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Практикум з стилістики англійської мови

p align="left">Publicist style is a perfect example of the historical changeability of stylistic differentiation of discourses. In ancient Greece, e.g., it was practiced mainly in its oral form and was best known as oratoric style, within which views and sentiments of the addresser (orator) found their expression. Nowadays political, ideological, ethical, social beliefs and statements of the addresser are prevailingly expressed in the written form, which was labelled publicist in accordance with the name of the corresponding genre and its practitioners. Publicist style is famous for its explicit pragmatic function of persuasion directed at influencing the reader and shaping his views, in accordance with the argumentation of the author. Correspondingly, we find in publicist style a blend of the rigorous logical reasoning, reflecting the objective state of things, and a strong subjectivity reflecting the author's personal feelings and emotions towards the discussed subject.

Newspaper style, as it is evident from its name, is found in newspapers. You should not conclude though that everything published in a newspaper should be referred to the newspaper style. The paper contains vastly varying materials, some of them being publicist essays, some - feature articles, some - scientific reviews, some - official stock-exchange accounts etc., so that a daily (weekly) newspaper also offers a variety of styles. When we mention "newspaper style", we mean informative materials, characteristic of newspaper only and not found in other publications. To attract the reader's attention to the news, special graphical means are used. British and American papers are notorious for the change of type, specific headlines, space ordering, etc. We find here a large proportion of dates and personal names of countries, territories, institutions, individuals. To achieve the effect of objectivity and impartiality in rendering some fact or event, most of the newspaper information is published anonymously, without the name of the newsman who supplied it, with little or no subjective modality. But the position and attitude of the paper, nonetheless, become clear from the choice not only of the subject-matter but also of the words denoting international or domestic issues.

Belles-lettres style, or the style of imaginative literature may be called the richest register of communication: besides its own language means which are not used in any other sphere of communication, belles-lettres style makes ample use of other styles too, for in numerous works of literary art we find elements of scientific, official and other functional types of speech. Besides informative and persuasive functions, also found in other functional styles, the belles-lettres style has a unique task to impress the reader aesthetically. The form becomes meaningful and carries additional information as you must have seen from previous chapters. Boundless possibilities of expressing one's thoughts and feelings make the belles-lettres style a highly attractive field of research for a linguist.

Speaking of belles-lettres style most scholars almost automatically refer to it prose works, regarding poetry the domain of a special poetic style. Viewed diachronically this opinion does not seem controversial, for poems of previous centuries, indeed, adhered to a very specific vocabulary and its ordering. But poetry of the twentieth century does not show much difference from prose vocabulary, its subjects are no more limited to several specific "poetic" fields but widely cover practically all spheres of existence of contemporary man. So it is hardly relevant to speak of a separate poetic style in reference to contemporary literature.

Finishing this brief outline of functional styles observed in modern English, it is necessary to stress, again, two points. The first one concerns the dichotomy - written:: oral, which is not synonymous to the dichotomy literary:: colloquial, the former opposition meaning the form of presentation, the latter - the choice of language means. There are colloquial messages in the written form (such as personal letters, informal notes, diaries and journals) and vice versa: we have examples of literary discourses in the oral form (as in a recital, lecture, report, paper read at a conference etc.).

The second point deals with the flexibility of style boundaries: the borders within which a style presumably functions are not rigid and allow various degrees of overlapping and melting into each other. It is not accidental that rather often we speak of intermediate cases such as the popular scientific style which combines the features of scientific and belles-lettres styles, or the style of new journalism which is a combination of publicist, newspaper and belles-lettres styles etc.

Exercise I. Analyse the peculiarities of functional styles in the following examples:

1. Nothing could be more obvious, it seems to me, than that art should be moral and that the first business of criticism, at least some of the time, should be to judge works of literature (or painting or even music) on grounds of the production's moral worth. By "moral" I do not mean some such timid evasion as "not too blatantly immoral". It is not enough to say, with the support of mountains of documentation from sociologists, psychiatrists, and the New York City Police Department, that television is a bad influence when it actively encourages pouring gasoline on people and setting fire to them. On the contrary, television - or any other more or less artistic medium - is good (as opposed to pernicious or vacuous) only when it has a clear positive moral effect, presenting valid models for imitation, eternal verities worth keeping in mind, and a benevolent vision of the possible which can inspire and incite human beings towards virtue, towards life affirmation as opposed to destruction or indifference. This obviously does not mean that art should hold up cheap or cornball models of behaviour, though even those do more good in the short run than does, say, an attractive bad model like the quick-witted cynic so endlessly celebrated in light-hearted films about voluptuous women and international intrigue. In the long run, of course, cornball morality leads to rebellion and the loss of faith. (J.G.)

2. In tagmemics we make a crucial theoretical difference between the grammatical hierarchy and the referential one. In a normal instance of reporting a single event in time, the two are potentially isomorphic with coterminous borders. But when simultaneous, must'be sequenced in the report. In some cases, a chronological or logical sequence can in English be partially or completely changed in presentational order (e.g. told backwards); when this is done, the referential structure of the tale is unaffected, but the grammatical structure of the telling is radically altered. Grammatical order is necessarily linear (since words come out of the mouth one at a time), but referential order is at least potentially simultaneous.

Describing a static situation presents problems parallel to those of presenting an event involving change or movement. Both static and dynamic events are made linear in grammatical presentation even if the items or events are, referentially speaking, simultaneous in space or time (K.Pk.)

3. Techniques of comparison form a natural part of the literary critic's analytic and evaluative process: in discussing one work, critics frequently have in mind, and almost as frequently appeal to, works in the same or another language. Comparative literature systematically extends this latter tendency, aiming to enhance awareness of the qualities of one work by using the products of another linguistic culture as an illuminating context; or studying some broad topic or theme as it is realized ("transformed") in the literatures of different languages. It is worth insisting on comparative literature's kinship with criticism in general, for there is evidently a danger that its exponents may seek to argue an unnatural distinctiveness in their activities (this urge to establish a distinct identity is the source of many unfruitfully abstract justifications of comparative literature); and on the other hand a danger that its opponents may regard the discipline as nothing more than demonstration of "affinities" and "influences" among different literatures - an activity which is not critical at all, belonging rather to the categorizing spirit of literary history. (R.F.)

4. Caging men as a means of dealing with the problem of crime is a modern refinement of man's ancient and limitless inhumanity, as well as his vast capacity for self-delusion. Murderers and felons used to be hanged, beheaded, flogged, tortured, broken on the rack, blinded, ridden out of town on a rail, tarred and feathered, or arrayed in the stocks. Nobody pretended that such penalties were anything other than punishment and revenge. Before nineteenth-century American developments, dungeons were mostly for the convenient custody of political prisoners, debtors, and those awaiting trial. American progress with many another gim "advance", gave the world the penitentiary.

In 1787, Dr. Benjamin Rush read to a small gathering in the Philadelphia home of Benjamin Franklin a paper in which he said that the right way to treat offenders was to cause them to repent of their crimes. Ironically taken up by gentle Quakers, Rush's notion was that offenders should be locked alone in cells, day and night, so that in such awful solitude they would have nothing to do but to ponder their acts, repent, and reform. To this day, the American liberal - progressive - idea persists that there is some way to make people repent and reform. Psychiatry, if not solitude will provide perfectability.

Three years after Rush proposed it, a single-cellular penitentiary was established in the Walnut Street Jail in Philadelphia. By the 1830s, Pennsylvania had constructed two more state penitentiaries, that followed the Philadelphia reform idea. Meanwhile, in New York, where such reforms as the lock-step had been devised, the "Auburn system" evolved from the Pennsylvania program. It provided for individual cells and total silence, but added congregate employment in shops, fields, or quarries during a long, hard working day. Repressive and undeviating routine, unremitting labor, harsh subsistence conditions, and frequent floggings complemented the monastic silence; so did striped uniforms and the great wall around the already secure fortress. The auburn system became the model for American penitentiaries in most of the states, and the lofty notions of the Philadelphians soon were lost in the spirit expressed by Elam Lynds, the first warden of Sing Sing (built in 1825): "Reformation of the criminal could not possibly be effected until the spirit of the criminal was broken."

The nineteenth-century penitentiary produced more mental breakdowns, suicides, and deaths than repentance. "I believe," wrote Charles Dickens, after visiting such an institution, "that very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of torture and agony which this dreadful punishment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers." Yet, the idea persisted that men could be reformed (now we say "rehabilitated") in such hellholes - a grotesque derivation from the idea that man is not only perfectable but rational enough to determine his behavior through self-interest.

