Аналитическое чтение учебно-методическое пособие для студентов отделения заочного обучения

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An author is a god, creator of the world he describes. That world has a limited and very special landscape. It is peopled with men and women of a particular complexion, of particular gifts and failings. Its history, almost always, is determined by the tight interaction of its people within its narrow geography. Everything that occurs in a work of fiction – every figure, every tree, every furnished room and crescent moon and dreary fog – has been purposely put there by its creator. When a story pleases, when it moves its reader, he has responded to that carefully created world. The pleasure, the emotional commitment, the human response are not results of analysis. The reader has not registered in some mental adding machine the several details that establish character, the particular appropriateness of the weather to the events in the story, the marvelous rightness of the furnishings, the manipulation of the point of view, the plot, the theme, the style. He has recognized and accepted the world of the author and has been delighted (or saddened or made angry) by what happens in it.

But how does it come about that readers recognize the artificial worlds, often quite different from their own, that authors create? And why is it that readers who recognize some fictional worlds effortlessly are bewildered and lost in other fictional worlds? Is it possible to extend the boundaries of readers’ recognition? Can more and more of the landscapes and societies of fiction be made available to that on looking audience?

The answer to the first of these questions is easy. Readers are comfortable in literary worlds that, however exotic the landscapes and the personalities that people them, incorporate moral imperatives which reflect the value system in the readers’ world. Put another way, much fiction ends with its virtuous characters rewarded and its villains punished. This we speak of as poetic justice. Comedies, and most motion pictures of the recent past, end this way. But such endings are illustrations of poetic justice, and poetic seems to suggest that somehow such endings are ideal rather than “real.” Not much experience of life is required to recognize that injustice, pain, frustration, and downright villainy often prevail, that the beautiful young girl and the strong, handsome hero do not always overcome all obstacles, marry, and live happily ever after, that not every man is strong and handsome nor every woman beautiful. But readers, knowing that, respond to tragic fiction as well – where virtue is defeated, where obstacles prove too much for the men and women, where ponderous forces result in defeat, even death. Unhappy outcomes are painful to contemplate, but it is not difficult to recognize the world in which they occur. That world is much like our own. And unhappy outcomes serve to emphasize the very ideals which we have established in this world as the aims and goals of human activity. Consequently, both the “romantic” comedies that gladden with justice and success and the “realistic” stories that end in defeat provide readers with recognizable and available emotional worlds, however exotic the settings and the characters in those stories might be.

If we look at fiction this way, the answer to the questions “Why is it that some readers are bewildered and lost in some fiction worlds?” is clearly implied. Some fiction worlds seem to incorporate a strange set of moral imperatives. Readers are not altogether certain who are the virtuous characters and who are the villains or even what constitutes virtue and evil. Sometimes tragic oppositions in a fictional world that brooks no compromise puzzle readers who live in a world where compromise has become almost a virtue. Sometimes, particularly in more recent fiction that reflects the ever widening influence of psychoanalytic theory, the landscape and the behavior of characters is designed to represent deep interiors, the less-than-rational hearts and minds of characters. Those weird interiors are not part of the common awareness of readers; the moral questions raised there are not the same moral questions that occupy most of our waking hours. Such fictional worlds (those of Franz Kafka, for example) are difficult to map, and bewildered readers may well reject these underworlds for the sunshine of the surfaces they know more immediately.

