C.C. class, which some of her friends attended. I accompanied her to the school and we were received by a commissionaire. I enquired about the various classes and said that were interested in the class for beginners. I received all the necessary information and conducted a lengthy conversation with the man, in the belief that my English sounded vigorous and idiomatic. Finally, I paid the fees for my mother. He looked at me with astonishment and asked: ‘Only for one? And what about you?’
A true-born Englishman does not know any language. He does not speak English too well either but, at least, he is not proud of this. He is, however, immensely proud of not knowing any foreign languages. Indeed, inability to speak foreign languages seems to be the major, if not the only, intellectual achievement of the average Englishman.
(From ‘How to be a Brit’ by George Mikes)
My greatest difficulty in turning myself into a true Britisher was the Art of Shopping. In my silly and primitive Continental way, I believed that the aim of shopping was to buy things; to buy things, moreover, you needed or fancied. Today I know that (a) shopping is a social – as opposed to a commercial – activity and (b) its aim is to help the shopkeeper to get rid of all that junk.
Shopping begins with queuing. If you want to become a true Briton, you must still be fond of queuing. An erstwhile war-time necessity had become a national entertainment. Just as the Latins need an opportunity of going berserk every now and then in order to let off steam, so the British are in need of certain excesses, certain wild bouts of self-discipline. A man in a queue is a fair man; he is minding his own business; he lives and lets live; he gives the other fellow a chance; he practises a duty while waiting to practise his own rights; he does almost everything an Englishman believes in doing. A man in a queue is as much the image of a Spaniard or a man with a two-foot of an American.
When your turn comes at last in the shop, disregard the queue behind you. They would feel let down if you deprived them of their right to wait and be virtuous. Do not utter a word about the goods you wish to buy. Ask the shopkeeper about his health, his wife, his children, his dogs, cats, goldfish, and budgerigars; his holiday plans, his discarded holiday plans and about his last two or three holidays; his views on the weather, the test match; discuss the topical and more entertaining murder cases, etc., etc., and , naturally answer all his questions.
A few further rules for true Britons:
1. Never criticize anybody’s wares, still less return anything to the shop if it turns out to be faulty, rotten or falling to bits. Not only might this embarrass the shopkeeper but it might also infringe one of the fundamental civil rights of all Englishmen, secured in Magna Carta: to sell rubbish to the public. This system has its own impenetrable logic. With tailors, dressmakers and hairdressers you may be as unreasonable as you choose. But to give back a singularly piece of meat to a butcher when you have asked for a singularly thin one is fussing. To insist on records of Aida, failing to be content with Tristan and Isolde or the Mikado instead of (when the dealer has made it clear that he would rather get rid of these two) is extremely un-English. Milder and truer types of Britons are known to have bought typewriters instead of tape-recorders, bubble-cars instead of bedroom suites and grand pianos instead of going to the Costa Brava for their holidays.
2. Always be polite to shop assistants. Never talk back to them; never argue; never speak to them unless spoken to. If they are curt, sarcastic or rude to you, remember that they might be in a bad mood.
3. If there happens to be no queue in a shop when you arrive, never be impatient if no one takes the slightest notice of you. Do not disturb the assistants in their tête-à-tête; never disturb the one who stands in the corner gazing at you with bemused curiosity. There is nothing personal in the fact that they ignore you: they are simply Miltonists All English shop assistants are Miltonists. A Miltonist firmly believes that ‘they also serve who only stand and wait.’
(From ‘How to be a Brit’ by George Mikes)
(Rudy Baylor finishes law school in a month’s time. As part of his legal practice, he is asked to give legal advice to the Blacks, Dot and Buddy, an elderly couple, to get their insurance money from the Great Benefit, an insurance company which refuses to do it. So he starts looking into the matter.)
In a dark and private corner in the basement of the library, behind stacks of cracked and ancient law books and hidden from view, I find my favourite study carrel sitting all alone, just waiting for me as it has for many months now. It’s officially reserved in my name. The corner is windowless and at times damp and cold, and for this reason few people venture near here. I’ve spent hours in this, my private little burrow, briefing cases and studying for exams. And for the past weeks, I’ve sat here for many aching hours wondering what happened to her and asking myself at what point I let her get away. I torment myself here. The flat desktop is surrounded on three sides by panels, and I’ve memorized the contour of the wood grain on each small wall. I can cry without getting caught. I can even curse at a low decibel, and no one will hear.
Many times during the glorious affair, Sara joined me here, and we studied together with our chairs sitting snugly side by side. We could giggle and laugh and no one cared. We could kiss and touch and no one saw. At this moment, in the depths of this depression and sorrow, I can almost smell her perfume.
I really should find another place in this sprawling labyrinth to study. Now, when I stare at the panels around me, I see her face and I remember the feel of her legs, and I’m immediately overcome with a deadening heartache that paralyzes me. She was here, just weeks ago! And now someone else is touching those legs.
I take the Blacks’ stack of papers and walk upstairs to the insurance section of the library. My movements are slow but my eyes dart quickly in all directions. Sara doesn’t come here much any more, but I’ve seen her couple of times.
I spread Dot’s papers on an abandoned table between the stacks, and read once again the Stupid Letter. It is shocking and mean, and obviously written by someone convinced that Dot and Buddy would never show it to a lawyer. I read it again, and become aware that the heartache has begun to subside – it comes and goes, and I’m learning to deal with it.
Sara Plankmore is also a third-year student, and she’s the only girl I’ve ever loved. She dumped me four months ago for an Ivy Leaguer, a local blueblood. She told me they were old friends from high school, and they somehow bumped into each other during Christmas break. The romance was rekindled, and she hated to do it to me, but life goes on. There’s a strong rumor floating around these halls that she’s pregnant. I actually vomited when I first heard about it.
I examine the Blacks’ policy with Great Benefit, and take pages of notes. It reads like Sanskrit. I organize the letters and claim forms and medical reports. Sara has disappeared for a moment, and I’ve become lost in a disputed insurance claim that stinks more and more.
The policy was purchased for eighteen dollars a week from the Great Benefit Life Insurance Company of Cleveland, Ohio. I study the debit book, a little journal used to record the weekly payments. It appears as though the agent, Bobby Ott, actually visited the Blacks every week.
I begin writing a summary of the case. I start with the date the policy was issued, then chronologically list each significant event. Great Benefit, in writing, denied coverage eight times. The eight was, of course, the Stupid Letter. I can hear Max Leuberg whistling and laughing when he reads this letter. I smell blood.
From The Rainmaker by John Grisham
Note: Ivy Leaguer ученик или выпускник одного из университетов или колледжей "Лиги плюща" Ivy League "Лига плюща" ( объединение 8 старейших привилегированны университетов и колледжей северо-запада США ).
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