A later underpinning of the nineteenth-century prison was its profitability. The sale and intraprison use of prison-industry products fitted right into the productivity ethic of a growing nation. Convicts, moreover, could be and were in some states rented out like oxen to upright businessmen. Taxpayers were happy, cheap labor was available, and prison officials, busily developing their bureaucracies, saw their institutions entrenched. The American prison system - a design to reform criminals by caging humans - found a permanent place in American society and flourished largely unchanged into the twentieth century. In 1871, a Virginia court put the matter in perspective when it ruled that prisoners were "slaves of the state". (Wic.)

5. BUYERS BOX FOR PACKER $ 350 m prace tag is put on Waddington

A J350 million bidding war is set to erupt for Waddington, the packaging group that last month admitted it had received a takeover approach from its management team.

At least two venture capital firms are understood to be looking at Leeds-based Waddington, which is expected to command a takeout of at least ?325 a share against Friday's close of?247. One of the potential buyers is believed to be CinVen.

Waddington's management team, led by chief executive Martin Buckley and finance director Geoffrey Gibson, are preparing their own offer for title company. They are being advised by NatWest Equity Partners, which last week backed the management buyout of Noreros, the building materials outfit.

Waddington's three non-executive directors, led by chairman John Hollowood, are thought to have been alerted to the prospect of rival bidders.

City analysts said rival approaches were expected in the wake of Waddington's recent announcement, since the takeout price originally mooted was far too low. (S.T.)

6. REVEALED: BRITAIN'S SECRET NUCLEAR PLANT

A SECRET nuclear fuel plant processing radioactive material a mile from the centre of a British city has been revealed to have serious safety flaws.

Nuclear fuel more volatile than the uranium which caused the recent radioactive leak at a Japanese facility is being secretly manufactured in the Rolls-Royce plant in Derby.

Highly enriched uranium fuel is processed at the factory for the Ministry of Defence (MoD) - although this has never before been disclosed and the local population has not been told because the work is classified. They are only aware that the factory makes engines for Trident nuclear submarines.

Leaked company documents reveal that there is a risk of a "criticality accident" - the chain reaction which caused the nuclear disaster at a fuel manufacturing plant in Tokaimura last month. It has also emerged that after a safety exercise at the plant this year, inspectors concluded that it was "unable to demonstrate adequate contamination control arrangements". There is still no public emergency plan in case of disaster.

"I can't believe that they make nuclear fuel in Derby and don't have an off-site public emergency plan," said a nuclear safety expert who has visited the plant. "Even in Plymouth where they [the MoD] load the uranium fuel into the submarines, they have a publicised plan for the local population."

In the Tokaimura disaster two weeks ago, clouds of deadly radiation poured out from a nuclear fuel plant after a nuclear fission chain reaction. Most nuclear plants in Britain use fuel containing about 3% uranium 235, but in the Tokaimura incident it was about 20%, which was a contributory factor for the chain reaction.

In Derby the fuel is potentially even more unstable, containing more than 90% uranium 235. Rolls-Royce has always said that its marine power division at Raynesway, Derby, makes propulsion systems for nuclear submarines. It has never previously admitted processing the uranium fuel. (S.T.)

7. I hear America singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be

Blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or

Leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the

Deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter

Singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the

Morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife

At work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day - at night the party of

Young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. (W.W.)

8.

Professor W.H. Leeman

79 Rigby Drive London

Dorset, Merseyside 10th March 1998

Dear Sir!

Contributed papers accepted for the Conference will be presented in oral sessions or in poster sessions, each type of presentation being considered of equal importance for the success of the conference. The choice between the one or the other way of presentation will be made by the

Programme Committee. The first is a ten-minute talk in a conventional session, followed by a poster presentation in a poster area. In the poster period (about two hours) authors will post visual material about their work on a designated board and will be prepared to present details and answer questions relating to their paper. The second mode of presentation is the conventional format of twenty-minute talks without poster periods. This will be used for some sessions, particularly those for which public discussion is especially important or for which there is a large well-defined audience.

Sincerely T. W. Thomas, Chairman.

9. My Lord, February 7th, 1755

I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of "The World", that two papers, in which my "Dictionary" is recommended to the public, were written by your Lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive or in what terms to acknowledge.

When, with some slight encouragement, I first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself "Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre", - that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, My Lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, My Lord, one, who looks with unconcern on a man straggling for life in water, and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help?

The notice you have been pleased to take of my labours, had>it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary and cannot impart it; till I am known and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity, not to confess obligations when no benefit has been received; or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall now be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation,

My Lord

Your Lordship's most humble,

most obedient Servant

Sam Jonson.

10.

Liverpool, 17th July 19...

Messrs. M. Worthington & Co., Ltd., Oil Importers,

c/o Messrs. Williams & C.; Ship Agents,

17 Fenchurch Street,London, Е., С., England

Dear Sirs,

Re: 9500 tons of Edible Oil under B/LNos.:

2732, 3734, 4657 m/t Gorky ar'd 16.07.

In connection with your request to start discharging the above cargo first by pumping out bottom layer into barges and then to go on with pumping the rest of the cargo into shore tanks I wish to point out the following.

As per clause of the Bill of Lading "Weight, quantity and quality unknown to me" the carrier is not responsible for the quantity and quality of the goods, but it is our duty to deliver the cargo in the same good order and conditions as located. It means that we are to deliver the cargo in accordance with the measurements taken after loading and in conformity with the samples taken from each tank on completion of loading.

Therefore if you insist upon such a fractional layer discharging of this cargo, I would kindly ask you to send your representative to take joint samples and measurements of each tank, on the understanding that duplicate samples, jointly taken and sealed, will be kept aboard our ship for further reference. The figures, obtained from these measurements and analyses will enable you to give us clean receipts for the cargo in question, after which we shall immediately start discharging the cargo in full compliance with your instructions.

It is, of course, understood, that, inasmuch as such discharging is not in strict compliance with established practice, you will bear all the responsibility, as well as the expenses and / or consequences arising therefrom, which please confirm.

Yours faithfully

C.LSh....

Master of the m/t Gorky

2.38 p.m.

11. Speech of Viscount Simon of the House of Lords:

Defamation Bill

3.12p.m.

The noble and learned Earl, Lord Jowitt, made a speech of much persuasiveness on the second reading raising this point, and today as is natural and proper, he has again presented with his usual skill, and I am sure with the greatest sincerity, many of the same considerations. I certainly do not take the view that the argument in this matter is all on the side. One could not possibly say that when one considers that there is considerable academic opinion at the present time in favour of this change and in view of the fact that there are other countries under the British Flag where, I understand, there was a change in the law, to a greater or less degree, in the direction which the noble and learned Earl so earnestly recommends to the House. But just as I am very willing to accept the view that the case for resisting the noble Earl's Amendment is not overwhelming, so I do not think it reasonable that the view should be taken that the argument is practically and considerably the other way. The real truth is that, in framing statuary provisions about the law of defamation, we have to choose the sensible way between two principles each of which is greatly to be admired but both of which ran into some conflict. (July 28, 1952.)

12. ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE

Radio 2

Johnnie Walker, the DJ fined ? 2,000 last week for possessing cocaine, was suitably contrite as Radio 2 opened its arms to welcome him back to work. "I'm extremely sorry for all the embarrassment I've caused my family, friends and the BBC," he said.

Embarrassment? My dear old chap, this is absolutely the best thing to have happened to Radio 2's image in years.

There has only been one other significant drags scandal involving a Radio 2 presenter. One day in 1993, Alan Freeman accidentally took an overdose of his arthritis pills. Luckily, there was no lasting damage done to Freeman, but for Radio 2 it was touch and go.

Arthritis pills? This was not the image that the station had been assiduously nurturing. For years, Radio 2 has been struggling to cast off the impression that it thinks hip is something that you can have replaced on the NHS at some point in your late seventies.

This struggle has not been a success. To many listeners, it is the station to which people turn when they start taking an interest in golf, Sanatogen and comfortable cardigans.

It is a reliable friend to lean on when you hear yourself say: "Radio 4 is all very well, but why does everything have to be so brash and loud?".

So for Radio 2 to have a chap on the staff who's had a brush with cocaine and wild living was a lucky bonus. For a short time, Radio 2 producers could turn up at nightclub doors without being sniggered at. (S.T.)

