Практичне заняття № 8

1. Проблеми вивчення індивідуального авторського стилю.

2. Види комунікації, стилістичний аспект досягнення комунікативної мети

3. Комунікативні жанри (за А. Вежбицькою)

4. Зробіть повний стилістичний аналіз тексту 4 (див. 4)

Арнольд И.В. Стилистика современного английского языка. – М., 1990. –Арнольд С 272-289

Texts for analysis

Text 1

B. Schiff

The Vatican target

1849 GREENWICH MEAN TIMS NORTHERN CALIFORNIA 11:49 А.М.

The trembling kept coming back.

She had to clench her fists and brace every muscle to fight it, to smother it. God, it was hard work, but even­tually, inevitably, it would fade. She could sigh and breathe again normally. And think. And try to figure some way to get out of this place, this bare, chilly room with its table and the wooden chairs pushed untidily against one wall. Battered, ancient things. Everything was old and rotten. Boards covered the windows. A single, unshaded bulb pro­vided light for the place. The room must have been pleasant in its day; it had a big fireplace, and the wood floor was of good quality. But it was obvious that the room hadn't been used for years, perhaps decades. Dampness had permeated the walls. They looked as if they would ooze if pressed.

The two guys who had brought her here were in the next room, talking in that damned language of theirs. In vain, she had tried to identify it. At first she was convinced they were Greek; then she realized it was only because one of the men reminded her of a local supermarket manager named Constandinidas. She had asked the men where they were from, but they told her not to ask questions.

She listened, trying desperately to make sense of the sounds she heard: intermittent traffic some distance away, a couple of airplanes, the creaking of the house.

Crazy. It made no sense. There was nothing to be gained by kidnapping her... kidnapping. The word sent a dart of fear through her. She thought of the Lindbergh baby, of bodies found buried in leaves. ...

Her head ached; her lips were dry. She had asked for a cup of coffee, but they had paid no attention....

Poor Toby. How could anyone be so goddam callous as to slaughter a sweet creature like Toby? Would his body still be there in the hall when her father got home? What a hell of a shock for him. What would he think? What would he do? Were the creeps going to call him and demand a ransom?

Madness. He wasn't rich. Surely, then, this must be a monstrous foul-up. Sorry, kid, we got the wrong girl. No hard feelings. But you've seen us, so. .. No, she couldn't waste time thinking of such things. What mattered was to organize and prepare, out-think the enemy, confound them.

But how?

God, I'm scared. I might die here; this might be the end of everything .. .finis, blank eternity.. ..

The trembling attacked her again. It swept over her with a kind of willful deliberation. A maddening rhythm. It was exhausting, fighting it. But she knew she couldn't give in. She had to keep up the battle.

She made herself think of revenge, of kicking the bas­tards in their **** ****, of hurting them, of seeing them cringe....

The thoughts calmed her. Timorously, gingerly, she per­mitted her muscles to relax. No trembling. Another attack repulsed.

She got up and walked about the room. Her footsteps sounded loud on the bare floor. She tapped her foot. She wished she could tap dance. That would bewilder them. And keep her warm.

How long had they traveled in the truck? An hour? She wasn't sure. About an hour. So, forty or fifty miles. Where could that be? She sighed. Only about ten thousand places. In stories, people always heard freight trains or rushing water that enabled them to pinpoint their locations. But what could you do with a few vague traffic noises and a plane or two? What did they tell you except that cars were traveling and airplanes were flying? You only knew that you were somewhere in the civilized world.

Text 2.

R. Laymon. The Woods are Dark.

A giant chased Cordie. She whimpered as she ran. Over a barren, glaring landscape of dunes.

Oh, if he caught her!

His shadow blocked the sun from her body. Such a cold shadow. She tried to run harder, but the sand clutched her feet, slowing her down.

The arms of the shadow reached out. A monstrous hand gripped her shoulder; its fingers felt dry as bone.

She bit off its little finger.

Roaring in pain, the giant released her. She ran on, out of the cold shadow, leaving the giant far behind. But she was lost, and the dunes were strange. She didn't want to be here, after dark.

Where were Моm and Dad?

They must be nearby. They wouldn't leave her all alone in this horrible place.

She tried to yell, but the giant's finger was still inside her mouth. She pulled it out.

How odd! It was just her size.

She stuck the giants finger onto her stump. A perfect fit.

She began running again, but the finger fell off and disappeared in the sand. Dropping to her knees, she raked through the sand trying to find it.

Ah, here it is!

