Интерпретация художественного текста (практикум). Учебное пособие

whom he had met in Germany. The couple had two daughters and three sons. The second important woman in Puzo’s life was Carol Gino, Erika’s nurse who became Puzo’s companion after Erika’s death in 1978.

In 1950, The American Vanguard published Puzo’s story, The Last Christmas. This was Puzo’s first published work. All the while writing, Puzo worked at various government offices as administrative assistant and as writer/editor at different publications. Deciding to choose writing as a career at the age of twenty-eight, Puzo published his first novel, The Dark Arena in 1955. Although the book was critically welcomed with excellent reviews it did not prove to be of much help during Puzo’s financial crunch. Ten years later, his second book, The Fortunate Pilgrim was published giving Puzo the same response.

The setbacks of the first two books did not stop Puzo from giving it another try and this time he produced a bestseller. The Godfather was published in 1969 which was a huge success. It remained on The New York Times bestsellers list for sixty-seven weeks establishing Puzo as one of the greatest writers in the world. The success made way for two sequels, The Godfather II and The Godfather III. The saga was adapted to screen by director, Francis Ford Coppola which made The Godfather a worldwide phenomenon.

There was no looking back after The Godfather and Puzo continued to produce a number of bestselling novels including Fools die (1978), The Sicilian (1984), The Fourth K. (1991) and The Last Don (1996). Two more novels, Omerta (2000) and The Family (2002) were published posthumously. On July, 2, 1999, Mario Puzo died in Bay Shore, New York11.

Task 2. Read the story.

… Amerigo Bonasera followed Hagen into the corner room of the house and found Don Corleone sitting behind a huge desk. Sonny Corleone was standing by the window, looking out into the garden. For the first time that afternoon the Don behaved coolly. He did not embrace the visitor or shake hands. The sallow-faced

11 Biographical data of the author quoted here come from http://www.famousauthors.org/mario-puzo.

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undertaker owed his invitation to the fact that his wife and the wife of the Don were the closest of friends. Amerigo Bonasera himself was in severe disfavor with Don Corleone.

Bonasera began his request obliquely and cleverly. “You must excuse my daughter, your wife’s goddaughter, for not doing your family the respect of coming today. She is in the hospital still.” He glanced at Sonny Corleone and Tom Hagen to indicate that he did not wish to speak before them. But the Don was merciless.

“We all know of your daughter’s misfortune,” Don Corleone said. “If I can help her in any way, you have only to speak. My wife is her godmother after all. I have never forgotten that honor.” This was a rebuke. The undertaker never called

Don Corleone, “Godfather” as custom dictated.

Bonasera, ashen-faced, asked, directly now, “May I speak to you alone?” Don Corleone shook his head. “I trust these two men with my life. They are

my two right arms. I cannot insult them by sending them away.”

The undertaker closed his eyes for a moment and then began to speak. His voice was quiet, the voice he used to console the bereaved. “I raised my daughter in the American fashion. I believe in America. America has made my fortune. I gave my daughter her freedom and yet taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a ‘boy friend,’ not an Italian. She went to the movies with him. She stayed out late.

But he never came to meet her parents. I accepted all this without a protest, the fault is mine. Two months ago he took her for a drive. He had a masculine friend with him. They made her drink whiskey and then they tried to take advantage of her. She resisted. She kept her honor. They beat her. Like an animal. When I went to the hospital she had two black eyes. Her nose was broken. Her jaw was shattered. They had to wire it together. She wept through her pain. ‘Father, Father, why did they do it? Why did they do this to me?’ And I wept.” Bonasera could not speak further, he was weeping now though his voice had not betrayed his emotion.

Don Corleone, as if against his will, made a gesture of sympathy and Bonasera went on, his voice human with suffering. “Why did I weep? She was the light of my life, an affectionate daughter. A beautiful girl. She trusted people and now she will

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never trust them again. She will never be beautiful again.” He was trembling, his sallow face flushed an ugly dark red.

“I went to the police like a good American. The two boys were arrested. They were brought to trial. The evidence was overwhelming and they pleaded guilty. The judge sentenced them to three years in prison and suspended the sentence. They went free that very day. I stood in the courtroom like a fool and those bastards smiled at me. And then I said to my wife: ‘We must go to Don Corleone for justice.”

The Don had bowed his head to show respect for the man’s grief. But when he spoke, the words were cold with offended dignity. “Why did you go to the police? Why didn’t you come to me at the beginning of this affair?”

Bonasera muttered almost inaudibly, “What do you want of me? Tell me what you wish. But do what I beg you to do.” There was something almost insolent in his words.

Don Corleone said gravely, “And what is that?”

Bonasera glanced at Hagen and Sonny Corleone and shook his head. The Don, still sitting at Hagen’s desk, inclined his body toward the undertaker. Bonasera hesitated, then bent down and put his lips so close to the Don’s hairy ear that they touched. Don Corleone listened like a priest in the confessional, gazing away into the distance, impassive, remote. They stood so for a long moment until Bonasera finished whispering and straightened to his full height. The Don looked up gravely at Bonasera. Bonasera, his face flushed, returned the stare unflinchingly.