13. ME IMPERTURBE

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature,

Master of all or mistress of all, aplomb in the midst of

Irrational things,

Imbued as they, passive, receptive, silent as they,

Finding my occupation, poverty, notoriety, foibles, crimes

Less important than I thought,

Me toward the Mexican sea, or in the Mannahatta or the

Tennessee, or far north or inland,

A river man, or a man of the woods or of any farm-life of

These States or of the coast, or the lakes of Kanada,

Me wherever my life is lived, О to be self-balanced for

Contingencies,

To confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents,

Rebuffs, as the trees and animals do. (W.W.)

14. TOBACCO CAN HELP STOP THE HAIR LOSS FROM CANCER DRUGS

TOBACCO plants could be the key to allowing chemotherapy patients to keep their hair, writes Roger Dobson.

Biotechnologists have succeeded in getting the transgenic plants to grow an antibody that neutralises the hair-loss effects of the toxic chemicals used in cancer-fighting chemotherapy.

When a solution of the antibodies is rubbed into the hair and scalp before anti-cancer treatment begins, it protects and preserves the hair follicles from the aggressive toxins in the drug treatment. ( S. T.)

15. In most countries, foreign languages have traditionally been taught for a small number of hours per week, but for several years on end. Modern thought on this matter suggests that telescoping language courses brings a number of unexpected advantages. Thus it seems that a course of 500 hours spread over five years is much less effective than the same course spread over one year, while if it were concentrated into six months it might produce outstanding results. One crucial factor here is the reduction in opportunities for forgetting; however, quite apart from the difficulty of making the time in school time-tables when some other subject would inevitably have to be reduced, there is a limit to the intensity of language teaching which individuals can tolerate over a protracted period. It is clear that such a limit exists; it is not known in detail how the limit varies for different individuals, nor for different age-groups, and research into these factors is urgently needed. At any rate, a larger total number of hours per week and a tendency towards more frequent teaching periods are the two aspects of intensity which are at present being tried out in many places, with generally encouraging results. (P.St.)

16. US FIRM QUITS BISCUIT RACE

THE US venture capital firm Hicks, Muse, Tate & Furst, which bought Hillsdown Holdings this year, has ruled out a bid for United Biscuits.

Hicks Muse, which owns the Peak Freans brand, was previously a hot favourite in the City to bid for UB, whose products include McVitie's, Penguin, Jaffa Cakes, KP, Skips and Phileas Fogg.

UB, which is expected to command a price tag of about $l.2 billion, admitted last week it had received an approach that might lead to an offer.

However, Hicks Muse's departure leaves just four serious bidders for some or all of UB.

They are two venture capitalists - Kohlberg Kravis Roberts and CVC Capital Partners - as well as Nabisco, America's leading biscuits firm, and Danone, the French food group that owns Jacob's cream crackers and HP sauce. (S.T.)

17. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging, I look down.

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

My God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. (S.H.)

18. PREPARING A BUSINESS PLAN

A business plan is essential to the start-up, growth and modification of any business whether it be a small private farm or a large state farm or an agricultural processing facility. The business plan specifically defines the business. It identifies and clarifies goals and provides the direction for their achievement.

A well developed plan will serve three primary functions. First, it will act as a feasibility study. Writing the plan forces the business owner or director to translate ideas into black and white allowing substantiation and evaluation of the assumptions upon which the plan is based. It helps to determine the need for, and proper allocation of resources and, by allowing the owner to look for weak spots and vulnerabilities, helps reduce the risk of unforeseen complications.

Second, the plan will serve as a management tool. It provides a guide for implementation and standards against which to evaluate performance. Properly utilised, it can help alert the owner/manager to potential problems before they become detrimental, and potential opportunities before they are missed.

Third, the plan is the tool for obtaining financing for the business. Whether seeking bank financing, private domestic or foreign investors, government financing or venture capital, a detailed, well-drafted plan is necessary. (Wt.)

19.

United States Department of Agriculture

Commercial Agriculture Development Project 2

Luctukiv Pereulok Maliv, Ukraine 25002 Tel/Fax: (380-02) 42-80-80 E-mail: eller@te.net.ua

March 2, 2000

Harry Mead, USAID

19 Rubyy Val St.254 Kyi'v, Ukraine

Dear Mr. Walters,

I have discussed the issue of using funds allocated for wages, transportation, technical assistance, and other expenditures in the KNO Project for larger capital purchases for the four cooperatives with you and Ken Boyle and I am seeking formal approval to do this. I have also discussed this idea with the boards of the four cooperatives and they have agreed that this would be a better way to use the funds in the budget.

Artsis is working on a deal with Monsanto for no-till planting equipment. I agreed to make the down payment for that deal, which is $10,000.00. We have been working on this for a long time (it seems like forever) with CNFA and Monsanto. The payment has already been made to Monsanto.

I have already purchased seed treating equipment and two tractors for Ivanov Coop. They got the equipment from bankrupt collectives and got a very good deal on all of it. The seed treating equipment was still in crates and was purchased from Germany two years ago for $27,000.00. We got it all for $7,000.00. The Ivanov Coop will specialize in hailing, storing and selling seed. They got the two tractors from a bankrupt collective in Ivanovka for $3,000.00 and will provide a plowing service for their members this year.

Sincerely,

John Wales USDA/CADP Odessa

ASSIGNMENTS FOR SELF-CONTROL

1. What types of language communication do you know?

2. What are the main characteristics of oral speech?

3. Enumerate functional styles of contemporary English.

4. What do you know about the scientific style?

5. Characterize the official style.

6. Discuss the peculiarities of the newspaper style.

7. What are the main features of the publicist style?

8. What is the status of the belles-lettres style among other functional styles?

9. What dichotomies between the types and the forms of language communication do you know? Do they correlate?

10. Can you think of any intermediate styles, boasting of qualities of two or even more "regular" styles?

* * *

Now, after you had learnt the intricacies of stylistic functioning of language units of different linguistic levels, we can try and analyze their convergence, which enhances and strengthens the given information and - still more important - creates the new, additional meaning of the message.

Starting on the road of stylistic analysis you should keep in mind at least three basic essentials:

1. Read the passage given for analysis to the end.

2. Be sure you understand not only its general content but every single word and construction, too.

3. Paying due respect to linguistic intuition which is an indispensable part of all linguistic work, be sure to look for the source of your "feeling of the text" in the material reality of the latter.

SUPPLEMENT 1. SAMPLES OF STYLISTIC ANALYSIS

1. My dad had a small insurance agency in Newport. He had moved there because his sister had married old Newport money and was a big wheel in the Preservation Society. At fifteen I'm an orphan, and Vic moves in. "From now on you'll do as I tell you," he says. It impressed me. Vic had never really shown any muscle before. (N.T.)

The first person singular pronouns indicate that we deal either with the entrusted narrative or with the personage's uttered monologue.

The communicative situation is highly informal. The vocabulary includes not only standard colloquial words and expressions such as "dad", "to show muscle" (which is based on metonymy), the intensifying "really'', but also the substandard metaphor - "a big wheel". The latter also indicates the lack of respect of the speaker towards his aunt, which is further sustained by his metonymical qualification of her husband ("old Newport money").

The syntax, too, participates in conveying the atmosphere of colloquial informality - sentences are predominantly short. Structures are either simple or, even when consisting of two clauses, offer the least complicated cases of subordination.

The change of tenses registers changes in the chronology of narrated events. Especially conspicuous is the introduction of Present Indefinite (Simple) Tense, which creates the effect of immediacy and nearness of some particular moment, which, in its turn, signifies the importance of this event, thus foregrounding it, bringing it into the limelight - and making it the logical and emotional centre of the discourse.

2. He had heard everything the Boy said however - was waiting for the right moment to wrap up his silence, roll it into a weapon and hit Matty over the head with it. He did so now. (W.G1.)

In this short extract from W. Golding's Darkness Visible the appearance of a person who was an unnoticed witness to a conversation is described. The unexpectedness of his emergence is identified with the blow in the sustained metaphor which consists of three individual verb metaphors showing stages of an aggressive action.

The abrupt change of sentence length and structure contributes to the expressiveness of the passage.