She pulled, but it was stuck. She pulled harder. Out of the sand came an entire hand, an arm...

She staggered back, suddenly afraid.

Someone buried in the sand was rising.

He sat up, sand spilling from his body, and grinned at her. "Hi, Cordie. *

"Ben? I thought you were dead."

"Not me,” he said, and brushed sand out of his hair.

No, not sand. Ants.

"Ben!"

He brushed harder. His head tumbled off, and dropped onto his lap, and Cordie sat up screaming.

She was in the hut.

Lily sat at her side. "Nightmare?" the girl asked.

Cordie raised her hand. It was wrapped in a bloody rag. The hand pulsed with pain. "My finger," she said.

"Yeah. Well, you're lucky that's all you lost. Grar doesn't trust you much."

"I told him I'd do it. What does he want! Christ, my fingerF

"We've gotta get going. Come on!

She crawled behind Lily, keeping her injured hand off the ground. The sunlight outside hurt her eyes. Squinting, she got to her feet.

Grar came forward, his skirt of hair float­ing over his legs. He held a sword. It looked to Cordie like a saber from a Civil War movie. He handed it to Lily, and spoke in the other language.

Lily nodded. She turned to Cordie. "Okay. This way."

The group of Krulls parted, and Cordie faced the landscape of pikes and heads. She jerked her arm free of Lily's grip.

"Your friends are in the cabin."

She shook her bead. She felt numb.

"Here. This is for you." Lily held out the saber, hilt first. "Use it on the guy."

She raised her arm. Saw her hand close around the hilt. The weight of the sword dragged her arm down like an anchor.

"Get going," Lily said. "The quicker you get it done, the quicker we can get our asses out of here." She saw fear in Lily's eyes. "We don't want to be around when he comes back."

Cordie couldn't move.

Lily pushed her, and she began to walk. The heads seemed to bob and sway in her vision. A bird fluttered down. A black bird. It perched on the nearest head, and pecked a gash in the forehead. The skin split, but no blood flowed.

Something familiar..

That face.

Ben!

Text 3.

Julian May

The Metaconcert

DU PAGE COUNTY. ILLINOIS, EARTH 20 JANUARY 1993

As the chairman of the Republican national Committee came slowly to the point, Kieran O’Connor’s attention wandered – abd thus it was that he heard the unaccountable mental voice.

Desiccated embyos returned to water... floating in aloof sadness...

“Even though some people may think it premature to consider such a matter at this early date, let me assure you that the Nominating Committee of the Republican party does not,” Jason Cassidy said. “We suffered a devastating defeat in November. The incumbent beat our ass into the dust. He’s riding high on the platform of economic prosperity that the Democrats stole from us, and he’s managed to convince the voters that the metapsychic peace initiative and the disarmament program are both personal triumths.”

Floating in the lustrous sea... letting their dry blood reconstitute... pumping out, regaining form...

Do any of the rest of you hear that voice? Kiernan demanded.

Four of the five men sitting around the fireplace with him on that bittery cold night strained their farsense, listening. The other man, Brigadier General Lloyd A. Baumgarthner, USAF (Ret.), only sipped his Drambui and stared at the Aubusson carpet in front of Kiernan O’Connor’s hearth. He wondered, in a subvocalization that was clarly perceptible to the telepaths, just when the National Committee Chairman would get to the point and offer him the 1996 Republican presidential nomination.

Jason Cassidy said, “There was a time when candidates were picked in smoke-filled rooms at the nominating convention itself. Later, primaries influenced the nomination and presidential aspir­ants began their campaign a year in advance." I hear absolutely zilch Kier.

Len Windham said: I don't get anything but the subvocals of our male Cinderella impatient for his glass-slipper fitting. Would you look at that noble profile? Holy Gary Cooper! And the silver cowlick will be a political cartoonist's delight.

Neville Garrett said: I don't detect anybody.

Arnold Pakkala said: Nor do 1... The domestic staff was given the night free as you ordered. There is no one in the house except the six of us.

"Today," Cassidy droned on, "the presidential nominating pro­cess is infinitely more complex and requires long-range strategic thinking. The National Committee has been working on that strat­egy ever since our November defeat, in consultation with Mr. Windham and Mr. Garrett, our Party poll and media specialists, and certain senior advisers."

Like Mr. Moneybags Kieran O'Connor! General Baumgartner said to himself. And now it's all perfectly clear. Why he acquired McGuigan-Duncan Aerospace and kept me on as CEO in spite of the losses I'd incurred in the Zap-Star debacle. Why his media flunky Garrett was so interested in my glory days as a Moon-walker—

Ami now the embryonic music starts... peeps and squeaks and fidgets and flowing bloodhum... a song of rebirth from death...

