Аналитическое чтение учебно-методическое пособие для студентов отделения заочного обучения




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TEXTS FOR INDEPENDENT ANALYSIS



The Collector” by John Fowles



October 31st


Nothing. I psycho-analysed him-this evening.

He would sit so stiffly beside me.

We were looking at Goya's etchings. Perhaps it was the etchings themselves, but he sat and I thought he wasn't really looking at them. But thinking only of being so close to me.

His inhibition. It's absurd. I talked at him as if he could easily be normal. As if he wasn't a maniac keeping me prisoner here. But a nice young man who wanted a bit of chivvying from a jolly girl-friend.

It's because I never see anyone else. He becomes the norm. I forget to compare.


Another time with G.P. It was soon after the icy douche (what he said about my work). I was restless one evening. I went round to his flat. About ten. He had his dressing-gown on.

I was just going to bed, he said.

I wanted to hear some music, I said. I'll go away. But I didn't.

He said, it's late.

I said I was depressed. It had been a beastly day and Caroline had been so silly at supper.

He let me go up and made me sit on the divan and he put on some music and turned out the lights and the moon came through the window. It fell on my legs and lap through the sky­light, a lovely slow silver moon. Sailing. And he sat in the arm­chair on the other side of the room, in the shadows.

It was the music.

The Goldberg Variations.

There was one towards the end that was very slow, very simple, very sad, but so beautiful beyond words or drawing or anything but music, beautiful there in the moonlight. Moon-music, so silvery, so far, so noble.

The two of us in that room. No past, no future. All intense deep that-time-only. A feeling that everything must end, the music, ourselves, the moon, everything. That if you get to the heart of things you find sadness for ever and ever, everywhere; but a beautiful silver sadness, like a Christ face.

Accepting the sadness. Knowing that to pretend it was all gay was treachery. Treachery to everyone sad at that moment, everyone ever sad, treachery to such music, such truth.

In all the fuss and anxiety and the shoddiness and the business of London, making a career, getting pashes, art, learning, grabbing frantically at experience, suddenly this silent silver room full of that music.

Like lying on one's back as we did in Spain when we slept out looking up between the fig-branches into the star-corridors, the great seas and oceans of stars. Knowing what it was to be in a universe.

I cried. In silence.

At the end he said, now can I go to bed? Gently, making fun of me a little bit, bringing me back to earth. And I went. I don't think we said anything. I can't remember. He had his little dry smile, he could see I was moved.

His perfect tact.

I would have gone to bed with him that night. If he had asked. If he had come and kissed me.

Not for his sake, but for being alive's.

Evening in Byzantium” by Irwin Shaw


He took her to dinner that night. Every night thereafter while he stayed in Paris.

She had been a great beauty out of Texas, had conquered New York, then Paris, a tall, slender, wilful girl, with a tilted, narrow dark head. Dear men, her presence demanded when she entered a room, what are you doing here, are you worth the time?

With her, he saw Paris in its best light. It was her town and she walked through it with joy and pride and mischief, lovely legs making a carnival of its pavements. She had small teeth, a dangerous temper. She was not to be taken lightly. She was a puritan about work, her own and that of others. Fiercely independent, she scorned inaction, parasitism. She had come to Paris as a model, during, as she put it, the second half of the rule of Charlemagne. Unschooled, she was surprisingly bookish. Her age was anybody’s guess. She had been married twice. Vaguely, she said. Both men, and others, had made off with money. She bore them no ill will, neither the husbands nor the others. She had tired of modelling, gone with a partner, male, an ex-University professor from Maine, into the exchange-student business. “The kids have to know about each other,” she said. “Maybe they finally won’t be able to be talked into killing each other.” A much older, beloved brother had been lost at Aachen and she was furious against war. When she read the news from Vietnam, and it was particularly bad, she cursed in barracks language, threatened to move to the South Seas with her son.

As she had said the first night, she lived from hand to mouth, but dressed extravagantly. The couturiers of Paris loaned her clothes, knowing that in the places to which she was invited, neither she nor their confections would go unnoticed. She left whatever bed she was in promptly at seven each morning, to make breakfast for her children and send them off to school. Regardless of the night she had spent, she was at her desk promptly at nine a.m. Although Craig kept a suite in a hotel, the wide bed in her room overlooking a garden on the Left Bank became his true Paris address. Her children grew fond of him. “They’re used to men,” she explained. She had outgrown whatever morality she had been exposed to in Texas and ignored whatever conventions were in practice in the society or societies she adorned in Paris.