3. And out of the quiet it came to Abramovici that the battle was over, it had left him alive; it had been a battle - a battle! You know where people go out and push little buttons and pull little triggers and figure out targets and aim with the intention to kill, to tear your guts, to blow out у our brains, to put great ragged holes in the body you've been taking care of and feeding and washing all youi life, holes out of which your blood comes pouring, more blood than you ever could wash off, hold back, stop with all the bandages in the world! (St.H.)

Here we deal with the change "of the type of narration: from the author's narrative, starting the paragraph, to represented inner speech of the character. The transition tells on the vocabulary which becomes more colloquial (cf. ''guts") and more emotional (cf. the hyperbole "all the bandages in the world"); on the syntax brimming with parallelisms; on tne punctuation passing on to the emphatic points of exclamation and dashes; on the morphology. "Naive" periphrases are used to describe the act of firing and its deadly effect Third person pronouns give way to the second person ("you", "your") embracing both communicants - the personage (author) and the reader, establishing close links between them, involving the reader into the feelings and sentiments of the character.

Very important is repetition. Besides syntactical repetition (parallelism) mentioned above, pay attention to the repetition of "battle", because it is this word which on one hand, actually marks the shift from one type of narration to another (the first "battle" bringing in the author's voice, the last two - that of Abramovici). On the other hand, the repetition creates continuity and cohesion and allows the two voices merge, making the transition smooth and almost imperceptible.

4. "This is Willie Stark, gents. From up home at Mason City. Me and Willie was in school together. Yeah, and Willie, he was a bookworm, and he was teacher's pet. Wuzn't you, Willie?" And Alex nudged the teacher's pet in the ribs. (R.W.)

Alex's little speech gives a fair characteristic of the speaker. The substandard "gents", colloquial "me", irregularities of grammar ("me and Willie was"), pronunciation (graphon "wuzn't"), syntax ("Willie, he was"), abundance of set phrases ("he was a bookworm", "he was a teacher's pet", "from up home") - all this shows the low educational and cultural level of the speaker.

It is very important that such a man introduces the beginning politician to his future voters and followers. In this way R. P. Warren stresses the gap between the aspiring and ambitious, but very common and run-of-the-mill young man starting on his political career, and the false and ruthless experienced politician in the end of this road.

Note the author's ironic attitude towards the young Stark which is seen from the periphrastic nomination of the protagonist ("teacher's pet") in the author's final remark.

5. From that day on, thundering trains loomed in his dreams - hurtling, sleek, black monsters whose stack pipes belched gobs of serpentine smoke, whose seething fireboxes coughed out clouds of pink sparks, whose pushing pistons sprayed jets of hissing steam - panting trains that roared yammeringly over farflung, gleaming rails only to come to limp and convulsive halts - long, fearful trains that were hauled brutally forward by red-eyed locomotives that you loved watching as they (and you trembling) crashed past (and you longing to run but finding your feet strangely glued to the ground). (Wr.)

This paragraph from Richard Wright is a description into which the character's voice is gradually introduced first through the second person pronoun "you", later also graphically and syntactically - through the so-called embedded sentences, which explicitly describe the personage's emotions.

The paragraph is dominated by the sustained metaphor "trains" = "monsters". Each clause of this long (the length of this one sentence, constituting a whole paragraph, is over 90 words) structure contains its own verb-metaphors "belched", "coughed out", "sprayed", etc., metaphorical epithets contributing to the image of the monster -"thundering", "hurtling", "seething", "pushing", "hissing", etc. Their participial form also helps to convey the effect of dynamic motion. The latter is inseparable from the deafening noise, and besides "roared", "thundering", "hissing", there is onomatopoeic "yammeringly".

The paragraph abounds in epithets - single (e.g. "serpentine smoke"), pairs (e.g. "farflung, gleaming rails"), strings ("hurtling, sleek, black monsters"), expressed not only by the traditional adjectives and participles but also by qualitative adverbs ("brutally", "yammeringly"). Many epithets, as it was mentioned before, are metaphorical, included into the formation of the sustained metaphor. The latter, besides the developed central image of the monstrous train, consists of at least two minor ones - "red-eyed locomotives", "limp and convulsive halts".

The syntax of the sentence-paragraph shows several groups of parallel constructions, reinforced by various types of repetitions (morphological- of the -ing-suffix, caused by the use of eleven participles; anaphoric -of "whose"; thematic - of the word "train"). All the parallelisms and repetitions create a definitely perceived rhythm of the passage which adds to the general effect of dynamic motion.

Taken together, the abundance of verbs and verbals denoting fast and noisy action, having a negative connotation, of onomatopoeic words, of repetitions - all of these phonetic, morphological, lexical and syntactical means create a threatening and formidable image, which both frightens and fascinates the protagonist.

SUPPLEMENT 2. EXTRACTS FOR COMPREHENSIVE STYLISTIC ANALYSIS

1. As various aids to recovery were removed from him and he began to speak more, it was observed that his relationship to language was unusual. He mouthed. Not only did he clench his fists with the effort of speaking, he squinted. It seemed that a word was an object, a material object, round and smooth sometimes, a golf-ball of a thing that he could just about manage to get through his mouth, though it deformed his face in the passage. Some words were jagged and these became awful passages of pain and struggle that made the other children laugh. Patience and silence seemed the greater part of his nature. Bit by bit he learnt to control the anguish of speaking until the golf-balls and jagged stones, the toads and jewels passed through his mouth with not much more than the normal effort. (W.G1.)

2. As the women unfolded the convolutions of their stories together he felt more and more like a kitten tangling up in a ball of wool it had never intended to unravel in the first place; or a sultan faced with not one but two Scheherezades, both intent on impacting a thousand stories into the single night. (An.C.)

3. "Is anything wrong?" asked the tall well-muscled manager with menacing inscrutability, arriving to ensure that nothing in his restaurant ever would go amiss. A second contender for the world karate championship glided noiselessly up alongside in formidable allegiance. (Js.H.)

4. As Prew listened the mobile face before him melted to a battle-blackened skull as though a flamethrower had passed over it, kissed it lightly, and moved on. The skull talked on to him about his health. (J.)

5. Scobie turned up James Street past the Secretariat. With its long balconies it has always reminded him of a hospital. For fifteen years he had watched the arrival of a succession of patients; periodically, at the end of eighteen months certain patients were sent home, yellow and nervy and others took their place - Colonial Secretaries, Secretaries of Agriculture, Treasurers and Directors of Public Works. He watched their temperature charts every one - the first outbreak of unreasonable temper, the drink too many, the sudden attack for principle after a year of acquiescence. The black clerks carried their bedside manner like doctors down the corridors; cheerful and respectful they put up with any insult. The patient was always right. (Gr.Gr.)

6. Her voice. It was as if he became a prisoner of her voice, her cavernous, sombre voice, a voice made for shouting about the tempest, her voice of a celestial fishwife. Musical as it strangely was, yet not a voice for singing with; it comprised discords, her scale contained twelve tones. Her voice, with its warped, homely, Cockney vowels and random aspirates. Her dark, rusty, dipping, swooping voice, imperious as a siren's. (An.C.)

7. In a very few minutes an ambulance came, the team was told all the nothing that was known about the child and he was driven away, the ambulance bell ringing, unnecessarily. (W.G1.)

8. This area took Matty and absorbed him. He received pocket money. He slept in a long attic. He ate well. He wore a thick dark-grey suit and grey overalls. He carried things. He became the Boy. (W.G1.)

9. We have all seen those swinging gates which, when their swing is considerable, go to and fro without locking. When the swing has declined, however, the latch suddenly drops to its place, the gate is held and after a short rattle the motion is all over. We have to explain an effect something like that. When the two atoms meet, the repulsions of their electron shells usually cause them to recoil; but if the motion is small and the atoms spend a longer time in each other's neighbourhood, there is time for something to happen in the internal arrangements of both atoms, like the drop of the latch-gate into its socket, and the atoms are held. (W.Br.)

10. We marched on, fifteen miles a day, till we came to the maze of canals and streams which lead the Euphrates into the Babylonian cornfields. The bridges are built high for the floods of winter. Sometimes the ricefields spread their tassled lakes, off which the morning sun would glance to blind us. Then one noon, when the glare had shifted, we saw ahead the great black walls of Babylon, stretched on the low horizon against the heavy sky. Not that its walls were near; it was their height that let us see them. When at last we passed between the wheatfields yellowing for the second harvest, which fringed the moat, and stood below, it was like being under mountain cliffs. One could see the bricks and bitumen; yet it seemed impossible this could be the work of human hands. Seventy-five feet stand the walls of Babylon; more than thirty thick; and each side of the square they form measure fifteen miles. We saw no sign of the royal army; there was room for it all to encamp within, some twenty thousand foot and fifty thousand horse.

