Аллитерация (Alliteration) — повторение однородных согласных в строке, строфе, фразе как приём звуковой выразительности: “shuddering, shrinking, shriveling” (Kate Chopin)
Аллюзия (Allusion)— cтилистический приём, заключающийся в использовании намёка на реальный общеизвестный, политический, исторический или литературный факт (“In this house of his there was writing on every wall” (J. Galsworthy) – allusion to the Biblical scene, where Belshazzar sees the writing on the wall); в форме намека на литературное произведение часто сопровождается цитированием: “He’s in another place now: ‘the undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns’” [allusion to Hamlet] (W.Y. Elliott)
Анадиплосис (Anadiplosis) – разновидность повтора, при котором начало следующей фразы дублирует конец предыдущей: “We were talking about how bad we were, bad, from the medical point of view” (Gerome K. Gerome)
Анафора (Anaphora) — повтор начальных синтаксических элементов: ‘Sometimes they lounged at thesteps of a church, and sometimes dallied among cypresses against a cloudless sky; sometimes they made love by a Renaissance well-head, and sometimes they wandered through the Campagna by the side of an ox-wagon.’ (W.S. Maugham)
Антитеза (Antithesis)— cтилистическая фигура, основанная на резком противопоставлении, контрасте, противоположности образов и понятий, лексически часто основана на антонимах: персонажи “Wait in the night” – “a stout young man” vs “gray, angular [older] companion”.
Антономазия (Antonomasia)— использование имен собственных для выражения какой-либо идеи: в романе “To kill a mockingbird” имя Atticus отсылает читателя к идее демократии, равноправия и справедливости через ассоциацию с Аттикой (область Греции, где расположены Афины).
Апозиопезис (Aposiopesis)—намеренное прерывание речи в случае, когда говорящий не может или не хочет высказаться до конца, закончить фразу; однако недостающие части могут быть легко восстановлены: “Didn’t they … weren’t you bad?” (H. Bates) [didn’t nails hurt you?]
Ассонанс (Assonance) — повторение однородных гласных в строке, строфе, фразе как приём звуковой выразительности: "weak and weary" (E.A. Poe)
Асиндетон (Asyndeton) ("bounding together") — бессоюзие: no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds..." (Th. Hood)
Вставная конструкция (Parenthesis) –вводные, вставные, пояснительные фразы, обычно дающиеся в скобках или оформленные парным тире: “Even in those cases – a class of book he was not very fond of – which ended in tragedy, the wife always died with poignant regrets on her lips, or if it were the husband who died – unpleasant thought – threw herself on his body in an agony of remorse” (J. Galsworthy)
Градация (Gradation) — расположение лексем, образов и идей в последовательности, где последующее «сильнее» предыдущего (по интенсивности качества, по художественной выразительности и др.): “Why, we have always been like cousins – like brother and sister, I may say” (Kate Chopin)
Гипербола (Hyperbole) — чрезмерное преувеличение каких-либо свойств изображаемого предмета, явления и т.п., с целью усиления впечатления: «Two geological ages later we heard his footsteps» (Harper Lee).
Зевгма (Zeugma) — использование семантически неоднородных слов как однородных за счет их одинаковой синтаксической сочетаемости, что вызывает эффект метафоризации, игры слов или оксюморона "Either you or your head must be off" (L. Carroll); “Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table… could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it?” (J. Galsworthy)
Звукоподражание (Onomatopoeia)— выражение какого-нибудь природного звучания в схожей с ним, напоминающей его по звукам, словесной форме “And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain” (E. A. Poe)
Каламбур, игра слов (Pun, play on words)- остроумное выражение, шутка, основанные на использовании сходно звучащих, но различных по значению слов или разных значений одного слова (полисемия): «"Have you been seeing any spirits?" "Or taking any?" - added Bob Alien» (Ch. Dickens) - в английском "spirits" может означать и «духи», «привидения» и «алкогольные напитки».