Studying Literature

It might be useful to distinguish between three different kinds of discussion that take literature for a subject. Literary history attends to the consequences for literature of the passing of time. Certain forms that were popular in medieval times – the religious allegory, for instance – have waned in popularity and importance. Certain authors have been measurably influenced by their predecessors. Certain features of Elizabethan culture and belief illuminate passages in Shakespeare’s plays. Most of the footnotes in this book provide readers with historical information (the meaning of an archaic word, perhaps, the characteristics of some half-forgotten Creek god, or an allusion to an earlier literary work). Sometimes such information liberates the enduring life of old stories for new readers. Literary criticism, on the other hand, attends to the value of a work. It is good? Bad? Minor? Major? Criticism itself has a history: taste changes over the years; standards of judgment change; cultural forces contribute to critical judgments. But, though information about the history of criticism may help you understand why an author did what he did, it will not significantly help you make your own critical judgment. The story must finally speak for itself to you – no amount of historical justification can really enliven a dead work for a new reader. Unconcerned with both history and criticism, literary theory attends to the craft of literature. How does the author manipulate language (the substance of all literature – and the only substance) in order to create a world which affects his readers? Over many years of incessant examination of literature, observers have noted that certain techniques, certain characteristic uses of language, occur again and again – so frequently that it is useful to name them. Literary theory makes particular use of these observations in its discussion of form and the features on which form depends. Note that theoretical discussions frequently trespass on the discipline of psychology. Theoreticians and critics frequently speak of the effect on readers of an author’s craft – his images, his clever symbols, his vision of mortality, his colors and shapes. But it is dangerous business to assert that certain combinations of words will generate, invariably, the same complex emotional response. What are we to make of the spectacle of two critics, or two teachers, testifying that the same story affects them quite differently? Is one of them wrong? Are both of them wrong, perhaps? Perhaps! But we do the best we can, and we use all the varieties of human experience that authors and critics and theoreticians share in an attempt to respond significantly to significant fiction.

Fiction and Reality

Why do people read fiction (or go to movies)? The question is not so easy to answer as one might suppose. The first response is likely to have something to do with “amusement” or “entertainment”. But you have doubtless read stories and novels (or seen movies) that end tragically. Is it accurate to say that they were amusing or entertaining? Is it entertaining to be made sad or to be made angry by the defeat of “good” people? Or does the emotional impact of such stories somehow enlarge our own humanity? Fiction teaches its readers by providing them a vast range of experience that they could not acquire otherwise. Especially for the relatively young, conceptions of love, of success in life, of war, of malignant evil and cleansing virtue are learned from fiction – not from life. And herein lies a great danger, for literary artists are notorious liars, and their lies frequently become the source of people’s convictions about human nature and human society.

To illustrate, a huge number of television series based on the exploits of the FBI, or the Hawaiian police force, or the dedicated surgeons at the general hospital, or the young lawyers always end with a capture, with a successful (though dangerous) operation, with justice triumphant. But, in the real world, police are able to resolve only about 10 percent of reported crime, disease ravages, and economic and political power often extends into the courtroom. The very existence of such television drama bespeaks a yearning that things should be different; their heroes are heroic in that they regularly overcome those obstacles that we all experience but that, alas, we do not overcome.

Some writers, beginning about the middle of the nineteenth century, were particularly incensed at the real damage which a lying literature promotes, and they devoted their energies to exposing and counteracting the lies of the novelists, particularly those lies that formed attitudes about what constituted human success and happiness. Yet that popular fiction, loosely called escapist, is still most widely read for reasons that would probably fill several studies in social psychology. It needs no advocate. The fiction in this book, on the other hand, has been chosen largely because it does not lie about life – at least it does not lie about life in the ordinary way. And the various authors employ a large variety of literary methods and modes in an effort to illuminate the deepest wells of human experience. Consequently, many of these stories do not retail high adventure (though some do), since an adventurous inner life does not depend on an incident-filled outer life. Some stories, like Toomer’s “Theater” and Porter’s “The Jilting of Granny Weatherall,” might almost be said to be about what does not happen rather than what does – not-happening being as much incident, after all, as happening.

All fiction attempts to be interesting, to involve the reader in situations, to force some aesthetic response from him – most simply put, in the widest sense of the word, to entertain. Some fiction aspires to nothing more. Other fiction seeks, as well, to establish some truth about the nature of man – Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” and Hemingway’s “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” ask the reader to perceive the inner life of central figures. Some fiction seeks to explore the relationships among men – Faulkner’s “Dry September,” Toomer’s “Theater,” and Lawrence’s “The Horse Dealer’s Daughter” depend for their force on the powerful interaction of one character with another. Still other fiction seeks to explore the connection between men and society – Ellison’s “"Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman” and Wright’s “The Man Who Lived Underground” acquire their force from the implied struggle between men seeking a free and rich emotional life and the tyrannically ordering society that would sacrifice their humanity to some ideal of social efficiency.

