4. “Tessa hardly ever looked at herself in full-length mirrors, and boycotted shops where this was unavoidable”.
The word `boycott' (either a verb or a noun) doesn't look like a typical English one. Its origin is of huge interest. In the 19th century in Ireland there lived a man called Captain Charles C. Boycott. In the 1870s, Irish farmers faced an agricultural crisis and were afraid of starvation1. So they formed a Land League to fight against landlords. Retired2 British army captain Charles Boycott was an agent of a landlord who was absent at that time. He tried to punish the farmers who couldn't pay the rent by making them move to another territory. But the League didn't agree with these actions. They united against him: Boycott's laborers3 stopped working, and his crops began to rot4 as no one worked on his fields. Soon the incident became well-known and people started to use his name to describe this particular protest strategy.
1 starvation - голод
2 retired - ушедший в отставку
3 laborers - работник
4 his crops began to rot - его посевы начали гнить
ПРИЛОЖЕНИЕ 8
(обязательное)
Вопросы для учащихся при просмотре видео-интервью с Кадзуо Исигуро
Worksheet 2
1. Why has the reporter brought Ishiguro his favorite childhood toy?
2. Why does he think that we should not classify books according to their genres?
3. What did he want to become when he was a child?
ПРИЛОЖЕНИЕ 9
(обязательное)
Задание и вопросы для jigsaw-reading отрывков из ноктюрна Кадзуо Исигуро “И в бурю, и в ясные дни”
Worksheet 3
Group 1
Read the extract, read the questions below and find the ones you can answer. Write down your answers.
Charlie and I have remained close friends through the years. We may not see each other as much as we once did, but that's mainly down to distances. I've spent years here in Spain, as well as in Italy and Portugal, while Charlie's always based himself in London. Now if that makes it sound like I'm the jet-setter and he's the stay-at-home, that would be funny. Because in fact Charlie's the one who's always flying off - to Texas, Tokyo, New York - to his high-powered meetings, while I've been stuck in the same humid buildings year after year, setting spelling tests or conducting the same conversations in slowed-down English. My-name-is-Ray. What-is-your-name? Do-you-have-children?
When I first took up English teaching after university, it seemed a good enough life - much alike an extension of university. Language schools were mushrooming all over Europe, and if the teaching was tedious and the hours exploitative, at that age you don't care too much. You spend a lot of time in bars, friends are easy to make, and there's a feeling you're part of a large network extending around the entire globe. You meet people fresh from their spells in Peru or Thailand, and this gets you thinking that if you wanted to, you could drift around the world indefinitely, using your own contacts to get a job in any faraway corner you fancied. And always you'd be part of this cozy, extended family of itinerant teachers, swapping stories over drinks about former colleagues, psychotic school directors, eccentric British Council officers.
In the late `80s, there was talk of making a lot of money teaching in Japan, and I made serious plans to go, but it never worked out. I thought about Brazil too, even read a few books about the culture and sent off for application forms. But somehow I never got away that far. Southern Italy, Portugal for a short spell, back to Spain. Then before you know it, you're forty-seven years old, and the people you started out with have long ago been replaced by a generation who gossip about different things, take different drugs and listen to different music.
Meanwhile, Charlie and Emily had married and settled down in London. Charlie told me once, when they had children I'd be godfather to one of them. But that never happened. What I mean is, a child never came along, and now I suppose it's too late. I have to admit, I've always felt slightly let down about this. Perhaps, I always imagined that being godfather to one of their children would provide an official link, however tenuous, between their lives in England and mine out here.
Anyway, at the start of this summer, I went to London to stay with them. It had been arranged well in advance, and when I'd phoned to check a couple of days beforehand, Charlie had said they were both `superbly well'. That's why I'd no reason to expect anything other than pampering and relaxation after a few months that hadn't exactly been the best in my life.
<…>
`Ah, yes.' He chewed his food thoughtfully. `To be honest, this was my real motive in inviting you over. Of course, it's great to see you and all of that. But for me, the main thing, I wanted you to do something for me. After all you're my oldest friend, a life-long friend…'
Suddenly he began eating again, and I realized with astonishment he was sobbing quietly. I reached across the table and prodded his shoulder, but he just kept shovelling pasta into his mouth without looking up. When this had gone on for a minute or so, I reached over and gave him another little prod, but thus had no more effect than my first one. Then the waitress appeared with a cheerful smile to check on our food. We both said everything was excellent and as she went off, Charlie seemed to become more himself again.
`Okay, Ray, listen. What I'm asking you to do is dead simple. All I want is for you to hang about with Emily for the next few days, be a pleasant guest. That's all. Just until I get back.'