Инверсия (Inversion)– нарушение прямого порядка слов:‘There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank’ (Kate Chopin)
Местный колорит (Local colour) — передача лексическими и образными средствами особенностей эпохи, быта, местности; так, в рассказе «The man in black» автор рисует атмосферу захолустного американского городка конца XIX - начала XX века упоминанием таких реалий, как жевательный табак, ясли для лошадей возле магазина, выручка магазина в жестяной коробочке из-под сигар и под.
Метафора (Metaphor) — скрытое образное сравнение, уподобление одного предмета, действия, явления другому: “There was a fluting of compliments” (J. Collier). Стершиеся метафоры (Dead (trite) metaphors)давно вошли в язык и не осознаются его носителями как метафоры, несущие живую образность: the leg of the chair; the eye of the needle.
Метонимия (Metonymy)— оборот речи, в котором вместо названия одного предмета дается название другого, находящегося с ним в отношении ассоциации по смежности (следствие вместо причины, инструмент вместо действия, часть вместо целого и под.): «Mess-jacket (мятый пиджак) looked at me with his silent sleek (елейная, сладкая) smile (R. Chandler)»
Обрамление (Framing) — разновидность повтора, при котором начало синтаксической группы повторяется в ее конце: “No wonder, his father wanted to know what Bossinney meant, no wonder” (J. Galsworthy)
Оксюморон (Oxymoron) — фигура речи, когда сталкиваются семантически плохо совместимые понятия; частый случай – совмещение противоречащих по смыслу определения и существительного: “monstrous joy”, “comical misery” (Kate Chopin)
Олицетворение (Personification)— разновидности метафоры, при которой неодушевленные предметы и явления наделяются человеческими свойствами (мыслями, чувствами, речью): “Tell him that our home cries out for him… It is waiting for him” (W.S. Maugham)
Параллелизм (Parallelism)— одинаковое синтаксическое и интонационное построение следующих непосредственно друг за другом предложений: “She was a good servant, she walked softly, she was a determined woman, she walked precisely” (G. Greene).
Перифраз (Periphrasis) — описательное выражение, заменяющее прямое название и содержащее в себе признаки не названного прямо предмета или явления: “When we reached Stilton and celery, I intimated that I must walk down to the post-office” (A. Bennett) “Stilton and celery” = “the end of the dinner”; “We had no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hasting” (H. Lee)= English or French ancestors.
Полисиндетон (Polysyndeton)— многосоюзие: "They were all three from Milan and one of them was to be a lawyer, and one was to be a painter, and one had intended to be a soldier..." (E. Hemingway)
Повтор (Repetition)— повторение слова или фразы в целях усиления выразительности: фраза “The dead sleep cold” повторяется четыре раза на небольшом участке текста “On the American dead in Spain” Э. Хемингуэя.
Риторический вопрос (rhetorical question)не требует ответа, служит усилению эмоциональности текста; оставаясь вопросом лишь формально, часто приближается к риторическому восклицанию (rhetorical exclamation) ‘And yet she had loved him – sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter!’ ( Kate Chopin)
Сравнение (Simile [simili])— фигура образной речи, состоящая в уподоблении одного предмета другому; в отличие от метафоры, эксплицитно содержит оба сравниваемых предмета и грамматическое средство, показывающее, что они сопоставляются (like, as, than, as if): “She was… like a somersaulter, at one end of the tub”, “the sound passed through him almost like that of a boxer” (J. Collier)
Триплет (Triplet) –набор из трех следующих друг за другом однородных лексем: “fixed and gray and dead” (K. Chopin), “mind, body and soul” (W.Y. Elliott)
Эллипс (Ellipsis) — опущение, пропуск элемента высказывания, который легко может быть восстановлен в данном речевом или ситуативном контексте: “How long for?” –“For a week” – “A week!” (H. Bates)
Эпитет (Epithet) — определение, прибавляемое к названию предмета или лица для большей художественной выразительности; эпитет помогает создать целостный образ и выразить авторское отношение к изображаемому: “He was short and vast, sun-lamped and pomaded”(T. Capote)
Эпифора (Epiphora) – повтор конечных синтаксических элементов: “I’m exactly the man to be placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I’m above the rest of mankind in such a case as that” (Ch. Dickens)
Эвфемизм (Euphemism) –cлово или выражение, заменяющее другое, нежелательное, грубое с точки зрения культурно-речевых норм: ‘Strickland … stepped forward and he just said: ‘Get out, you bloody swine’ <…> Strickland, according to Capitan Nichols, did not use exactly the words I have given, but since this book is meant for family reading I have thought it better <…> to put into his mouth expressions familiar to the domestic circle’ (W.S. Maugham)
Следующие клише могут быть полезны при упоминании средств художественной выразительности при разборе текста:
The author employs / uses the following lexical / syntactical stylistic devices.
