²ʲв
:
³
ʳ
'
˳
˳
ϳ
'
㳿
Գ
Գ
Գ
Գ


Excerpts for Overall Stylistic Analysis

I.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife;...

Washington Irvim

II.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loild and deep and exceedingly musical.


but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions, and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows aS if in confused reverie or meditation.

Edgar Allan

III.

... The houses had generally an odd look. Here, the moonlight tried to get a glimpse of one, a rough old heap of ponderous timber, which, ashamed of its dilapidated aspect, was hiding behind a great thick tree; the lower story of the next had sunk almost under ground, as if the poor little house were a-weary of the world, and retiring into the seclusion of its own cellar; farther on stood one of the few recent structures, thrusting its painted face conspicuously into the street, with an evident idea that it was the fairest thing there. About midway in the village was a grist-mill, partly concealed by the descent of the ground towards the stream which turned its wheel. At the southern extremity, just so far distant that the window-panes dazzled into each other, rose the meeting-house, a dingy old barnlike building, with an enormously dispropor-tioned steeple sticking up straight into heaven, as high as the Tower of Babel, and the cause of nearly as much confusion in its day.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

IV.

Pausing at the threshold, or rather where threshold once had been, I saw, through the open door-way, a lonely girl, sewing at a lonely window. A pale-cheeked girl, and flyspecked window, with wasps about the mended upper panes. I spoke. She shyly started, like some Tahiti girl, secreted for a sacrifice, first catching sight, through palms, of Captain Cook. Recovering, she bade me enter; with her apron brushed off a stool; then silently resumed her own. With thanks I took the stool; but now, for a space, I, too, was mute. This, then, is the fairy-mountain house, and here, the fairy queen sitting at

her fairy window.

David Crockett


V.


VIII.


 


My name is Jim Griggins. I'm a low thief. My parents was ignorant folks, and as poor as the shadder of a bean pole. My advantages for getting a eddycation was exceedin' limited. I growed up in the street, quite loose and permiskis, you see, and took to vice because I had nothing else to take to, and because nobody had never given me a sight at virtue.

I'm in the penitentiary. I was sent here onct before for priggin' a watch I served out my time, and now I'm here agin, this time for stealin' a few insignificant clothes.

Artemus Ward VI.

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It came slowly in a whirling mist of snow-flakes that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future in two words - "snowed in!"

Francis Bret Harte

Vn.

Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane, and said I did not know as much as a cow; and then went out and banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he was displeased about something. But not knowing what the trouble was, I could not be any help to him.

Pretty soon after this a long, cadaverous creature, with lanky locks hanging down to his shoulders, and a week's stubble bristling from the hills and valleys of his face, darted within the door, and halted, motionless, with finger on lip. and head and body bent in listening attitude. No sound was heard. Still he listened. No sound....

Mark Twain


They gave small tips, but they were liked; they didn't do anything themselves, but they were welcomed. They looked so well everywhere; they gratified the general relish for stature, complexion, and "form". They knew it without fatuity or vulgarity, and they respected themselves in consequence. They were not superficial; they were thorough and kept themselves up - It had been their line. People with such a taste for activity had to have some line. I could feel how, even in a dull house, they could have been counted upon for cheerfulness. At present something had happened - it didn't matter what, their little income had grown less, it had grown least - and they had to do something for pocket-money. Their friends liked them, but didn't like to support them....

Henry James

IX.

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge, he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened - ages later, it seemed to him - by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fibre of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of ramification, and to beat with an inconceivable rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fullness - of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced, he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment.

Ambrose Gwinett Bierce

X.

A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and by the same token a broncho is not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared and plunged like an animal. As each wave came, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at a fence outrageously high. The manner of her scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of them were ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing down


 



 



from the summit of each wave requiring a new leap, and a leap from the a" Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide and race and splash down a long incline, and arrive bobbing and nodding in front of the next menace

Stephen Crane

XI.