Kieran said: Scan the entire house and grounds Arnold. I can still hear the voice and now mere's some damn music carrying over. Yes sir.

Cassidy said, "The '96 presidential race is going to be even tougher for us than the '92 campaign. A two-term incumbent, one of the most popular presidents in history, will be able to pick his own nominee—and we know that nominee will be Senator Piccolomini."

Another self-righteous Guinea prick, thought the General.

"We could, of course, stick with our Republican candidate of last fall."

If you want to lose again, the General thought. The goddam quarterback really knows how to lose with style!

"However," me Chairman went on, "Piccolomini will be a hard nut to crack because of me success of his antinarcotics pro­gram, because of Ms close ties with the incumbent, and because of his undeniable personal magnetism."

So, thought the General, you can't run your bought-and-paid-for Minority Leader, Senator Scrope. He's smart but he's a nerd, and putting him up against Piccolomini would be peeing into the wind.

"We've studied a number of prospects, only to conclude that most of them do not project a suitable image. The Party will be developing a new platform for '96 in response to what we see as gathering threats to our national economy and security. The can­didate we seek must exemplify mat platform. He must be a man of authority, of proven courage, in tune with conservative patri­otic values. A man who will confront the disasters mat our ex­perts foresee with a forthrightness unclouded by pseudoliberal globalism."

General Baumgartner straightened and frowned at the Repub­lican Chairman. "Disasters? What kind of disasters, Jase?"

He was answered by Kieran O'Connor. "By me end of this year our Middle Eastern oil supplies will be entirely cut off by escalating Islamic wars in me Persian Gulf and Arabia. Our re-elected Democratic President and the Democrat-controlled Con­gress will not dare send in American military forces. They have boasted mat theirs is the Party of Peace. An American military action in support of the oil industry would be unthinkable." Ar­nold. Listen!

Sea creatures... holothurian and crustaceans sad and glad ... singing and dancing in bloody water... a funeral dance and a birth dance ...

Text 4.

P. Anderson

The Broken Sword.

Imric the elf-earl rode out by night to see what had hap­pened in the lands of men. It was a cool spring dark with the moon nearly full, rime glittering on the grass and the stars still hard and bright as in winter. The night was very quiet save for sigh of wind in budding branches, and the world was all sliding shadows and cold white light. The hoofs of Imric's horse were shod with an alloy of silver, and a high clear ringing went where they struck.

He rode into a forest. Night lay heavy between the trees, but from afar he spied a ruddy glimmer. When he came near, he saw it was firelight shining through cracks in a hut of mud and wattles under a great gnarly oak from whose boughs Imric remembered the Druids cutting mistletoe. He could sense that a witch lived here, so he dismounted and rapped on the door.

A woman who seemed old and bent as the tree opened it and saw him where he stood, the broken moonlight sheening off helm and byrnie and his horse, which was the color of mist, cropping the frosty grass behind him.

"Good evening, mother," said Imric.

"Let none of you elf-folk call me mother, who have borne tall sons to a man," grumbled the witch. But she let him in and hastened to pour him a horn of ale. Belike what crofters dwelt nearby kept her in food and drink as payment for what small magics she could do for them. Imric must stoop inside the hovel 'and clear away a litter of bones and other trash ere he could sit on the single bench.

He looked at her through the strange slant eyes of the elves, all cloudy-blue without whites or a readily seen pupil. There were little moon-flecks drifting in Imric's eyes, and shadows of ancient knowledge, for he had dwelt long in the land. But he was ever youthful, with the broad forehead and high cheekbones, the narrow jaw and straight thin-chiseled nose of the elf lords. His hair floated silvery-gold, finer than spider silk, from beneath his homed helmet down to the wide red-caped shoulders.

"Not often of late lifetimes have the elves gone forth among men," said the witch.

"Aye, we have been too busy in our war with the trolls," answered Imric in his voice that was like a wind blowing through trees far away. "But now truce has been made, and I am curious to find what has happened in the last hundred years."

"Much, and little of it good»" said the witch. "The Danes have come from overseas, killing, looting, burning, seizing for themselves much of eastern England and I know not what else."

"That is not bad." Imric stroked his mustache. "Before them. Angles and Saxons did likewise, and before them Picts and Scots, and before them the Romans, and before them Brythons and Goidels, and before them—but the tale is long and long, nor will it end with the Danes. And I, who have watched it almost since the land was made, see naught of harm in it, for it helps pass the time. I would fain see these newcomers."