We have been talking about that aspect of fiction which literary theorists identify as theme. Theorists also talk about plot, characterization, setting, point of view, and conflict – all terms naming aspects of fiction that generally have to do with the author’s technique. Let us here deal with one story – James Joyce’s “Araby.” Read it. Then compare your private responses to the story with what we hope will be helpful and suggestive remarks about the methods of fiction.

The Methods of Fiction

One can perceive only a few things simultaneously and can hardly respond to everything contained in a well-wrought story all at once. When he has finished the story, the reader likely thinks back, makes readjustments, and reflects on the significance of things before he reaches that set of emotional and intellectual experiences that we have been calling response. Most readers of short stories respond first to what may be called the tone of the opening lines. Now tone is an aspect of literature about which it is particularly difficult to talk, because it is an aura – a shimmering and shifting atmosphere that depends for its substance on rather delicate emotional responses to language and situation. Surely, before the reader knows anything at all about the plot of “Araby,” he has experienced a tone.

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbors in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

Is the scene gay? Vital and active? Is this opening appropriate for a story that goes on to celebrate joyous affirmations about life and living? You should answer these questions negatively. Why? Because the dead end street is described as “blind,” because the Christian Brothers’ School sounds much like a prison (it sets the boys free), because a vacant house fronts the dead end, because the other houses, personified, are conscious of decent lives within (a mildly ironic description – decent suggesting ordinary, thin-lipped respectability rather than passion or heroism), because those houses gaze at one another with “brown imperturbable faces” – brown being nondescript, as opposed, say, to scarlet, gold, bright blue, and imperturbable faces reinforcing the priggish decency within.

Compare this opening from Faulkner’s “Dry September”:

Through the bloody September twilight, aftermath of sixty-two rainless days, it had gone like fire in a dry grass – the rumor, the story, whatever it was. Something about Miss Minnie Cooper and a Negro.

The tone generated by “bloody twilight,” “rainless days,” “fire in a dry grass” is quite different from the blind, brown apathy of “Araby.” And unsurprisingly, Faulkner’s story involves movement to a horrifying violence. “Araby,” on the other hand, is a story about the dawning of awareness in the mind and heart of the child of one of those decent families in brown and blind North Richmond Street. Tone, of course, permeates all fiction, and it may change as the narrative develops. Since short stories generally reveal change, the manipulation of tone is just one more tool used in the working of design.

Short stories, of course, are short, but this fact implies some serious considerations. In some ways, a large class of good short fiction deals with events that may be compared to the tip of the proverbial iceberg. The events animating the story represent only a tiny fraction of the characters’ lives and experiences; yet, that fraction is terribly important and provides the basis for wide understanding both to the characters within the story and to its readers. In “Araby,” the plot, the connected sequence of events, may be simply stated. A young boy who lives in a rather drab, respectable neighborhood develops a crush on the sister of one of his playmates. She asks him if he intends to go to a charity fair that she cannot attend. He resolves to go and purchase a gift for her. He is tormented by the late and drunken arrival of his uncle who has promised him the money he needs. When the boy finally arrives at the bazaar, he is disappointed by the difference between his expectation and the actuality of the almost deserted fair. He perceives some minor events, overhears some minor conversation, and finally sees himself “as a creature driven and derided by vanity.” Yet this tiny stretch of experience out of the life of the boy introduces him to an awareness about the differences between imagination and reality, between his romantic infatuation and the vulgar reality all about him. We are talking now about what is called the theme of the story. Emerging from the workaday events that constitute its plot is a general statement about intensely idealized childish “love,” the shattering recognition of the false sentimentality that occasions it, and the enveloping vulgarity of adult life. The few pages of the story, by detailing a few events out of a short period of the protagonist’s life, illuminate one aspect of the loss of innocence that we all endure and that is always painful. In much of the literature in the section on innocence and experience, the protagonists learn painfully the moral complexities of a world that had once seemed uncomplicated and predictable. That education does not always occur, as in “Araby,” at an early age, either in literature or life.

