Интерпретация художественного текста (практикум). Учебное пособие

with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick

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prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease-of the joy that

kills.

Task 3. Focus on the plot. Answer the following questions

1.Why was a great care taken of telling Mrs. Mallard the truth?

2.What was the way to tell Mrs. Mallard the news?

3.What caused the trouble?

4.What was Mrs. Mallard’s reaction to the news?

5.What did the main character feel?

6.Why were Josephine and Richards afraid?

7.What thought did appear in Mrs. Mallard’s mind?

8.Did Mrs. Mallard love her husband?

9.Who opened the front door with the latchkey?

10.What was Mrs. Mallard’s behavior?

11.How did the family react to Mr. Mallard’s arrival?

12.Was Mrs. Mallard happy to know her husband was alive? 13.What did the doctors say?

Task 4. Focus on the themes. Study the list below, what is/are more suitable for this story. Prove your ideas using the text.

1)love and marriage;

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2)family life;

3)love and hatred;

4)men and women relationships;

5)marriage and happiness.

Task 5. Go back to the text and study the characters.

1.Who are the characters of the story?

2.Is the main character strong or weak?

3.Is Mrs. Mallard a dynamic or static character?

Task 6. Study the style.

1)Find examples of irony in the story; identify its type;

2)Define the type of narration;

3)Study the quotes below to find out their stylistic means and value:

a)It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message;

b)… if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome;

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

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c)There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air

d)"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

Task 7. Make up the whole text analysis according to the given scheme and using the clichés from the appendix (see Appendices A and B).

4 ELEVEN by Sandra Cisneros

Task 1. Browse the information about the author.

Sandra Cisneros (1954 - ) is a Latina American novelist and poet. Her work experiments with literary forms and investigates emerging subject positions, which Cisneros herself attributes to growing up in a context of cultural hybridity and economic inequality that endowed her with unique stories to tell. She is the recipient of numerous awards including a National Endowment for the

Arts Fellowship, and is regarded as a key figure in Chicana literature6.

6 Biographical data of the author quoted here come from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandra_Cisneros.

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She was born on December 20, 1954, in Chicago, Illinois. One of seven children and the only daughter, she has written extensively about the Latina experience in the United States. Cisneros is best known for The House on Mango Street (1984), which tells the story of a young Latina woman coming of age in Chicago. The novel has sold more than two million copies.

Cisneros has explored many literary forms in her work. She wrote several collections of poetry, including My Wicked, Wicked Ways (1987), which was well received by critics. She created an impressionistic portrait of life on the border between the United States and Mexico through a series of vignettes in Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories (1991).

Cisneros has received numerous awards for her work, including the MacArthur Foundation Fellowship in 1995 and the Texas Medal of the Arts Award in 2003. She lives in San Antonio, Texas.

Task 2. Read the story7.

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are – underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

7 The text of the story comes from http://www.stjohns-chs.org/english/nwixon_courses/english-9-111/eleven-by- sandra-cisneros.pdf.

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You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.

Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't min instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.

"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."

"Not mine," says everybody. "Not me."

"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.

Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that, all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.

"That's not, I don't , you’re not...Not mine," I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.

Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirtytwo, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

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But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.

In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the school yard fence, or even leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody , "Now Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't' care.

"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."

"But it's not-"

"Now!" Mrs. Price says.

This is when I wish I wasn't eleven, because all the years inside of me ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two and one the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.

That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I’m eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me, until there aren't any more tears left in shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.

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Today I'm eleven. There's cake Mama's making for tonight, and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat and everybody will sing only it's too late.

I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny eyes to see it.

Task 3. Follow the link to listen to Sandra Cisneros reading the given story and making some commentary https://vimeo.com/9245804.

Task 4. Focus on the plot. Answer the following questions.

1.What have you learnt about the character from the thoughts and feelings she shares?

2.What does it mean to be eleven?

3.Why does the girl want to be 102 years old?

4.What mistake has Mrs. Pride made?

5.Why did not Rachel refuse to put on the sweater?

6.How has this birthday ended up for Rachel?

7.Why does Rachel say “… only it's too late” at the end of the story?

8.Is the age of eleven a special life stage in any way?

Task 5. Focus on the text. Do the tasks below.

1.Who narrates the story?

2.What are the narrative techniques employed in the story?

3.The narration of the given type is typically referred to as internal. What effect does it produce on the reader?

4.Identify the type of conflict in the story. Justify your point of view.

5.The text under analysis is an example of the coming-of-age story. Try to provide the evidence to prove the point.

Task 6. Focus on the themes. Reconstruct the binaries that represent the key problems of the story. Reflect upon them.

1.Minority culture – …

2.Injustice – …

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3. Maturity – …

Task 7. Focus on the characters.

1.Name the antagonist and protagonist of the story. What do these characters represent?

2.What method of characterization does the author employ to depict Rachel? What character traits of hers can you point out?

3.Describe the relationship between Rachel and her classmates; her

teacher.

4.Identify the nationalities of the characters. What can help you to make the right judgement?

5.Rachel says that Phyllis Lopez is “stupid”. Do you think she is objective?

6.Does each of the characters do the right thing? What could they have done differently?

Task 8. Focus on the style.

1.Define the term «Chicana literature». Can the text under analysis be

considered an example of this literature.

2. In her interview Sandra Cisneros said: “When I think how I see myself, I would have to say at age eleven. I know I’m older on the outside, but inside I’m eleven. I’m the girl in the picture with the skinny arms and a crumpled shirt and crooked hair. I didn’t like school because all they saw was the outside of me.” What details in the text can convince you that the author really feels she is still eleven and remembers this stage of her life?

3. The author appeals to the readers’ senses creating a range of vivid word pictures such as “My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me”. Note down such sensory details that you might find in the text.

4.Quote the text to give an example of a simile. Comment upon the effect

created.

5.Report upon the connotative meaning of the words Rachel uses in her

speech.

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6. Study the text to identify the contrast. What are the contrasting images and ideas?

Task 9. Make up the whole text analysis according to the given scheme and using the clichés from the appendix (see Appendices A and B).

5 The OLD MAN at the BRIDGE by Ernest Hemingway

Task 1. Browse the information about the author.

Ernest Hemingway (1899–1961) was a Nobel Prize winner; one of the great American 20th century novelists.

Born on July 21, 1899, in Cicero (now in Oak Park), Illinois, Ernest Hemingway served in World War I and worked in journalism before publishing his story collection In Our Time. He was renowned for novels like

The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea, which won the 1953 Pulitzer. In 1954, Hemingway won the Nobel Prize. He committed suicide on July 2, 1961, in Ketchum, Idaho.

Hemingway left behind an impressive body of work and an iconic style that still influences writers today. His personality and constant pursuit of adventure loomed almost as large as his creative talent.

When asked by George Plimpton about the function of his art, Hemingway proved once again to be a master of the "one true sentence": "From things that have happened and from things as they exist and from all things that you know and all those you cannot know, you make something through your invention that is not a representation but a whole new thing truer than anything true and alive, and you make it alive, and if you make it well enough, you give it immortality".

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