"Then you need not ride far," said the witch, "for Orm the Strong dwells on the coast, distant from here by the ride of a night or less on a mortal horse."

"A short trip for my stallion. I will go."

"Hold—hold, elf!" For a while the witch sat muttering, and her eyes caught what light came from the tiny fire on. the hearth» so that two red gleams moved amidst the smoke and shadows. Then of a sudden she cackled in glee and screamed, "Aye, ride, ride, elf, to Orm's house by the sea. He is gone a-roving, but his wife will guest you gladly. She has newly brought forth a son, who is not yet christened."

At these words Imric cocked his long. pointed ears for­ward. "Speak you sooth, witch?" he asked, low and toneless.

"Aye, by Sathanas I swear it. 1 have my ways of knowing what goes on in that accursed halt." The old woman rocked to and fro, squatting in her rags before the dim coals. The shadows chased each other across the walls, huge and mis­shapen. "But go see for yourself."

"I would not venture to take a Dane-chiefs child. He might be under the æsir's ward."

"Nay. Orm is a Christian, though an indifferent one, and Ms son has thus far been hallowed to no gods of any kind."

"Ill is it to lie to me," Imric said.

"I have naught to lose," answered the witch. "Orm burned my sons in their house, and my blood dies with me. I do not fear gods or devils, elves or trolls of men. But 'tis truth I speak."

"I will go see," said Imric, and stood up. The rings of his byrnie chimed together. He swept his great red cloak around him, went forth and swung onto the white stallion.

Like a rush of wind and a blur of moonlight he was out of the woods and across the fields. Widely stretched the land, shadowy trees, bulking hills, rime-whitened meadows asleep under the moon. Here and there a steading huddled dark beneath the vast star-crusted sky. Presences moved in the night, but they were not men—he caught a wolf-howl, the green gleam of a wildcat's eyes, the scurry of small feet among oak roots. They were aware of the elf-earl's pas­sage and shrank deeper into the gloom.

Erelong Imric reached Orm's garth. The barns and sheds and lesser houses were of rough-hewn timbers, walling in three sides of a stone-paved yard. On the fourth, the hall raised its gable ends, carved into dragons, against the star clouds. But Imric sought the small lady-bower across from it. Dogs had smelled him, bristled and snarled. Then before they could bark he had turned his terrible blind-seeming gaze on them and made a sign. They crawled off, barely whimpering.

He rode like a wandering night-wind up to the bower. By his arts he unshuttered a window from without, and looked through. Moonlight shafted over a bed, limning ælfrida in silver and a cloudiness of unbound hair. But Imric's gaze was only for the new-born babe nestled against her.

The elf-earl laughed behind the mask of his face. He closed the shutters and rode back northward. ælfrida moved, woke, and felt after the little one beside her. Her eyes were hazed with uneasy dreams.

Independent study

Theoretical issues

1. Stylistics and other branches of linguistics

2. Modern approaches to defining NORM in linguistics

3. Important notions of present-day linguistics: formant, marker, valency, category, productivity

4. Modern trends in the the linguistic paradigm

5. Basic notions of the picture of the world theory

6. Approaches to defining discourse in modern linguistics

7. Classifications of functional styles

8. Basic notions of the imagery theory

9. Expressive potential of negation

10. Syntatctic models’ transformations

Practical assignment

Read the text and analyse it according to the pattern

Text 5

R. Asprin. Another Fine Myth

Chapter One:

"There are things on heaven and earth,

Horatio, Man was not meant to know."

HAMLET

ONE of the few redeeming facets of instructors, I thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was true when my mother taught me to read, it was true when my father tried to teach me to be a farmer, and it's true now when I'm learning magik.

"You haven't been practicing!" Garkin's harsh ad­monishment interrupted my musings.

"I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exer­cise."

As if in response, the feather I was levitating began to tremble and wobble in midair.

"You aren't concentrating!" he accused.

"It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons Garkin had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for cheeky apprentices.

"The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like this, dolt!"

My mental contact with the object of my concentra­tion was interrupted as the feather darted suddenly toward the ceiling. It jarred to a halt as if it had become imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from the wooden beams, then slowly rotated to a horizontal plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a leaf caught in an eddy.

I risked a glance at Garkin. He was draped over his chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently de­voted to devouring a leg of roast lizard-bird, a bird I had snared I might add. Concentration indeed! He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too late to look away so I simply looked back at him.

"Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show mehow much you've been practicing."

It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then I looked up desperately. The feather was tumbling floor-ward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my mind . . . gently . . . form a pillow . . . don't knock it away....

The feather halted a scant two hand-spans from the floor.

I heard Garkin's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to break my concentration. I hadn't let the feather touch the floor for three years, and it wasn't going to touch now. Slowly I raised it until it floated at eye level. Wrapping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then en­ticed it to swap ends. As I led it through the exercise, its movement was not as smooth or sure as when Garkin set his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its assigned course. Although I had not been practicing with the feather, I had been practicing. When Garkin was not about or preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my time to levitating pieces of metalЧkeys, to be specific. Each type of levitation had its own inherent problems. Metal was hard to work with because it was an inert material. The feather, having once been part of a living thing, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To lift metal took effort, to maneuver a feather required subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I could see a more direct application of that skill in my chosen profession.

"Good enough, lad. Now put it back in the book."

I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not because of its potential applications, but because it was fun. The book was lying open on the end of the work-bench. I brought the feather down in a long lazy spiral, allowing it to pass lightly across the pages of the book and up in a swooping arc, stopped it, and brought it back. As it approached the book the second time, I dis­engaged part of my mind to dart ahead to the book. As the feather crossed the pages, the book snapped shut like the jaws of a hungry predator, trapping the missile within its grasp.

"Hmmmm ..." intoned Garkin, "a trifle showy, but effective."

"Just a little something I worked up when I was prac­ticing," I said casually, reaching out with my mind for the other lizard-bird leg. Instead of floating gracefully to my waiting hand, however, it remained on the wooden platter as if it had taken root.

"Not so fast, my little sneak-thief. So you've been practicing, eh?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully with the half-gnawed bone in his hand.

"Certainly. Didn't it show?" It occurred to me that Garkin is not as easy to fool as it sometimes seems.

"In that case, I'd like to see you light your candle. It should be easy if you have been practicing as much as you claim."

"I have no objections to trying, but as you have said yourself so many times, some lessons come easier than others."

Although I sounded confident, my spirits sank as the large candle came floating to the work table in response to Garkin's summons. In four years of trying I was yet to be successful at this particular exercise. If Garkin was going to keep me from food until I was successful, I could go hungry for a long time.

"Say, uh, Garkin, it occurs to me I could probably

concentrate better on a full stomach."

"It occurs to me that you're stalling."

"Couldn't I...."

"Now, Skeeve."

Examination questions

!!! Short hand-written synopses of the suggested articles are to be provided by the students prior to the examination.

1. Stylistics as a branch of Linguistics. The areas of investigations. The essence of stylistics.

2. Stylistics and semiotics, cognitive studies etc.

3. Style. Various approaches to the definition.

4. Individual style and dialect.

5. Expressive means and stylistic devices.

6. Varieties of the language. The spoken language (oral speech) and its lexical, syntactical, morphological and phonetic characteristics.

7. The written variety of the language and its lexical, syntactical, morphological and phonetic characteristics.

8. The development of the English literary language.

9. Meaning from a stylistic point of view. Types of meanings.

10. Meaning and word. Classification of words.

11 Functional styles and speech registers in English.

12. Phonetic expressive means and SD: alliteration, assonance.

13. Phonetic SDs: rhyme. Types of rhyming, rhythm.

14. Phonetic SDs and EMs. Lexical EMs and SDs: Metaphor, metonymy and synecdoche, irony.

15. Polysemantic effect as a SDs: zeugma, pun.

16. Interaction of logical and emotive meaning: epithet.

17. Interaction of two meanings opposite in sense: oxymoron. Interaction of logical and nominal meanings: antonomasia.

18. Intensification of a certain feature (thing, phenomenon): simile.

19. Personification and periphrasis as SDs.

20. Euphemism as a variety of periphrasis.

21. Peculiar use of set expressions: the cliche. Proverbs and Sayings as set expressions and their stylistic function.

22. Epigrams, Quotations, allusions and their stylistic functions.

23. Stylistic inversion, detached and parallel constructions.

24. Lexico-syntactical expressive means: litotes, antithesis.

25. Syntactical EMs and SDs: supra-phrasal units, the paragraph, chiasmus, antimetable.

26. Repetition (catch repetition and ring repetition), enumeration. Epiphora and anaphora as SDs.

27. Suspense and climax as SDs. Anticlimax.

28. Ellipsis and tautological subject as SDs

29. Asyndeton and polysyndeton. Rhetorical questions.