Certainly theme is a centrally important aspect of prose fiction, but “good” themes do not necessarily ensure good stories. One may write a wretched story with the same theme as “Araby.” What, then, independent of theme, is the difference between good stories and bad stories? Instinctively you know how to answer this question. Good stories, to begin with, are interesting; they present characters you care about; however fantastic, they are yet somehow plausible; they project a moral world you recognize. One of the obvious differences between short stories and novels requires that story writers develop character rapidly and limit the number of developed characters. Many stories have only one fleshed character; the other characters are frequently two-dimensional projections or even stereotypes. We see their surface only, not their souls. Rarely does a short story have more than three developed characters. Again, unlike novels, short stories usually work themselves out in restricted geographical setting, in a single place, and within a rather short period of time.

We often speak of character, setting, plot, theme, and style as separate aspects of a story in order to break down a complex narrative into more manageable parts. But it is important to understand that this analytic process of separating various elements is something we have done to the story – the story (if it is a good one) is an integrated whole. The closer we examine the separate elements, the clearer it becomes that each is integrally related to the others.

It is part of the boy’s character that he lives in a brown imperturbable house in North Richmond Street, that he does the things he does (which is, after all, the plot), that he learns what he does (which is the theme), and that all of this characterization emerges from Joyce’s rich and suggestive style.

Consider this paragraph:

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

This paragraph furthers the plot. But it suggests much more. Te boy thinks of his friend’s sister even when he carries parcels for his aunt during the shopping trips through a crowded and coarse part of town. In those coarse market streets the shop-boys cry shrill “litanies,” the girl’s name springs to his lips in strange “prayers and praises,” and the boy confesses a confused “adoration.” Further, he bears “his chalice safely through a throng of foes.” Now the words litanies, prayers, praises, adoration all come from a special vocabulary that is easy to identify. It is the vocabulary of the church. The chalice and the throng of foes come from the vocabulary of chivalric romance, which is alluded to in the first line of the quoted paragraph. Joyce’s diction evokes a sort of holy chivalry that characterizes the boy on this otherwise altogether ordinary shopping trip. This paragraph suggests to the careful reader that the boy has cast his awakening sexuality in a mold that mixes the disparate shapes of the heroic knight, winning his lady by force of arms, and the ascetic penitent, adoring the holy virgin, mother of god.

Playing the word game, of course, can be dangerous. But from the beginning of this story to its end, a certain religious quality shimmers. That now-dead priest of the story’s second paragraph had three books (at least). One is a romantic chivalric novel by Sir Walter Scott; one is a sensational account of the adventures of a famous rogue; one is what a priest might be expected to have at hand – an Easter week devotional guide. That priest who read Scott’s novels might have understood the boy’s response – that mixture of religious devotion and romance. Shortly after the shopping trip, the boy finally speaks to the girl, and it is instructive to see her as he does. He stands at the railings and looks up (presumably) at her, she bowing her head towards him. “The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.” Skip the petticoat, for a moment. Might the description of Mangan’s sister remind the careful reader of quite common sculptured representations of the Virgin Mary? But the petticoat! And the white curve of her neck! This erotic overlay characterizes the boy’s response. The sexuality is his own; the chivalry, the religious adoration, comes from the culture in which he is immersed – comes from Scott, the ballads sung in the market place, the “Arab’s Farewell to his Steed” sung by the boy’s uncle. And it is the culture that so romanticizes and elevates the boy’s yearning.