The walls have a hundred gates of solid bronze. We went in by the Royal Way, lined with banners and standards, with Magi holding fire-altars, ith trumpeters and praise-singers, with satraps and commanders. Further on was the army; the walls of Babylon enclose a whole countryside. All its parks can grow grain in case of siege; it is watered from the Euphrates. An impregnable city.

The King entered in his chariot. He made a fine figure, overtopping by half a head his charioteer, shining in white and purple. The Babylonians roared their acclamation, as he drove off with a tram of lords and satraps to show himself to the army. (M.R.)

11. You know, a lot of trouble has been caused by memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been close as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves will be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. (Ch.)

12. "Call Elizabeth Cluppins," said Sergeant Buzfuz. The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins, another one, at a little distance of, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless state into Ring Street and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse. (D.)

13. "You're the last person I wanted to see. The sight of you dries up all my plans and hopes. I wish I were back at war still, because it's easier to fight you than to live with you. War's a pleasure do you hear me? -War's a pleasure compared to what faces us now: trying to build up a peacetime with you in the middle of it."

"I'm not going to be a part of any peacetime of yours. I'm going a long way from here and make my own world that's fit for a man to live in. Where a man can be free, and have a chance, and do what he wants to do in his own way," Henry said.

"Henry, let's try again."

"Try what? Living here? Speaking polite down to all the old men like you? Standing like sheep at the street corner until - the red light turns to green? Being a good boy and a good sheep, like all the stinking ideas you get out of your books? Oh, no! I'll make a world, and I'll show you." (Th.W.)

14. I began to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all, how short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she would be left to the rough mercies of the world. (D.)

15. She was sitting down with the "Good Earth" in front of her. She put it aside the moment she made her decision, got up and went to the closet where perched on things that looked like huge wooden collar-buttons. She took two hats, tried on both of them, and went back to the closet and took out a third, which she kept on. Gloves, purse, cigarette extinguished, and she was ready to go. (J.O'H.)

16. "How long have you known him? What's he like?" "Since Christmas. He's from Seattle and he spent Christmas with friends of mine in Greenwich is how I happened to meet him. I sat next to him at dinner the night after Christmas, and he was the quiet type, 1 thought. He looked to be the quiet type. So I found out what he did and I began talking about gastroenterostomies and stuff and he just sat there and nodded all the time I was talking. You know, when I was going to be a nurse a year before last. Finally I said something to him. I asked him if by any chance he was listening to what 1 was saying, or bored, or what? "No, not bored," he said. "Just cockeyed." And he was. Cockeyed. It seems so long ago and so hard to believe we were ever strangers like that, but that's how I met him, or my first conversation with him. Actually he's very good. His family have loads of money from the lumber business and I've never seen anything like the way he spends money. But only when it doesn't interfere with his work at P. and S. He has a Packard that he keeps in Greenwich and hardly ever uses except when he comes to see me. He was a marvellous basket-ball player at Dartmouth and two weeks ago when he came up to our house he hadn't had a golf stick in his hands since last summer and he went out and shot an eighty-seven. He's very homely, but he has this dry sense of humor that at first you don't quite know whether he's even listening to you, but the things he says. Sometimes I think - oh, not really, but a stranger overhearing him might suggest sending him to an alienist." (J.O'H.)

17. My appointment with the Charters Electrical Company wasn't until afternoon, so I spent the morning wandering round the town. There was a lot of dirty snow and slush about, and the sky was grey and sagging with another load of the stuff, but the morning was fine enough for a walk. Gretley in daylight provided no surprise It was one of those English towns that seem to have been built simply to make money for people who don't even condescend to live in them. (P.)

18. This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eyes. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep, simultaneously. (D.)

19. Mr. Topper turned from the tree and wormed himself into the automobile. And the observer, had he been endowed with cattish curiosity would have noted by the laborings of Topper's body that he had not long been familiar with the driving seat of an automobile. Once in, he relaxed, then, collecting his scattered members, arranged his feet and hands as Mark had patiently instructed him. (Th.S.)

20. It was a marvellous day in late August, and Wimsey's soul purred within him as he pushed the car along. The road from Kirkcudbright to Newton-Stuart is of a varied loveliness hard to surpass, and with the sky full of bright sun and rolling cloud-banks, hedges filled with flowers, a well-made road, a lively engine and a prospect of a good corpse at the end of it, Lord Peter's cup of happiness was full. He was a man who loved simple pleasures.

He passed through Gatehouse, waving a cheerful hand to the proprietor of Antworth Hotel, climbed up beneath the grim blackness of Cardoness Castle, drank in for the thousandth time the strange Japanese beauty of Mossyard Farm, set like a red jewel under its tufted trees on the blue sea's rim, and the Italian loveliness of Kirkdale, with its fringe of thin and twisted trees and the blue coast gleaming across the way. (D.S.)

21. The two transports had sneaked up from the South in the first graying flush of dawn, their cumbersome mass cutting smoothly through the water whose still greater mass bore them silently, themselves as gray as the dawn which camouflaged them. Now, in the fresh early morning of a lovely tropic day they lay quietly at anchor in the channel, nearer to the one island than to the other which was only a cloud on the horizon. To their crews, this was a routine mission and one they knew well: that of delivering fresh reinforcement troops. But to the men who comprised the cargo of infantry this trip was neither routine nor known and was composed of a mixture of dense anxiety and tense excitement. (J.)

22. I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighbourhoods. For instance, there is a brown-stone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was one room crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a train. The walls were stucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, there v/ere prints of Roman rains freckled, brown with age. The single window looked out on the fire escape. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket the key to this apartment; with all its gloom, it was still a place of my own, the first, and my books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be. (T.C.)

23. On the fateful morning of his fortieth birthday, in a room full of butterflies, the zamindar Mirza Saeed Akhtar watched over his sleeping wife, and felt his heart fill up to the bursting-point with love. He had awoken early for once, rising before dawn with a bad dream souring his mouth, his recurring dream of the end of the world, in which the catastrophe was invariably his fault. He had been reading Nietzsche the night before - "the pitiless end of that small, overextended species called Man" - and had fallen asleep with the book resting face downwards on his chest. Waking to the rustle of butterfly wings in the cool, shadowy bedroom, he was angry with himself for being so foolish in his choice of bedside reading matter. He was, however, wide awake now. Getting up quietly, he slipped his feet into chappals and strolled idly along the verandas of the great mansion, still in darkness on account of their lowered blinds, and the butterflies bobbed like courtiers at his back. In the far distance, someone was playing a flute. Mirza Saeed drew up the chick blinds and fastened their cords. The gardens were deep in mist, through which the butterfly clouds were swirling, one mist intersecting another. This remote region had always been renowned for its lepidoptera, for these miraculous squadrons that filled the air by day and night, butterflies with the gift of chameleons, whose wings changed colour as they settled on vermilion (lowers, ochre curtains, obsidian goblets or amber finger-rings. In the amindar's mansion, and also in the nearby village, the miracle of the butterflies had become so familiar as to seem mundane, but in fact they had only returned nineteen years ago, as the servant women would recall. They had been the familiar spirits, or so the legend ran, of a local saint, the holy woman known only as Bibiji, who had lived to the age of two hundred and forty-two and whose grave, until its location was forgotten, had the property of curing impotence and warts. Since the death of Bibiji one hundred and twenty years ago the butterflies had vanished into the same realm of the legendary as Bibiji herself, so that when they came back exactly one hundred and one years after their departure it looked, at first, like an omen of some imminent, wonderful thing. After Bibiji's death - it should quickly be said - the village had continued to prosper, the potato crops remained plentiful, but there had been a gap in many hearts, even though the villagers of the present had no memory of the time of the old saint. So the return of the butterflies lifted many spirits, but when the expected wonders failed to materialize the locals sank back, little by little, into the insufficiency of the day-today. The name of the zamindar's mansion, Peristan, may have had its origins in the magical creatures' fairy wings, and the village's name, Titlipur, certainly did. But names, once they are in common use, quickly become mere sounds, their etymology being buried, like so many of the earth's marvels, beneath the dust of habit. The human inhabitants of Titlipur, and its butterfly hordes, moved amongst one another with a kind of mutual disdain. The villagers and the zamindar's family had long ago abandoned the attempt to exclude the butterflies from their homes, so that now whenever a trunk was opened, a batch of wings would fly out of it like Pandora's imps, changing colour as they rose; there were butterflies under the closed lids of the thunderboxes in the toilets of Peristan, and inside every wardrobe... (S.R.)