`That's all? You're just asking me to look after her while you're gone?'
`That's it. Or rather, let her look after you. I've lined up some things for you to do. Theatre tickets and so on. I'll be back Thursday at the latest. Your mission's just to get her in a good mood and keep her that way. So when I come in and say, “Hello darling,” and hug her, she'll just reply, “oh hello, darling, welcome home, how was everything,” and hug me back. Then we can carry on as before. Before all this horrible stuff began. That's your mission. Quite simple really.'
`I'm happy to do anything I can,' I said. `But look, Charlie, are you sure she's in the mood to entertain visitors? You're obviously going through some sort of crisis. She must be as upset as you are. Quite honestly, I don't understand why you asked me here right now.'
`What do you mean, you don't understand? I've asked you because you're my oldest friend. Yes, all right, I've got a lot of friends. But when it comes down to it, when I thought hard about it, I realized you're the only one who'd do.'
I have to admit I was rather moved by this. All the same, I could see there was something not quite right here, something he wasn't telling me.
Questions:
1. What is the narrator's name? ___________________________
2. What are the relationships between Charlie and the narrator? __________________________________________________________________
3. What were the relationships between Charlie and his wife Emily at the time when the narrator arrived? __________________________________________________________
4. What does the narrator do for work? _____________________________________
5. What do Charlie and Emily think about Ray's work? __________________________________________________________________
6. Why do Charlie and Emily think that Ray is not a successful person? __________________________________________________________________
7. What is Emily unsatisfied with? __________________________________________________________________
8. What does being Mr Perspective mean? __________________________________________________________________
9. Why did the narrator go to London at the beginning of summer? __________________________________________________________________
10. What favour did Charlie want the narrator to do? __________________________________________________________________
Group 2
Read the extract, read the questions below and find the ones you can answer. Write down your answers.
(A talk between the narrator, Charlie and his wife Emily)
`Oh, honestly, Raymond. You let yourself be exploited left, right and centre by that ghastly language school you led your landlord rip you off silly, and what do you do? Get in tow with some airhead girl with a drink problem and not even a job to support it. It's like you're deliberately trying to annoy anyone who still gives a shit about you!'
`He can't expect many of that tribe to survive!' Charlie boomed from the hall. I could hear he ad his suitcase out there now. `It's all very well behaving like an adolescent ten years you've ceased to be one. But to carry on like this when you're nearly fifty!'
`I'm only forty-seven…'
`What do you mean, you're only forty-seven?' Emily's voice was unnecessarily loud given I was sitting right next to her. `Only forty-seven. This “only”, this is what's destroying your life, Raymond. Only, only, only. Only doing my best. Only forty-seven. Soon you'll be only sixty-seven and only going round in bloody circles trying to find a bloody roof to keep over your head!'
<…> `Raymond, don't you ever stop and ask yourself who you are?' Emily asked. `When you think of all your potential, aren't you ashamed? Look at how you lead your life! It's … it's simply infuriating! One gets so exasperated!'
Charlie appeared in the doorway in his raincoat, and for a moment they were shouting different things at me simultaneously. Then Charlie broke off, announced he was leaving - as though in disgust at me - and vanished.
His departure brought Emily's diatribe to a halt, and I took the opportunity to get to my feet, saying: `Excuse me, I'll just go and give Charlie a hand with his luggage.'
`Why do I need help with my luggage?' Charlie said from the hall. `I've only got the one bag.'
But he let me follow him down into the street and left me with the suitcase while he went to the edge of the kerb to hail a cab. There didn't seem to be any to hand, and he leaned out worriedly, an arm half-raised.
I went up to him and said: `Charlie, I don't think it's going to work.”
`What's not going to work?'
`Emily absolutely hates me. That's her after seeing me for a few minutes. What's she going to be like after three days? Why on earth do you think you'll come back to harmony and light?'
Even as I was saying this, something was dawning on me and I fell silent. Noticing the change, Charlie turned and looked at me carefully.
`I think', I said, eventually, `I have an idea why it had to be me and no one else.'
`Ah ha. Can it be Ray sees the light?'
`Yes, maybe I do.'
`But what does it matter? It remains the same, exactly the same, what I'm asking you to do.' Now there were tears in his eyes again. `Do you remember, Ray, the way Emily always used to say she believed in me? She said it for years and years. I believe in you, Charlie, you can go all the way, you're really talented. Tight up until three, four years ago, she was still saying it. Do you know how trying that got? I was doing all right. I am doing all right. Perfectly okay. But she thought I was destined for… God knows, president of the fucking world, God knows! I'm just an ordinary bloke who's doing all right. But she doesn't see that. That's at the heart of it, at the heart of everything that's gone wrong.'