She was straightforward, funny, demanding, unpredictable, gloriously formed for love-making, affectionate, eager and enterprising, only serious at those moments that demanded seriousness. He had been dormant. He was dormant no longer.

He had fallen into the dull habit of not noticing or appreciating women as women. Now he was immediately conscious of beauty, a sensual smile, a way of walking; his eye had been re-educated, was youthful again, was quick and innocently lascivious for the flick of a skirt, the curve of a throat, womanly movements. Faithful to one, once more he enjoyed the entire sex. It was not the least of the gifts Constance had brought him.

Long Day’s Journey into Night” by Eugene O’Neill


J A M I E: (In a cruel, sneering tone with hatred in it) Where’s the hophead? Gone to sleep?


(EDMUND jerks as if he’d been struck. There is a tense silence. EDMUND’s face looks stricken and sick. Then in a burst of rage he springs from his chair.)


E D M U N D: You dirty bastard!


(He punches his brother in the face, a blow that glances off the cheekbone. For a second JAMIE reacts pugnaciously and half rises from his chair to do battle, but suddenly he seems to sober up to a shocked realization of what he has said and he sinks back limply.)


J A M I E: (Miserably) Thanks, Kid. I certainly had that coming. Don’t know what made me – booze talking – You know me, Kid.

E D M U N D: (His anger ebbing) I know you’d never say that unless – But God, Jamie, no matter how drunk you are, it’s no excuse! (He pauses – miserably.) I’m sorry I hit you. You and I never scrap – that bad.


(He sinks back on his chair.)


J A M I E: (Huskily) It’s all right. Glad you did. My dirty tongue. Like to cut it out. (He hides his face in his hands – dully.) I suppose it’s because I feel so damned sunk. Because this time Mama had me fooled. I really believed she had it licked. She thinks I always believe the worst, but this time I believed the best. (His voice flutters.) I suppose I can’t forgive her – yet. It meant so much. I’d begun to hope, if she’d beaten the game, I could, too.


(He begins to sob, and the horrible part of his weeping is that it appears sober, not the maudlin tears of drunkenness.)


E D M U N D: (Blinking back tears himself) God, don’t I know how you feel! Stop it, Jamie!

J A M I E: (Trying to control his sobs) I’ve known about Mama so much longer than you. Never forget the first time I got wise. Caught her in the act with a hypo. Christ, I’d never dreamed before that any women but whores took dope! (He pauses.) And then this stuff of you getting consumption. It’s got me licked. We’ve been more that brothers. You’re the only pal I’ve ever had. I love your guts. I’d do anything for you.

E D M U N D: (Reaches out and pats his arm) I know that, Jamie.

J A M I E: (His crying over – drops his hands from his face – with a strange bitterness) Yet I’ll bet you’ve heard Mama and old Gaspard spill so much bunk about my hoping for the worst, you suspect right now I’m thinking to myself that Papa is old and can’t last much longer, and if you were to die, Mama and I would get all he’s got, and so I’m probably hoping –

E D M U N D: (Indignantly) Shut up, you damned fool! What the hell put that in your nut? (He stares at his brother accusingly.) Yes, that’s what I’d like to know. What put that in your mid?

J A M I E: (Confusedly – appearing drunk again) Don’t be a dumbbell! What I said! Always suspected of hoping for the worst. I’ve got so I can’t help – (Then drunkenly resentful) What are you trying to do, accuse me? Don’t play the wise guy with me! I’ve learned more of life than you’ll ever know! Just because you’ve read a lot of highbrow junk, don’t think you can fool me! You’re only an overgrown kid! Mama’s baby and Papa’s pet! The family White Hope! You’ve been getting a swelled head lately. About nothing! About a few poems in a hick town newspaper! Hell, I used to write better stuff for the Lit magazine in college! You better wake up! You’re setting no rivers on fire! You let hick town boobs flatter you with bunk about your future – (Abruptly his tone changes to disgusted contrition. EDMUND has looked away from him, trying to ignore this tirade.) Hell, Kid, forget it. That goes for Sweeny. You know I don’t mean it. No one is prouder you’ve started to make good. (Drunkenly assertive) Why shouldn’t I be proud? Hell, it’s purely selfish. You reflect credit on me. I’ve had more to do with bringing you up than anyone. I wised you up about women, so you’d never be a fall guy, or make any mistakes you didn’t want to make! And who steered you on to reading poetry first? Swinburne, for example? I did! And because I once wanted to write, I planted it in your mind that someday you’d write! Hell, you’re more than my brother. I made you! You’re my Frankenstein!


(He has risen to a note of drunken arrogance. EDMUND is grinning with amusement now.)

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