М инистерство образования и науки
I. Dwell on the means of cohesion in the given text fragments
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| I. Dwell on the means of cohesion in the given text fragments.
MODEL: Ten minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with grief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his way through the crowd offur-coated footmen that stood round the large striped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. The night was bitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared and flickered ш the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his forehead burned like fire. On and on he went, almost with the gait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at him as he passed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to ask for alms, grew frightened, seeing misery greater than his own. Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands. He thought he could detect the stain of blood already upon them, and a faint cry broke from his trembling lips. Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in his ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it. It grinned at him from the roofs of the houses. First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate him. He leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling his brow against the wet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of the trees. 'Murder! murder!' he kept repeating, as though iteration could dim the horror of the word. The sound of his own voice made him shudder, yet he almost hoped that Echo might hear him, and wake the slumbering city from its dreams. He felt a mad desire to stop the casual passer-by, and tell him everything. (from O. Wilde "Lord Arthur Savile's Crime") The principal means of textual cohesion in this fragment is repetition of different kinds: 1) lexical repetition (repetition of the key word): "Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder!", the repetition of the pronouns: "he" and "it" (substituting "the murder"), repetition of the words used to describe the background: "night", "dark", "wind"; 2) lexical synonymic repetition: "with the face blanched by terror", "the horror of the word"; "eyes wild with grief, "seeing misery greater than his own"; 3) repetition of the verbs of motion: "rushed, crashed the way through, on and on he went, he passed, came to the Park". Among other means we find substitution (Lord Arthur Savile - he, his; the murder - it, the word, everything) and representation: "Murder! murder! he kept repeating" - "iteration". Besides, the function of connectors is performed by conjunctions (but, and, yet). Another means of textual cohesion is contrast: "the night was bitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared and flickered in the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his forehead burned like fire." The whole piece deals with the description of the main character's agitated state of mind after he had learned his fate. The following lexical units contribute to the thematic unity of the text: face blanched by terror, eyes wild with grief rushed, crushing his way, seemed not to see or hear anything, his hands were hot with fever, his forehead burned like fire, the gait of a drunken man, misery, could detect the stain of blood, a faint cry, trembling Hps, desolate wind, leaned wearily, the horror of the word, shudder, a mad desire. Text 1 The dawn wind teased at my old red shawl as I scrambled up the last steep pitch of the crescent-shaped headland the villagers called Rif Paltarre − Poacher’s Ridge. A brisk walk to the eastern edge and I seated myself on a throne of rock as if I were a Leiran duchess attending a midsummer fete. But whereas my girlhood friends might celebrate the longest day of the year by watching jugglers, fire-eaters, and tittering ladies stepping through the spiritless mimicry they called “rustic dances,” I beheld color and shape being born from a vast and silent wilderness of gray. Stretching west for two hundred leagues, stood the snowcapped peaks of the Dorian Wall, their brilliant rose brightening to eye-searing white. To the north swelled the ocean of dark green forest. To the east the ground fell away gently in a stone-bordered patchwork of meadows and farmland to the bronze ripples of the Dun River and the haze-shrouded village of Dunfarrie squatting on its banks. It was a splendid desolation. As the light grew, I stuffed my water flask into the cloth bag hanging from my belt, snugged the rags I’d wrapped about my hands, and took up the true business of the day − hunting dye plants to barter in the village. The first lesson I’d learned on coming to Dunfarrie, when I had scarcely known that food grew in the ground, much less that it must be coddled and coaxed and worried over, was that those whose bellies are pinched by hunger know nothing of holidays. (from C. Berg "The Son of Avonar") Text 2 Ten days after the war ended, my sister Laura drove a car off a bridge. The bridge was being repaired: she went right through the Danger sign. The car fell a hundred feet into the ravine, smashing through the treetops feathery with new leaves, then burst into flames and rolled down into the shallow creek at the bottom. Chunks of the bridge fell on top of it. Nothing much was left of her but charred smithereens. I was informed of the accident by a policeman: the car was mine, and they'd traced the licence. His tone was respectful: no doubt he recognized Richard's name. He said the tires may have caught on a streetcar track or the brakes may have failed, but he also felt bound to inform me that two witnesses − a retired lawyer and a bank teller, dependable people − had claimed to have seen the whole thing. They'd said Laura had turned the car sharply and deliberately, and had plunged off the bridge with no more fuss than stepping off a curb. They'd noticed her hands on the wheel because of the white gloves she'd been wearing. It wasn't the brakes, I thought. She had her reasons. Not that they were ever the same as anybody else's reasons. She was completely ruthless in that way. "I suppose you want someone to identify her," I said. "I'll come down as soon as I can." I could hear the calmness of my own voice, as if from a distance. In reality I could barely get the words out; my mouth was numb, my entire face was rigid with pain. I felt as if I'd been to the dentist. I was furious with Laura for what she'd done, but also with the policeman for implying that she'd done it. A hot wind was blowing around my head, the strands of my hair lifting and swirling in it, like ink spilled in water. "I'm afraid there will be an inquest, Mrs. Griffen," he said. "Naturally," I said. "But it was an accident. My sister was never a good driver." (from M. Atwood "The Blind Assassin") Text 3 Grace Maclean had come up from New York City the night before with her father, just the two of them. She always enjoyed the trip, two and a half hours on the Taconic State Parkway, cocooned together in the long Mercedes, listening to tapes and chatting easily about school or some new case he was working on. She liked to hear him talk as he drove, liked having him to herself, seeing him slowly unwind in his studiously weekend clothes. Her mother, as usual, had some dinner or function or something and would be catching the train to Hudson this morning, which she preferred to do anyway. The Friday-night crawl of traffic invariably made her crabby and impatient and she would compensate by taking charge, telling Robert, Grace's father, to slow down or speed up or take some devious route to avoid delays. He never bothered to argue, just did as he was told, though sometimes he would sigh or give Grace, relegated to the backseat, a wry glance in the mirror. Her parents' relationship had long been a mystery to her, a complicated world where dominance and compliance were never quite what they seemed. Rather than get involved, Grace would simply retreat into the sanctuary of her Walkman (from N.Evans "The Horse Whisperer") жүктеу/скачать 0.67 Mb. Достарыңызбен бөлісу:
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