When you are a boy and stand in the stillness of woods, which can be so still that your heart almost stops beating and makes you want to stand there in the green twilight until you feel your very feet sinking into and clutching the earth like roots and your body breathing slow through its pores like the leaves - when you stand there and wait for the next drop to drop with its small, flat sound to a lower leaf, that sound seems to measure out something, to put an end to something, to begin something, and you cannot wait for it to happen and are afraid it will not happen, and then when it has happened, you are waiting again, almost afraid.

Robert Perm Warren

XII.

"That ain't the question, it's if we want to fight now or later. Them Nazis ain't gonna sit!" shouted the red-faced man. "They got Egypt practically, and then it's India if it ain't England first. It ain't a question of the communists, the communists are on Hitler's side. I tellya we can wait and wait and chew and spit and the first thing you know they'll be in England, and then who's gonna help us when they start after us? Maybe Brazil? Get wise to the world! Spain don't matter now one way or the other, they ain't gonna help and they can't hurt. It's Germany and Italy and Japan, and if it ain't too late now it's gonna be. Get wise to yourself. We shoulda gone in-" ...

John Berryman XIII.

For Kevin, his employment by the automobile factory was like a child's ticket of admission to an awesome, half-believed-in fairyland of new sights, sounds, colors, and odors. Even the preliminary physical examination, which his nude fellow Job applicants, shivering in their stockinged feet, swore was Just too damned much like the army, was a revelation to Kevin, who had not been in the United States long enough to learn how to conceal his astonishment. The young men in line with him grumbled and cursed, or stood embar-


lSsed at their physical inadequacies; but Kevin - six feet two, sturdy as an oak- white-skinned and freckled from the roots of the flaming hair, standing and away from his forehead, to the outer edges of his massive shoulders -was more interested by the fact that he was being examined for nothing.

Harvey Swados

xrv.

To the intent ear, Nation was voicing her growing pains, but, hands that create are attached to warm hearts and not to calculating minds. The Lean as he fought his burden on looked forward to only one goal, the end. The barrow he pushed, he did not love. The stones that brutalized his palms, he did not love. The great God Job, he did not love. He felt a searing bitterness and a fathomless consternation at the queer consciousness that inflicted the ever mounting weight of structure that he HAD TO! HAD TO! raise above his shoulders! When, when and where would the last stone be? Never... did he bear his toil with the rhythm of song! Never... did his gasping heart knead the heavy mortar... A voice within him spoke in wordless language.

Pietro Di Donato

XV.

His mother bent down again. "I can't use it while you're working. I can't use it while you're reading. I can't use it until ten o'clock in the morning because you're sleeping". She started the machine. "When am I supposed to clean the house?" she called over the noise of the cleaner. "Why don't you sleep at night like everybody else?" And she put her head down low and vigorously ran the machine back and forth.

Andrew watched her for a moment. No arguments came to him. The

sound of the cleaner so close to him made his nerves jump. He went out of

the room, closing the door behind him.

Irwin Shaw

XVI.

Not unbewildered, again he gazed off for his boat. But it was temporarily hidden by a rocky spur of the isle. As with some eagerness he bent forward, watching for the first shooting view of its beak, the balustrade gave way before him like charcoal. Had he not clutched an outreaching rope he would


 




have fallen into the sea. The crash, though feeble, and the fall, though hollo of the rotten fragments, must have been overheard. He glanced up. \-> sober curiosity peering down upon him was one of the old oakum-picker slipped from his perch to an outside boom; while below the old Negro, and invisible to him, reconnoitering from a port-hole like a fox from the mouth of its den, crouched the Spanish sailor again.

Herman \>

xvn.

"Yes, I think it was, but I didn't know it for a month or so, when it suddenly struck me that what I felt for her-1 don't know how to explain it, it was a sort of shattering turmoil that affected every bit of me - that that was love, I knew I'd felt it all along. It was not only her looks, though they were awfully alluring, the smoothness of her pale skin and the way her hair fell over her forehead and the grave sweetness of her brown eyes, it was more than that; you had a sensation of well-being when you were with her, as though you could relax and be quite natural and needn't pretend to be anything you .weren't. You felt she was incapable of meanness. It was impossible to think of her as envious of other people or catty. She seemed to have a natural generosity of soul. One could be silent with her for an hour at a time and yet feel that one had had a good time.