<…>`She thinks I've let myself down,' he was saying. `But I haven't. I'm doing perfectly okay. Endless horizons are all very well when you're young. But get to our age, you've got to… you've got to get some perspective. That's what kept going round in my head whenever she got unbearable about it. Perspective, she needs perspective. And I kept saying to myself, look, I'm doing okay. Look at loads of other people, people we know. Look at Ray. Look what a pig's arse he's making of his life. She needs perspective.'
`So you decided to invite me for a visit. To be Mr Perspective.'
At last, Charlie stopped and met my eye. `Don't get me wrong, Ray. I'm not saying you're an awful failure or anything. I realise you're not a drug addict or a murderer. But beside me, let's face it, you don't look the highest of achievers. That's why I'm asking you, asking you to do this for me. Things are on their last legs with us, I'm desperate, I need you to help. And what am I asking, for god's sake? Just that you be your usual sweet self. Nothing more, nothing less. Just do it for me, Raymond. For me and Emily. It's not over between us yet, I know it isn't. Just be yourself for a few days until I get back. That's not so much to ask, is it?'
I took a deep breath and said: `Okay, okay, if you think it'll help. But isn't Emily going to see through all this sooner or later?'
`Why should she? She knows I've got an important meeting in Frankfurt. To her the whole thing's straight-forward. She's just looking after a guest, that's all. She likes to do that and she likes you. Look, a taxi.' He waved frantically and as the driver came towards us, he grasped my arm. `Thanks, Ray. You'll swing it for us, I know you will.'
Questions:
11. What is the narrator's name? ___________________________
12. What are the relationships between Charlie and the narrator? __________________________________________________________________
13. What were the relationships between Charlie and his wife Emily at the time when the narrator arrived? __________________________________________________________
14. What does the narrator do for work? _____________________________________
15. What do Charlie and Emily think about Ray's work? __________________________________________________________________
16. Why do Charlie and Emily think that Ray is not a successful person? __________________________________________________________________
17. What is Emily unsatisfied with? __________________________________________________________________
18. What does being Mr Perspective mean? __________________________________________________________________
19. Why did the narrator go to London at the beginning of summer? __________________________________________________________________
20. What favour did Charlie want the narrator to do? __________________________________________________________________
ПРИЛОЖЕНИЕ 10
(обязательное)
Текст рассказа “Химия” Грэма Свифта
Chemistry
By Graham Swift
The pond in our park was circular, exposed, perhaps fifty yards across. When the wind blew, little waves travelled across it and slapped the paved edges, like a miniature sea. We would go there. Mother, Grandfather and I, to sail the motor-launch Grandfather and I made out of plywood, balsawood and varnished paper. We would go even in the winter - especially in the winter, because then we would have the pond to ourselves - when the leaves on the two willows turned yellow and dropped and the water froze your hands. Mother would sit on a wooden bench set back from the perimeter; I would prepare the boat for launching. Grandfather, in his black coat and grey scarf, would walk to the far side to receive it. For some reason it was always Grandfather, never I, who went to the far side. When he reached his station I would hear his `Ready!' across the water. A puff of vapour would rise from his lips like the smoke from a muffled pistol. And I would release the launch. It worked by a battery. Its progress was laboured but its course steady. I would watch it head out to the middle while Mother watched behind me. As it moved it seemed that it followed an actual existing line between Grandfather, myself and Mother, as if Grandfather were pulling us towards him on some invisible cord, and that he had to do this to prove we were not beyond his reach. When the boat drew near him he would crouch on his haunches. His hands - which I knew were knotted, veiny and mottled from an accident in one of his chemical experiments - would reach out, grasp it and set it on its return.
The voyages were trouble-free. Grandfather improvised a wire grapnel on the end of a length of fishing line in case of shipwrecks or engine failure, but it was never used. Then one day - it must have been soon after Mother met Ralph - we watched the boat, on its first trip across the pond to Grandfather, suddenly become deeper, and deeper in the water. The motor cut. The launch wallowed, sank. Grandfather made several throws with his grapnel and pulled out clumps of green slime. I remember what he said to me, on this, the first loss in my life that I had witnessed. He said, very gravely: `You must accept it - you can't get it back - it's the only way,' as if he were repeating something to himself. And I remember Mother's face as she got up from the bench to leave. It was very still and very white, as if she had seen something appalling.
It was some months after that that Ralph, who was now a regular guest at weekends, shouted over the table to Grandfather: `Why don't you leave her alone?!'