24. They were dusty and Rawlins was unshaven and they smelled of horses and sweat and woodsmoke. Some men sitting in chairs at the back of the store looked up when they entered and then went on talking.

They stood at the meatcase. The woman came from the counter and walked behind the case and took down an apron and pulled a chain that turned on the overhead lightbulb.

You do look like some kind of desperado, John Grady said.

You dont look like no choir director, said Rawlins.

The woman tied the apron behind her and turned to regard them above the white enameled top of the meatcase. What'll you boys have? she said.

They bought baloney and cheese and a loaf of bread and a jar of mayonnaise. They bought a box of crackers and a dozen tins of vienna sausage. They bought a dozen packets of koolaid and a slab end of bacon and some tins of beans and they bought a five pound bag of cornmeal and a bottle of hotsauce. The woman wrapped the meat and cheese separate and she wet a pencil with her tongue and totted up the purchases and then put everything together in a number four grocery bag.

Where you boys from? she said.

From up around San Angelo.

You all ride them horses down here?

Yes mam.

Well I'll declare, she said.

When they woke in the morning they were in plain view of a small adobe house. A woman had come out of the house and slung a pan of dishwater into the yard. She looked at them and went back in again. They'd hung their saddles over a fence to dry and while they were getting them a man came out and stood watching them. They saddled the horses and led them out to the road and mounted up and turned south.

Wonder what all they're doin back home? Rawlins said.

John Grady leaned and spat. Well, he said, probably they're havin the biggest time in the world. Probably struck oil. I'd say they're in town about now pickin out their new cars and all.

Shit, said Rawlins.

They rode.

You ever get ill at ease? said Rawlins.

About what?

I dont know. About anything. Just ill at ease.

Sometimes. If you're someplace you aint supposed to be I guess you'd be ill at ease. Should be anyways.

Well suppose you were ill at ease and didnt know why. Would that mean that you might be someplace you wasnt supposed to be and didnt know it?

What the hell's wrong with you?

I dont know. Nothin. I believe I'll sing.

He did. He sang: Will you miss me, will you miss me. Will you miss me when I'm gone

You know that Del Rio radio station? he said.

Yeah, I know it.

I've heard it told that at night you can take a fencewire in your teeth and pick it up. Dont even need a radio.

You believe that?

I dont know.

You ever tried it?

Yeah. One time.

They rode on. Rawlins sang. What the hell is a flowery boundary tree? he said.

You got me, cousin.

They passed under a high limestone bluff where a creek ran down and they crossed a broad gravel wash. Upstream were potholes from the recent rains where a pair of herons stood footed to their long shadows. One rose and flew, one stood. An hour later they crossed the Pecos River, putting the horses into the ford, the water swift and clear and partly salt running over the limestone bedrock and the horses studying the water before them and placing their feet with great care on the broad traprock plates and eyeing the shapes of trailing moss in the rips below the ford where they flared and twisted electric green in the morning light. Rawlins leaned from the saddle and wet his hand in the river and tasted it. It's gypwater, he said. (C.M.)

25. He leaned his elbows on the porch ledge and stood looking down through the screens at the familiar scene of the barracks square laid out below with the tiers of porches dark in the faces of the three-story concrete barracks fronting on the square. He was feeling a half-sheepish affection for his vantage point that he was leaving.

Below him under the blows of the February Hawaiian sun the quadrangle gasped defencelessly, like an exhausted fighter. Through the heat haze the thin midmorning film of the parched red dust came up a muted orchestra of sounds: the clanking of steel-wheeled carts bouncing over brick, the slappings of oiled leather sling-straps, the shuffling beat of shoesoles, the hoarse expletive of irritated noncoms. (J.)

26. Around noon the last shivering wedding guest arrived at the farmhouse: then for all the miles around nothing moved on the gale-haunted moors - neither carriage, wagon, nor human figure. The road wound emptily over the low hills. The gray day turned still colder, and invisible clouds of air began to stir slowly in great icy swaths, as if signalling some convulsive change beyond the sky. From across the downs came the boom of surf against the island cliffs. Within an hour the sea wind rose to a steady moan, and then within the next hour rose still more to become a screaming ocean of air.

Ribbons of shouted laughter and music - wild waltzes and reels streamed thinly from the house, but all the wedding sounds were engulfed, drowned and then lost in the steady roar of the gale. Finally, at three o'clock, spits of snow became a steady swirl of white that obscured the landscape more thoroughly than any fog that had ever rolled in from the sea. (M.W.)

27. There was an area east of the Isle of Dogs in London which was an unusual mixture even for those surroundings. Among the walled-off rectangles of water, the warehouses, railway lines and travelling cranes, were two streets of mean houses with two pubs and two shops among them. The bulks of tramp steamers hung over the houses where there had been as many languages spoken as families that lived there. But just now not much was being said, for the whole area had been evacuated officially and even a ship that was hit and set on fire had few spectators near it. There was a kind of tent in the sky over London, which was composed of the faint white beams of searchlights, with barrage balloons dotted here and there. The barrage balloons were all that the searchlights discovered in the sky, and the bombs came down, it seemed, mysteriously out of emptiness. They fell round the great fire.

The men at the edge of the fire could only watch it burn, out of control. The drone of the bombers was dying away. The five-mile-high tent of chalky lights had disappeared, been struck all at once, but the light of the great fire was bright as ever, brighter perhaps. Now the pink aura of it had spread. Saffron and ochre turned to blood-colour. The shivering of the white heart of the fire had quickened beyond the capacity of the eye to analyse it into an outrageous glare. High above the glare and visible now for the first time between two pillars of lighted smoke was the steely and untouched round of the full moon - the lover's, hunter's, poet's moon; and now - an ancient and severe goddess credited with a new function and a new title - the bomber's moon. She was Artemis of the bombers, more pitiless than ever before. (W.G1.)

28. There is no month in the whole year, in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August; Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month: but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers - when the recollection of snow, and ice. and bleak winds, has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth - and yet what a pleasant time it is. Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the wellreaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear. (D.)

29. They say you never hear the one that hits you. That is true of bullets because if you hear them they are already past. I heard the last shell that hit this hotel. Heard it start from the battery, then come with a whistling incoming roar like a subway train, to crash against a cornice and shower the room with broken glass and plaster. And while the glass still tinkled down and you listened for the next one to start, you realized that now finally you were back in Madrid.

Madrid is quiet now. Aragon is the active front. There is little fighting around Madrid except mining and countermining, trench raiding, trench mortar strafing and sniping in the stalemate of constant siege warfare going on in Carabanchel, Usera and University City. The cities are shelled very little. Some days there is no shelling and the weather is beautiful and the streets crowded. Shops full of clothing, jewelry stores, camera shops, picture dealers, antiquarians are all open and cafes and bars are crowded. Beer is scarce and whisky is almost unobtainable. The store windows are full of Spanish imitations of all cordials, whiskys, vermouths. These are not recommended for internal use though I am employing something called Milords Ecosses Whisky on my face after shaving. It swarts a little but feels very hygienic. I believe it would be a possible cure for athlete's foot, but one must be very careful not to spill it on one's clothes because it eats wool.

The crowds are cheerful and the sandbagged-fronted cinemas are crowded every afternoon. The nearer one gets to the front, the more cheerful and optimistic the people are. At the front itself optimism reaches such a point that, very much against my good judgement, I was induced to go swimming in a small river forming No Man's Land on the Guenca. The river was a fast flowing stream, very chilly and completely dominated by the Fascist positions, which made me even chiller. I became so chilly at the idea of swimming in the river at all under the circumstances that when I actually entered the water it felt rather pleasant. But it felt even pleasanter to get out of the water and behind a tree. At this moment a Government officer, who was a member of the optimistic swimming parry shot a watersnake with his pistol, hitting it on the third shot. This brought a reprimand from another not so completely optimistic officer member who asked what he wanted to do with that shooting, get the machineguns turned on us? We shot no more snakes that day but I saw three trout in the stream which would weigh over four pound apiece. Heavy old deep-sided ones that rolled up to take the grasshoppers I threw them, making swirls in the water as deep as though you had dropped a paving stone into the stream. All along the stream where no road ever led until the war you could see trout, small ones in the shallows and the bigger kind in the pools and in the shadows of the bank. It is a river worth fighting for, but just a little cold for swimming.