William Somerset Maugham XVIII.

These October days were the best of the year. The trees had turned fully and there was an edge of winter in the air. Halfway to town a maple stood; each morning he had watched its leaves die toward scarlet until today the tree flamed with a fall fire. The hills beyond town, nearly high enough to be called true mountains, had come into a variegated beauty, clusters of oaks shading into a scope of richer sweetgum, interspersed by the evergreen denial of pine and cedar, so that John walked with his eyes lifted up to them.

Borden Deal XIX.

When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes 182


. ■> cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an intermediate ]ance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. The city has its cun-jn2 wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There e large forces which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses in equivocal terms.

Theodore Dreiser

XX.

The rest of the story is pointless. I said so long to the young Assyrian and left the shop. I walked across town, four miles, to my room on Carl Street. I thought about the whole business: Assyria and this Assyrian, Theodore Badal, learning to be a barber, the sadness of his voice, the hopelessness of his attitude. This was months ago, in August, but ever since I have been thinking about Assyria, and I have been wanting to say something about Theodore Badal, a son of an ancient race, himself youthful and alert, yet hopeless. Seventy thousand Americans, a mere seventy thousand of that great people, and all the others quiet in death and all the greatness crumbled and ignored, and a young man in America learning to be a barber, and a young man lamenting bitterly the course of history.

William Saroyan

I.

, , . - . , , , , ; , - , , . , , ; , , , -' , , , - , .


, } ' . ³ , , , , , , , .

II.

, , - -, . , . , , , , , . , , , , , . , , , , . , , . , , , , .

III.

- , . , ' , , , , , . ' , . ³ , , , . , ,  , , . , , - , -


. -, , , - . г , :

.

IV.

-; , , , , , . ' , , . , , , . , , , . , . , , . , , ; , , , - : , , , . , , , , - .

V.

. , , . , , . , : , - , . - , , , . - -


 




, , - , , ...

, , . , . [...] , , , . . ,

UleenvK

VI.

, , .

, . , , , . , - , .

, . ˳ , , , , , , , - .

ʳ , , ; , , . : , , .

VII.

̳ , , ' ; . , , , . , , , ; , . ( ) , ( ), ( ); ', : -


- - , - . , , - . , - , , , , .

Vm.

.. . , , . , , . , , , .

. , - , . , , . . , , - .

, , . , , , , . , , - , .

IX.

! , . , , , , , , , , -


', , . - , , , , , , , . ' , , , '..

X.

. , , , , , '. , , ; ', , , , . ' , , , , , '. , , . ' , , , , , . ̳ , , , , , , , , . , , , , , . , , , . , , , , .

XI.

. , - . , . , , . , , .

. , .


, , , , . , .

, , . , , . . , .

.

, , , , , . , , , , , . ͳ , , . , . , , , , 񳺿 .

³ . , 쳺, . , ? , , : ,* !

XIII.

-..., : , . , , .

- - ? - , .


 



.



- , . . "" - , , - . , . , , , . , , , . - , ' . ' , , , , - , . , , . , . , - .

XIV.

.. . - , , , , , , , . , , , , , . , , , .

, , , , . - , , . [...] , , , , , , , , , , , , , . , - !..

XV.

. . , ,


^ . , ' , , . ѳ . ? ? ̳ , 䳿, , , , . , . , , , , , , ...

, , . - , , , . , , , , , -, , . ...

. ֳ , , , .

XVI.

. . - - , , , - . - , - , , , . , , -, , .

, , , ' , , , .

xvn.

. , . , -


 




, : . , , . ''

, , , . , 0 , , , , , , .

, - , , , , - , , . , , , .

xvm.

, , , . , .

, , , . , , , .

, ; , , . , , . - , , , , , .

XIX.

, ', -


. , . , , 0 : . .

, , , , ? , . , , , , .

, ; , , , , ...

XX.

, , "", . . , , ' , , . , , , , , . [...] , , , , , , "--!", , , , , ' , - , , : --!..

, , - , , , , , , ,

.


 




© 2013 wikipage.com.ua - wikipage.com.ua |