Finally the Don spoke. “That I cannot do. You are being carried away.” Bonasera said loudly, clearly, “I will pay you anything you ask.” On hearing

this, Hagen flinched, a nervous flick of his head. Sonny Corleone folded his arms, smiled sardonically as he turned from the window to watch the scene in the room for the first time.

Don Corleone rose from behind the desk. His face was still impassive but his voice rang like cold death. “We have known each other many years, you and I,” he said to the undertaker, “but until this day you never came to me for counsel or help. I can’t remember the last time you invited me to your house for coffee though my

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wife is godmother to your only child. Let us be frank. You spurned my friendship. You feared to be in my debt.”

Bonasera murmured, “I didn’t want to get into trouble.”

The Don held up his hand. “No. Don’t speak. You found America a paradise.

You had a good trade, you made a good living, you thought the world a harmless place where you could take your pleasure as you willed. You never armed yourself with true friends. After all, the police guarded you, there were courts of law, you and yours could come to no harm. You did not need Don Corleone. Very well. My feelings were wounded but I am not that sort of person why thrusts his friendship on those who do not value it – on those who think me of little account.” The Don paused and gave the undertaker a polite, ironic smile. “Now you come to me and say, ‘Don Corleone give me justice.’ And you do not ask with respect. You do not offer me your friendship. You come into my home on the bridal day of my daughter and you ask me to do murder and you say”– here the Don’s voice became a scornful mimicry” ‘I will pay you anything.’ No, no, I am not offended, but what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?”

Bonasera cried out in his anguish and his fear, “America has been good to me. I wanted to be a good citizen. I wanted my child to be American.”

The Don clapped his hands together with decisive approval. “Well spoken.

Very fine. Then you have nothing to complain about. The judge has ruled. America has ruled. Bring your daughter flowers and a box of candy when you go visit her in the hospital. That will comfort her. Be content. After all, this is not a serious affair, the boys were young, high-spirited, and one of them is the son of a powerful politician. No, my dear Amerigo, you have always been honest. I must admit, though you spurned my friendship, that I would trust the given word of Amerigo Bonasera more than I would any other man’s. So give me your word that you will put aside this madness. It is not American. Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes.”

The cruel and contemptuous irony with which all this was said, the controlled anger of the Don, reduced the poor undertaker to a quivering jelly but he spoke up bravely again. “I ask you for justice.”

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Don Corleone said curtly, “The court gave you justice.”

Bonasera shook his head stubbornly. “No. They gave the youths justice. They did not give me justice.”

The Don acknowledged this fine distinction with an approving nod, then asked, “What is your justice?”

“An eye for an eye,” Bonasera said.

“You asked for more,” the Don said. “Your daughter is alive.”

Bonasera said reluctantly, “Let them suffer as she suffers.” The Don waited for him to speak further. Bonasera screwed up the last of his courage and said, “How much shall I pay you?” It was a despairing wail.

Don Corleone turned his back. It was a dismissal. Bonasera did not budge. Finally, sighing, a good-hearted man who cannot remain angry with an erring

friend, Don Corleone turned back to the undertaker, who was now as pale as one of his corpses. Don Corleone was gentle, patient. “Why do you fear to give your first allegiance to me?” he said. “You go to the law courts and wait for months. You spend money on lawyers who know full well you are to be made a fool of. You accept judgment from a judge who sells himself like the worst whore in the streets. Years gone by, when you needed money, you went to the banks and paid ruinous interest, waited hat in hand like a beggar while they sniffed around, poked their noses up your very asshole to make sure you could pay them back.” The Don paused, his voice became sterner.

“But if you had come to me, my purse would have been yours. If you had come to me for justice those scum who ruined your daughter would be weeping bitter tears this day. If by some misfortune an honest man like yourself made enemies they would become my enemies”– the Don raised his arm, finger pointing at Bonasera

“and then, believe me, they would fear you.”

Bonasera bowed his head and murmured in a strangled voice, “Be my friend. I accept.”

Don Corleone put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good,” he said, “you shall have your justice. Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to

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do me a service in return. Until that day, consider this justice a gift from my wife, your daughter’s godmother.”

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

1.What happened with Amerigo Bonasera’s daughter?

2.Who was Amerigo Bonasera to Don Carleone?

3.Who was Amerigo’s daughter to the Carleones?

4.Why was Amerigo Bonasera in severe disgrace with the Don?

5.What was dictated by the custom?

6.What made Amerigo Bonasera ask Don Carleone for help?

7.Why did the Don refuse Amerigo?

8.Why didn’t Bonasera come to the Don first?

9.What had Bonasera said that Don Carleone agreed to help him?

10.Who was in the room with the Don?

11.What did the Don suggest to Amerogo Bonasera?

12.Why was Bonasera gudged?

13.Why couldn’t the Don refuse Amerigo?

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)friendship;

2)loyalty;

3)sacrifice;

4)justice;

5)respect and traditions.

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

1.Who are the main characters of the story?

2.Do you sympathize with the main characters and why?