I remember it because that same Saturday Grandfather recalled the wreck of my boat, and Ralph said to me, as if pouncing on something: `How about me buying you a new one? How would you like that?' And I said, just to see his face go crestfallen and blank, `No!', several times, fiercely. Then as we ate supper Ralph suddenly barked, as Grandfather was talking to Mother: `Why don't you leave her alone?!'
Grandfather looked at him. `Leave her alone? What do you know about being left alone?' Then he glanced from Ralph to Mother. And Ralph didn't answer, but his face went tight and his hands clenched on his knife and fork.
And all this was because Grandfather had said to Mother:
`You don't make curry any more, the way you did for Alec, the way Vera taught you.'
It was Grandfather's house we lived in - with Ralph as an ever more permanent lodger. Grandfather and Grandmother had lived in it almost since the day of their marriage. My grandfather had worked for a firm which manufactured gold- and silver-plated articles. My grandmother died suddenly when I was only four; and all I know is that I must have had her looks. My mother said so and so did my father; and Grandfather, without saying anything, would often gaze curiously into my face.
At that time Mother, Father and I lived in a new house some distance from Grandfather's. Grandfather took his wife's death very badly. He needed the company of his daughter and my father; but he refused to leave the house in which my grandmother had lived, and my parents refused to leave theirs. There was bitterness all round, which I scarcely appreciated. Grandfather remained alone in his house, which he ceased to maintain, spending more and more time in his garden shed which he had fitted out for his hobbies of model making and amateur chemistry.
The situation was resolved in a dreadful way: by my own father's death.
He was required now and then to fly to Dublin or Cork in the light aeroplane belonging to the company he worked for, which imported Irish goods. One day, in unexceptional weather conditions, the aircraft disappeared without trace into the Irish Sea. In a state which resembled a kind of trance - as if some outside force were all the time directing her - my Mother sold up our house, put away the money for our joint future, and moved in with Grandfather.
My father's death was a far less remote event than my grandmother's, but no more explicable. I was only seven. Mother said, amidst her adult grief: 'He has gone to where Grandma's gone.' I wondered how Grandmother could be at the bottom of the Irish Sea, and at the same time what Father was doing there. I wanted to know when he would return. Perhaps I knew, even as I asked this, that he never would, that my childish assumptions were only a way of allaying my own grief. But if I really believed Father was gone for ever - I was wrong.
Perhaps too I was endowed with my father's looks no less than my grandmother's. Because when my mother looked at me she would often break into uncontrollable tears and she would clasp me for long periods without letting go, as if afraid I might turn to air. I don't know if Grandfather took a secret, vengeful delight in my father's death, or if he was capable of it. But fate had made him and his daughter quits and reconciled them in mutual grief. Their situations were equivalent: she a widow and he a widower. And just as my mother could see in me a vestige of my father, so Grandfather could see in the two of us a vestige of my grandmother.
For about a year we lived quietly, calmly, even contentedly within the scope of this sad symmetry. We scarcely made any contact with the outside world. Grandfather still worked, though his retirement age had passed, and would not let Mother work. He kept Mother and me as he might have kept his own wife and son. Even when he did retire we lived quite comfortably on his pension, some savings and a widow's pension my mother got. Grandfather's health showed signs of weakening - he became rheumatic and sometimes short of breath - but he would still go out to the shed in the garden to conduct his chemical experiments, over which he hummed and chuckled gratefully to himself.
We forgot we were three generations. Grandfather bought Mother bracelets and ear-rings. Mother called me her 'little man'. We lived for each other - and for those two unfaded memories - and for a whole year, a whole harmonious year, we were really quite happy. Until that day in the park when my boat, setting out across the pond towards Grandfather, sank.
Sometimes when Grandfather provoked Ralph I thought Ralph would be quite capable of jumping to his feet, reaching across the table, seizing Grandfather by the throat and choking him. He was a big man, who ate heartily, and I was often afraid he might hit me. But Mother somehow kept him in check. Since Ralph's appearance she had grown neglectful of Grandfather. For example - as Grandfather had pointed out that evening - she would cook the things that Ralph liked (rich, thick stews, but not curry) and forget to produce the meals that Grandfather was fond of. But no matter how neglectful and even hurtful she might be to Grandfather herself, she wouldn't have forgiven someone else's hurting him. It would have been the end of her and Ralph. And no matter how much she might hurt Grandfather - to show her allegiance to Ralph - the truth was she really did want to stick by him. She still needed - she couldn't break free of it - that delicate equilibrium that she, he and I had constructed over the months.