He finally gets to Araby – “the word called to him through the silence in which his soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over him.” His purpose is to serve his lady – to bring her something from that exotic place. What he finds is a weary-looking man guarding a turnstile, the silence that pervades a church after a service, and two men counting money on a salver (that tray is called a salver by design). And in this setting he overhears the courtship of a young lady by two gentlemen:

“O, I never said such a thing!”

“O, but you did!”

“O, but I didn’t!”

“Didn’t she say that?”

“Yes, I heard her.”

“O, there’s a … fib!”

This is Araby, this is love in a darkened hall where money is counted. Is it any wonder that the boy, in the moment of personal illumination that Joyce calls an epiphany, sees himself as a creature driven and derided by vanity?

“Araby” is a careful, even a delicate story. Nothing much happens – what does occur largely in the boy’s perception and imagination. The story focuses on the boy’s confusion of sexual attraction with the lofty sentiments of chivalry and religion. The climax occurs when he confronts the darkened, money-grubbing fair and the utterly banal expression of the sexual attraction between the gentlemen and the young lady. The result is a sudden deflation of the boy’s ego, his sense of self, as he recognizes his own delusions about the nature of love and the relationship between men, women, heroism, god, and money.

We would like to conclude with a discussion of one feature of fiction that sometimes proves troublesome to developing readers. Often the events of a story, upon which much depends, puzzle or annoy readers. Why does that fool do that? Why doesn’t X simply tell Y the way he feels and then the tragedy would be averted? In a sense, such responses reflect the intrusion of a reader into the world of the story. The reader, a sensible and sensitive person, understands some things about life after all and is oppressed by the characters’ inability to understand at least as much. Characters choose to die when they might with a slight adjustment live. They risk danger when with a slight adjustment they might proceed safely. They suffer the pain of an unfortunate marriage when with a little trouble they might be free to live joyously. If the “whys” issuing from the reader are too insistent, too sensible, then the story must fail, at least for that reader. But many “whys” are not legitimate. Many are intrusions of the reader’s hindsight, the reader’s altogether different cultural and emotional fix. Henry James urged that the author must be allowed his donnée, his “given.” He creates the society and the rules by which it operates within his own fictional world. Sometimes his creation is so close to the reader’s own world that it is hardly possible to object. Black readers will recognize the inner life of Wright’s man who lived underground even if the events are bizarre. Those who have grown up in a small southern town will recognize the atmosphere of Faulkner’s “Dry September” and Baldwin’s “Going to Meet the Man.” But few readers of this book know 1895 Dublin and Irish middle-class society, which plays a brooding role in “Araby” (as it does in almost all of Joyce’s work). None know the futuristic world of Harlan Ellison’s Harlequin. In every case, we must finally imagine those worlds. If we cannot, the events that take place in them will be of no consequence. If those worlds are unimaginable, then the stories must fail. If they too much strain belief or remain too foreign to the reader’s heart, they must likewise fail. But all response to fiction depends on the reader’s acquiescence to the world of the author and his perceptions of the moral consequences of acts and attitudes in that world. At best, that acquiescence will provide much pleasure as well as emotional insight into his own existence.


Allegory A form of symbolism in which ideas or abstract qualities are represented as characters in a narrative and dramatic situation, resulting in a moral or philosophic statement.

Alliteration The repetition within a line or phrase of the same initial consonant sound.

Allusion A reference, explicit or indirect, to something outside the work itself. The reference is usually to some famous person, event, or other literary work.

Ambiguity A phrase, statement, or situation that may be understood in two or more ways. As a literary device, it is used to enrich meaning or achieve irony.

Apostrophe A direct address to a person who is absent or to an abstract or inanimate entity.

Archetype Themes, images, and narrative patterns that are universal and thus embody some enduring aspects of man’s experience. Some of these themes are the death and rebirth of the hero, the underground journey, and the search for the father.

Assonance The repetition of vowel sounds in a line, stanza, or sentence.

Catharsis One of the key concepts in The Poetics of Aristotle by which he attempts to account for the fact that representations of suffering and death in drama paradoxically leave the audience feeling relieved rather than depressed. According to Aristotle, a tragic hero arouses in the viewer feelings of “pity and fear,” pity because he is a man of great moral worth and fear because the viewer sees himself in the hero.