3.What could the main characters teach us?

4.Are the main characters strong or weak?

5.Are they major or minor?

Task 6. Study the style.

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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) “I raised my daughter in the American fashion. I believe in America. America has made my fortune. I gave my daughter her freedom and yet taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a ‘boy friend,’ not an Italian. She went to the movies with him. She stayed out late. But he never came to meet her parents.”

b)The Don clapped his hands together with decisive approval. “Well

spoken. Very fine. Then you have nothing to complain about. The judge has ruled. America has ruled. Bring your daughter flowers and a box of candy when you go visit her in the hospital. That will comfort her. Be content. After all, this is not a serious affair, the boys were young, high-spirited, and one of them is the son of a powerful politician. No, my dear Amerigo, you have always been honest. I must admit, though you spurned my friendship, that I would trust the given word of

Amerigo Bonasera more than I would any other man’s. So give me your word that you will put aside this madness. It is not American. Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes.”

c) Don Corleone said curtly, “The court gave you justice.” Bonasera shook his head stubbornly. “No. They gave the youths justice. They did not give me justice.” The Don acknowledged this fine distinction with an approving nod, then asked, “What is your justice?” “An eye for an eye,” Bonasera said. “You asked for more,” the Don said. “Your daughter is alive.”

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).

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11 THE FLAW in the PLAN by Joanne Rowling

Task 1. Browse the information about the author.

Joanne Rowling was born in July 1965 at Yate General Hospital in England and grew up in Chepstow, Gwent where she went to Wyedean Comprehensive.

Jo left Chepstow for Exeter University, where she earned a French and Classics degree, her course including one year in Paris. As a postgraduate she moved to London and worked as a researcher at Amnesty International among other jobs. She started writing the

Harry Potter series during a delayed Manchester to London King’s Cross train journey, and during the next five years, outlined the plots for each book and began writing the first novel.

Jo then moved to northern Portugal, where she taught English as a foreign language. She married in October 1992 and gave birth to a daughter in 1993. When the marriage ended, she and Jessica returned to the UK to live in Edinburgh, where Harry Potter & the Philosopher’s Stone was eventually completed. The book was first published by Bloomsbury Children’s Books in June 1997, under the name J.K. Rowling. The “K”, for Kathleen, her paternal grandmother’s name was added at her publisher’s request who thought that a woman’s name would not appeal to the target audience of young boys.

As well as an OBE for services to children’s literature, J.K. Rowling is the recipient of numerous awards and honorary degrees including the Prince of Asturias

Award for Concord, France’s Légion d’Honneur, and the Hans Christian Andersen

Literature Award, and she has been a Commencement Speaker at Harvard University USA. She supports a wide number of charitable causes through her charitable trust Volant, and is the founder of Lumos, a charity working to transform the lives of disadvantaged children12.

12 Biographical data of the author quoted here come from http://www.jkrowling.com/.

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Task 2. Read the story.

... “Harry,” sobbed Hagrid. “Oh, Harry... Harry...” Harry shut his eyes tight again. He knew that they were approaching the castle and strained his ears to distinguish, above the gleeful voices of the Death Eaters and their tramping footsteps, signs of life from those within. “Stop.” The Death Eaters came to a halt:

Harry heard them spreading out in a line facing the open front doors of the school. He could see, even through his closed lids, the reddish glow that meant light streamed upon him from the entrance hall. He waited. Any moment, the people for whom he had tried to die would see him, lying apparently dead, in Hagrid’s arms. “NO!” The scream was the more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound. He heard another woman laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in McGonagall’s despair. He squinted again for a single second and saw the open doorway filling with people, as the survivors of the battle came out onto the front steps to face their vanquishers and see the truth of Harry’s death for themselves. He saw Voldemort standing a little in front of him, stroking Nagini’s head with a single white finger. He closed his eyes again. “No!” “No!” “Harry! HARRY!” Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse than McGonagall’s; Harry wanted nothing more than to call back, yet he made himself lie silent, and their cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters, until - “SILENCE!” cried

Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced upon them all. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!” Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass. “You see?” said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding backward and forward right beside the place where he lay. “Harry

Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!” “He beat you!” yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more. “He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” said

Voldemort, and there was relish in his voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save

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himself -” But Voldemort broke off: Harry heard a scuffle and a shout, then another bang, a flash of light, and a grunt of pain; he opened his eyes an infinitesimal amount. Someone had broken free of the crowd and charged at Voldemort: Harry saw the figure hit the ground, Disarmed, Voldemort throwing the challenger’s wand aside and laughing. “And who is this?” he said in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?” Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh. “It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!

The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?” “Ah, yes, I remember,” said Voldemort, looking down at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man’s- land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his empty hands curled in fists. “So what if I am?” said Neville loudly. “You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater.

We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.” “I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” said Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, and there was an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold. ‘ “Very well,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard more danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most powerful curse. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he said quietly, “be it.” Still watching through his lashes, Harry saw Voldemort wave his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in Voldemort’s hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat. “There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar

Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?” He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still, then forced the hat onto Neville’s head, so that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding

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