At this moment a shell has just alighted on a house up the street from the hotel where I am typing this. A little boy is crying in the street. A Militiaman has picked him and is comforting him. There is no one killed in our street and the people who started to run slowed down and grin nervously. The one who never started to run at all looks at the others in a very superior way, and the town we are living in now is called Madrid. (H.)

30. And then he remembered that he did not love Gloria. He could not love a common thief. She was a common thief, too. You could see that in her face. There was something in her face, some unconventional thing along with the rest of her beauty, her mouth and eyes and nose -somewhere around the eyes, perhaps, or was it the mouth? - she did not have the conventional look. Emily, yes, Emily had it. He could look at Emily dispassionately, impersonally, as though he did not know her - objectively? wasn't it called? He could look at her and see how much she looked like dozens of girls who had been born and brought up as she had been. You saw them at the theatres, at the best cabarets and speakeasies, at the good clubs on Long Island - and then you saw the same girls, the same women, dressed the same, differing only in the accent of their speech, at clubs in other cities, at horse shows and football games and dances, at Junior League conventions. Emily, he decided after eighteen years of marriage, was a type. And he knew why she was a type, or he knew the thing that made the difference in the look of a girl like Gloria. Gloria led a certain kind of life, a sordid life; drinking and sleeping with men and God knows what all, and had seen more of "life" than Emily ever possibly would see. Whereas Emily had been brought up a certain way, always accustomed to money and the good ways of spending it. In other words, all her life Emily had been looking at nice things, nice houses, cars, pictures, grounds, clothes, people. Things that were easy to look at, and people that were easy to look at: with healthy complexions and good teeth, people who had had pasturized milk to drink and proper food all their lives from the time they were infants; people who lived in houses that were kept clean, and painted when paint was needed, who took care of their minds, were taken care of: and they got the look that Emily and girls-women like her had. Whereas Gloria -well, take for instance the people she was with the night he saw her two nights ago, the first night he went out with her. The man that liked to eat, for instance. Where did he come from? He might have come from the Ghetto. Ligget happened to know that there were places in the slums where eighty families would use the same outside toilet. A little thing, but imagine what it must look like! Imagine having spent your formative years living like, well, somewhat the way you lived in the Army. Imagine what effect that would have on your mind. And of course a thing like that didn't only affect your mind: it showed in your face, absolutely. Not that it was so obvious in Gloria's case. She had good teeth and a good complexion and a healthy body but there was something wrong somewhere. She had not gone to the very best schools, for instance. A little thing perhaps, but important. Her family - he didn't know anything about them; just that she lived with her mother and her mother's brother. Maybe she was a bastard. That was possible. She could be a bastard. That can happen in this country. Maybe her mother was never married. Sure, that could happen in this country. He never heard of it except among poor people and Gloria's family were not poor. But why couldn't it happen in this country? The first time he and Emily ever stayed together they took a chance on having children, and in those days people didn't know as much about not getting caught as they do today. Gloria was even older than Ruth so maybe her mother had done just what Emily had done, with no luck. Maybe Gloria's father was killed in a railroad accident or something, intending to marry Gloria's mother, but on the night he first stayed with her, maybe on his way home he was killed by an automobile or a hold-up man, or something. It could happen. There was a fellow in New Haven that was very mysterious about his family. His mother was on the stage, and nothing was ever said about his father. Liggett wished now that he had known the fellow better. Now he couldn't remember the fellow's name, but some of the fellows in Liggett's crowd had wondered about this What's-His-Name. He drew for the "Record". An artist. Well, bastards were always talented people. Some of the most famous men in history were bastards. Not bastards in any derogatory sense of the word, but love children. (How awful to be a love child. It'd be better to be a bastard. If I were a bastard I'd rather be called a bastard than a love child.) Now Gloria, she drew or painted. She was interested in art. And she certainly knew a lot of funny people. She knew that bunch of kids from New Haven, young Billy and those kids. But anybody could meet them, and anybody could meet Gloria. God damn it! That was the worst of it! Anybody could meet Gloria. He thought that all through dinner, looking at his wife, his two daughters, seeing in their faces the thing he had been thinking about: a proper upbringing and looking at nice things and what it does to your face. He saw them, and he thought of Gloria, and that anybody could meet Gloria, and anybody, somebody she picked up in a speakeasy somewhere, probably was with her now, this minute. "I don't think I'll wait for dessert," he said. (J.O'H.)

31. But by the time he had said that, Matty was rapt, gazing at the glass on the three other walls. It was all mirror, even the backs of the doors, and it was not just plain mirrors, it distorted so that Matty saw himself half a dozen times, pulled out sideways and squashed down from above; and Mr. Hanrahan was the shape of a sofa.

"Ha," said Mr. Hanrahan. "You're admiring my bits of glass I see. Isn't that a good idea for a daily mortification of sinful pride? Mrs. Hanrahan! Where are you?"

Mrs. Hanrahan appeared as if materialized, for what with the window and the mirrors a door opening here or there was little more than a watery conflux of light. She was thinner than Matty, shorter than Mr. Hanrahan and had an air of having been used up. "What is it, Mr. Hanrahan?" "Here he is, I've found him!" "Oh the poor man with his mended face!"

"I'll teach them, the awesome frivolity of it, wanting a man about the place! Girls! Come here, the lot of you!"

Then there was a watery conflux in various parts of the wall, some darkness and here and there a dazzle of light.

"My seven girls," cried Mr. Hanrahan, counting them busily. "You wanted a man about the place, did you? Too many females were there? Not a young man for a mile! I'll teach you! Here's the new man about the place! Take a good look at him!"

The girls had formed into a semicircle. There were the twins Francesca and Teresa, hardly out of the cradle, but pretty. Matty instinctively held his hand so that they should not be frightened by his left side which they could see. There was Bridget, rather taller and pretty and peering short-sightedly, and there was Bernadette who was taller and prettier and wholly nubile, and there was Cecilia who was shorter and just as pretty and nubiler if anything, and there was Gabriel Jane, turner-of-heads-in-the-street, and there was the firstborn, dressed for a barbecue, Mary Michael: and whoever looked on Mary Michael was lost. (W.G1.)

32. Never had there been so full an assembly, for mysteriously united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms against a common peril. Like cattle when a dog comes into the field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared to ran upon and trample the invader to death. They had come, too, no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they would ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way - "What are you givin'? Nicholas is givin' spoons!" - so very much depended on the bridegroom. If he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect them. In the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by a species of family adjustement arrived at as prices are arrived at on the Stock

Exchange - the exact niceties being regulated at Timothy's commodious, red-brick residence in Bayswater, overlooking the Park, where dwelt Aunts Ann, Juley and Hester.

The uneasiness of the Forsyte family has been justified by the simple mention of the hat. How impossible and wrong would it have been for any family, with the regard for appearances which should ever characterize the great upper-middle class to feel otherwise than uneasy!

The author of the uneasiness stood talking to June by the further door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance as though he found what was going on around him unusual. He had an air, too, of having a joke all to himself.

George, speaking aside to his brother Eustace, said: "looks as if he might make a bolt of it - the dashing Buccaneer!" This "very singular-looking man", as Mrs. Small afterwards called him, was of medium height and strong build with a pale, brown face, a dust coloured moustache, very prominent cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. His forehead sloped back towards the crown of his head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like forehead seen in the lion-house at the Zoo. He had cherry-coloured eyes, disconcertingly inattentive at times. Old Jolyon's coachman, after driving June and Bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to the bulter:

"I dunno what to make of 'im. Looks to me for all the world like an - 'alf-tame leopard."

And every now and then a Forsyte would come up, sidle round, and take a look at him. June stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity - a little bit of a thing, as somebody once said, "all hair and spirit", with fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose face and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair.

A tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at these with a shadowy smile. Her hands, gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of all men near were fastened on it. Her figure swayed, so balanced that the very air seemed to set it moving. There was warmth, but little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft. But it was at her lips - asking a question, giving an answer, with that shadowy smile - that men looked; they were sensitive lips, sensuous and sweet, and through them seemed to come warmth and perfume of a flower.

The engaged couple thus scrutinized were unconscious of this passive goddess. (G.)