Conceit A figure of speech that establishes an elaborate parallel between unlike things.

Conflict The struggle of a protagonist, or main character, with forces that must be subdued. The struggle creates suspense and is usually resolved at the end of the story. The force opposing the main character may be either another person – the antagonist, or society, or natural forces, or an internal conflict within the main character.

Connotation The associative and suggestive meanings of a word in contrast to its literal meaning. Compare Denotation.

Consonance The repetition of the final consonant sounds in stressed syllables.

Denotation The literal, dictionary definition of a word. Compare Connotation.

Denouement The final outcome or unraveling of the main conflict of a story; literally, “untying”.

Didactic A work whose primary and avowed purpose is to teach or to persuade the reader of the truth of some philosophical, religious, or moral statement or doctrine.

Dramatic Distance In fiction, the point of view which enables the reader to know more than the narrator of the story.

Figurative Language A general term covering the many ways in which language is used nonliterally. See Hyperbole, Irony, Metaphor, Metonymy, Paradox, Simile, Symbol, Synecdoche, Understatement.

Hyperbole Exaggeration; overstatement. Compare Understatement.

Imagery Language that embodies an appeal to the senses: sight, sound, smell, taste, or touch.

Irony Language in which the intended meaning is different from or opposite to the literal meaning. Verbal irony includes overstatement (hyperbole), understatement, and opposite statement.

Dramatic irony occurs when a reader knows things a character is ignorant of or when the speech and action of a character reveal him to be different from what he believes himself to be.

Lyric Originally, a song accompanied by lyre music. Now, a relatively short poem expressing the thought or feeling of a single speaker.

Metaphor A figurative expression consisting of two elements in which one element is provided with special attributes by being equated with a second unlike element.

Metonymy A figure of speech in which a word stands for a closely related idea. In the expression “the pen is mightier than the sword,” pen and sword are metonymies for written ideas and military force respectively.

Onomatopoeia Language that sounds like what it means. Words like buzz, bark, and hiss are onomatopoetic. Also, sound patterns that reinforce the meaning over one or more lines may be designated onomatopoetic.

Paradox A statement that seems self-contradictory or absurd but is, somehow, valid.

Persona Literally “mask”. The term is used to describe a narrator in fiction or the speaker in a poem. The persona’s views are different from the author’s views.

Personification The attribution of human qualities to nature, animals, or things.

Plot A series of actions in a story or a drama which bear a significant relationship to each other.

Point of View The person or intelligence a writer of fiction creates to tell the story to the reader. The major techniques are:

First person, where the story is told by someone, often, though not necessarily, the principal character, who identifies himself as “I”.

Third person, where the story is told by someone (not identified as “I”) who is not a participant in the action and who refers to the characters by name or as “he”, “she”, and “they”.

Omniscient, a variation on the third person, where the narrator knows everything about the characters and events, can move about in time and place as well as from character to character at will, and can, whenever he wishes, enter the mind of any character.

Central intelligence, another variation on the third person, where narrative elements are limited to what a single character sees, thinks, and hears.

Rhythm The alternation of accented and unaccented syllables in language. A regular pattern of alternation produces meter. Irregular alternation of stressed and unstressed syllables produces free verse.

Satire Writing in a comic mode that holds a subject up to scorn and ridicule, often with the purpose of correcting human vice and folly.

Setting The place where the story occurs. Often the setting contributes significantly to the total impact of the story.

Simile A figurative expression in which an elements is provided with special attributes through a comparison with something quite different. The words like or as create the comparison, e.g. “My love is like a red, red rose”, “As virtuous men pass mildly away … so let us melt, and make no noise”.

Stream of The narrative technique of some modern fiction, which attempts to Consciousness reproduce the full and uninterrupted flow of a character’s mental

process, in which ideas, memories, and sense impressions may intermingle without logical transitions. A characteristic of this technique is the abandonment of conventional rules of syntax and punctuation.