33. Tom told them of another famous escaped slavewoman. "She named Harriet Tubman. Ain't no tellin' how many times she come back South an' led out different whole bunches o' folks like us to freedom up Nawth on sump'n dey's callin' de "Unnergroun' Rairoad". Fac', she done it so much dey claims by now white folks got out forty thousand dollars' worth o' rewards to' her, alive or dead."

"Lawd have mercy, wouldn't o' thought white folks pay dat much to catch no nigger in de worl'! " said Sister Sarah.

He told them that in a far-distant state called California, two white men were said to have been building a sawmill when they discovered an unbelievable wealth of gold in the ground, and thousands of people were said to be rushing in in wagons, on mules, even afoot to reach the place where it was claimed that gold could be dug up by the shovelful.

He said finally that in the North great debates on the subject of slavery were being held between two white men named Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln.

"Which one 'em for de niggers?" asked Gran' mammy Kizzy. "Well, soun' like de Massa Lincoln, leas'ways de bes' I can tell," said Tom.

"Well, praise de Lawd an' give 'im stren'th" said Kizzy.

Sucking his teeth, Chicken George got up patting his ample belly and turned to Tom. "Looka here, boy, why'n't you'n me stretch our legs, walk off some dat meal?"

"Yassuh, Pappy," Tom almost stammered, scarcely able to conceal his amazement and trying to act casual.

The women, who were no less startled, exchanged quizzical, significant glances when Chicken George and Tom set off together down the road. Sister Sarah exclaimed softly, "Lawd, y'all realize dat boy done growed nigh as his daddy!" James and Lewis stared after their father and older brother nearly sick with envy, but they knew better than to invite themselves along. But the two younger girls, L'il Kizzy and Mary, couldn't resist leaping up and happily starting to hop-skip along eight or ten steps behind them.

Without even looking back at them, Chicken George ordered, "Git on back younder an' he'p y'all's mammy wid dem dishes."

"Aw, Pappy," they whined in unison.

"Git, done to!' you."

Half turning around, his eyes loving his little sisters, Tom chided them gently, "Ain't y'all hear Pappy? We see you later on."

With the girls' complaining sounds behind them, they walked on in silence for a little way and Chicken George spoke almost gruffly. "Looka here, reckon you know I ain't meant no harm jes'teasin' you a l'il at dinner."

"Aw, nawsuh," Tom said, privately astounded at what amounted to an apology from his father. "I knowed you was jes' teasin'."

Grunting, Chicken George said, "What say we head on down an' look in on dem chickens? See what keepin' dat nocount L'il George down dere so long. All I knows, he mighta cooked an' et up some dem chickens fo' his Thankagivin' by now."

Tom laughed. "L'il George mean well. Pappy. He jes' a l'il slow. Hе done tol' me he jes' don' love dem birds like you does." Tom paused, then decided to venture his accompanying thought. "I 'speck nobody in de worl' loves dem birds like you does."

But Chicken George agreed readily enough. "Nobody in dis family, anyways. I done tried 'em all 'ceptin 'you. Seem like all de res' my boys willin' to spend dey lives draggin' from one end ofafiel' to de other, lookin' up a mule' butt'." He considered for a moment. "Yo' blacksmithin', wouldn't 'zackly call dat no high livin' neither - nothin' like gamecoclin' - but leas' ways it's a man's work."

Tom wondered if his father ever seriously respected anything excepting fighting chickens. He felt deeply grateful that somehow he had escaped into the solid, stable trade of blacksmithing. But he expressed his thoughts in an oblique way. "Don't see nothin' wrong wid farmin', Pappy. If some folks wasn't farming, 'speck nobody wouldn't be eatin'. I jes' took to blacksmithin' same as you wid gamecoclin', 'cause I loves it, an' de Lawd gimme a knack fo' it. Jes' ever'body don' love de same things."

"Well, leas' you an' me got sense to make money doin' what we likes," said Chicken George. (Al.H.)

34. It was a flaking three-storey house in the ancient part of the city, a century old if it was a day, but like all houses it had been given a thin fireproof plastic sheath many years ago, and this preservative shell seemed to be the only thing holding it in the sky.

"Here we are."

The engine slammed to a stop. Beatty, Stoneman and Black ran up the sidewalk, suddenly odious and fat in the plump fireproof slickers. Montag followed.

They crashed the front door and grabbed at a woman, though she was not running, she was not trying to escape. She was only standing, weaving from side to side, her eyes fixed upon a nothingness in the wall as if they had struck her a terrible blow upon the head. Her tongue was moving in her mouth, and her eyes seemed to be trying to remember something.

Next thing they were up in musty blackness, swinging silver hatchets at doors that were, after all, unlocked, tumbling through like boys all rollic and shout. "Hey!" A fountain of books sprang down upon Montag as he climbed shuddering up the sheer stair-well. How inconvenient! Always before it had been like snuffing a candle. The police went first and adhesive-taped the victim's mouth and bandaged him off into their glittering beetle cars, so when you arrived you found an empty house. You weren't hurting anyone, you were hurting only things! And since things really couldn't be hurt, since things felt nothing, and things don't scream and cry out, there was nothing to tease your conscience later. You were simply cleaning up. Janitorial work, essentially. Everything to its proper place. Quick with the kerosene! Who's got a match?

But now, tonight, someone had slipped. This woman was spoiling the ritual. The men were making too much noise, laughing, joking to cover her terrible accusing silence below. She made the empty rooms roar with accusation and shake down a fine dust of guilt that was sucked in their nostrils as they plunged about. It was neither cricket nor correct. Montag felt an immense irritation. She shouldn't be here, on top of everything!

Books bombarded his shoulders, his arms, his upturned face. A book alighted, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervour, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped there with fiery steel, "Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine." He dropped the book. Immediately, another fell into his arms.

"Montag, up here!"

Montag's hand closed like a mouth, crashed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of magazines into the dusty air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood below, like a small girl, among the bodies.

Montag had done nothing. His hand had done it all, his hand, with a brain of its own, with a conscience and a curiosity in each trembling finger, had turned thief. Now, it plunged the book back under his arm, pressed it tight to sweating armpit, rushed out empty, with a magician's flourish! Look here! Innocent! Look!

He gazed, shaken, at that white hand. He held it way out, as if he were far-sighted. He held it close, as if he were blind.

"Montag!"

He jerked about.

"Don't stand there, idiot!"

The books lay like great mounds of fishes left to dry. The men danced and slipped and fell over them. Titles glittered their golden eyes falling, gone.

"Kerosene!"

They pumped the cold fluid from the numbered 451 tanks strapped to their shoulders. They coated each book, they pumped rooms full of it.

They hurried downstairs, Montag staggered after them in the kerosene fumes.

"Come on, woman!"

The woman knelt among the books, touching the drenched leather and cardboard, reading the gilt titles with her fingers while her eyes accused Montag.

"You can't ever have my books," she said.

"You know the law," said Beatty. "Where's your common sense? None of those books agree with each other. You've been locked up here for years with a regular damned Tower of Babel. Snap out of it. The people in those books never lived. Come on now!"

She shook her head.

"The whole house is going up," said Beatty.

The men walked clumsily to the door. They glanced back at Montag, who stood near the woman.

"You're not leaving her here?" he protested.

"She won't come."

"Force her, then!"

Beatty raised his hand in which was concealed the igniter. "We're due back at the house. Besides, these fanatics always try suicide; the pattern's familiar."

Montag placed his hand on the woman's elbow. "You can come with me."

"No," she said. "Thank you, anyway."

"I'm counting to ten," said Beatty. "One. Two."

"Please," said Montag.

"Go on," said the woman.

"Three. Four."

"Here." Montag pulled at the woman.

The woman replied quietly. "I want to stay here."

"Five. Six."

"You can stop counting," she said. She opened the fingers of one hand slightly and in the palm of the hand was a single slender object.

An ordinary kitchen match.

The sight of it rushed the men out and down away from the house. Captain Beatty, keeping his dignity, backed slowly through the front door, his pink face burnt and shiny from a thousand fires and night excitements. God, thought Montag, how true! Always at night the alarm comes. Never by day! Is it because the fire is prettier by night? More spectacle, a better show? The pink face of Beatty now showed the faintest panic in the door. The woman's hand twitched on the single matchstick. The fumes of kerosene bloomed up about her. Montag felt the hidden book pound like a heart against his chest. (R.Br.)

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