Symbol A thing or an action that embodies more than its literal, concrete meaning.

Synecdoche A figure of speech in which a part is used to signify the whole.

Synesthesia In literature, the description of one kind of sensory experience in terms of another. Taste might be described as a color or a song.

Theme The moral proposition that a literary work is designed to advance. The theme of Milton’s “Paradise Lost” is to “justify the ways of God to men”. The theme of Joseph Conrad’s “The Secret Sharer” might be briefly stated: The recognition of complex moral ambiguities is essential to maturity.

Tone The attitude embodied in the language a writer chooses. The tone of a work might be sad, joyful, ironic, solemn, and playful.

Understatement A figure of speech that represents something as less important than it really is. Compare Hyperbole.

Методические рекомендации для студента при изучении дисциплины.

Курс по выбору призван помочь всесторонне и эффективно подготовится к государственному экзамену по специальности 05030365 Иностранный язык.

Наряду с базовыми теоретическими курсами он непосредственно связан дисциплиной «Практика речи основного иностранного языка» и поэтому аккумулирует знания, полученные ранее на теоретических курсах, через практику анализа современных художественных произведений. В связи с этим рекомендуется:

  • обратить внимание на разделы теоретических дисциплин, указывающих на их связь с дисциплиной «Стилистика»;

  • провести реферирование основных разделов курса «Стилистика»;

  • самостоятельно осуществить сбор практических материалов для диагностики стилистических средств;

  • уделить особое внимание развитию навыков индивидуального анализа аутентичного художественного текста.

  • систематически выполнить задания для самостоятельной работы.

Материалы для промежуточного контроля по дисциплине «курс по выбору «Аналитическое чтение».

Variant 1.

Text under analysis: “The Collector” by john Fowles.

Guidelines for analysis:

  1. Theme and idea.

  2. Tone and atmosphere of the piece.

  3. The plot.

  4. Character sketches.

  5. Stylistic analysis of the climax.

  6. The message.

Variant 2.

Text under analysis: Irving Shaw. “Evening in Byzantium”.

Guidelines for analysis:

  1. Theme and idea.

  2. Tone and atmosphere of the piece.

  3. The plot.

  4. Character sketches.

  5. Stylistic analysis of the climax.

  6. The message.

Variant 3.

Text under analysis: Eugene O’Neill. “Long Day’s. Journey into Night”.

Guidelines for analysis:

  1. Theme and idea.

  2. Tone and atmosphere of the piece.

  3. The plot.

  4. Character sketches.

  5. Stylistic analysis of the climax.

  6. The message.

Variant 4.

Text under analysis: E.Nida. “Morphology: The Descriptive Analysis”.

Guidelines for analysis:

  1. Theme and idea.

  2. Tone and atmosphere of the piece.

  3. The plot.

  4. Character sketches.

  5. Stylistic analysis of the climax.

  6. The message.

Variant 5.

Text under analysis: Leah Christie. “I Knew a Boy”.

Guidelines for analysis:

  1. Theme and idea.

  2. Tone and atmosphere of the piece.

  3. The plot.

  4. Character sketches.

  5. Stylistic analysis of the climax.

  6. The message.

Variant 6.

Text under analysis: J.D.Salinger. “The Catcher in the Rye”.

Guidelines for analysis:

  1. Theme and idea.

  2. Tone and atmosphere of the piece.

  3. The plot.

  4. Character sketches.

  5. Stylistic analysis of the climax.

  6. The message.

Л.Е. Антоникова


Учебно-методическое пособие

для студентов отделения заочного обучения

1 Тезисы лекций по дисциплине предваряют каждый из разделов пособия «Курс по выбору «Аналитическое чтение».

2 Развернутые планы практических занятий представлены в соответствующих разделах пособия «Курс по выбору «Аналитическое чтение».

3 Материалы для текущего и промежуточного контроля представлены в УМК по курсу «Современная американская драма: элементы анализа»

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10


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