The poet makes extensive use of figurative language,presenting the speaker’s feelings as colours, sounds and flavours.
The author’s use of visual imageryis impressive; the reader is able to see the island in all its lush, colourful splendor by reading Golding’s detailed descriptions.
The story abounds in/ is abundant with(metaphors). / Metaphors are in abundancein the story.
This results in(parallelism).
All the devices are aimed atcreating a (humorous) effect.
This sentence is a vivid example of(the author’s irony).
The repetitionof the words “What if...” at the beginning of each line reinforcesthe speaker’s confusion and fear.
The following words / devices are illustrative ofhis manner of writing.
The choice of words is suggestive ofthe author’s attitude to ...
Существенной сложностью при упоминании средств художественной выразительности в лингвистическом анализе текста, является отсутствие у многих студентов идеи о взаимосвязи стилистических приемов и содержательной стороны рассказа. Не следует писать ‘The author employs the following metaphors and similes…’, важно попытаться понять, для чего автор использует именно эти художественные средства.
В трех приведенных ниже рассказах авторы отобрали отличные друг от друга средства выразительности именно потому, что перед ними стояли совершенно разные творческие задачи.
В рассказе ‘Bank holiday’ одна часть приемов (эпитеты, сравнения, метафоры, антитезы) работает на созданиеяркого, сочного описания праздника, другая (оксюморон, повторы, введение прямой речи продавцов) служит изображению фарсовой атмосферы, третья же группа художественных средств (аллитерация, звукоподражание, полисиндетон и асиндетон, инверсия, повторы, восклицания, триплеты) работает на музыкальность текста.
Рассказ ‘A happy man’ построен на контрасте образов двух друзей. Поэтому, помимо прямой антитезы, в тексте можно обнаружить множество художественных средств (метафоры, сравнения, повторы, эпитеты, градации), служащих этому контрасту.
Творчество Хемингуэя, автора третьего из следующих рассказов, стоит в мировой литературе особняком. Его «принцип айсберга» - способность минимальными средствами выразительности создать смысловую глубину. Весь рассказ ‘A very short story’ построен на недосказанности. Читатель сам должен додумывать, заполнять смысловые лакуны. Яркий пример того, как за одним приемом, условно говоря, прячутся несколько потенциальных страниц текста, является каламбур ‘enema – enemy’, показывающий, насколько сблизились герои, как они научились вместе шутить над тяготами жизни в военном госпитале. Ключом, открывающим в этом тексте дополнительный смысл, может быть эпитет, метафора или просто говорящая деталь (speaking detail) – например, главный герой сам мерит ночью температуру больным, чтобы его возлюбленной не пришлось вставать с постели.
Bank holiday by Katherine Mansfield
A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too small for him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little chap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a broken wing, breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with bursting over-ripe button boots, draws ribbons—long, twisted, streaming ribbons—of tune out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad sunlight opposite the fruit-shop; the pink spider of a hand beats the guitar, the little squat hand, with a brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler's arm tries to saw the fiddle in two.
A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins, dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries, but she does not eat them. 'Aren't they dear!" She stares at the tiny pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier laughs. "Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful." But he doesn't want her to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightened face, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a price!" He pushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices—old dusty pin-cushions— lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering bonnet on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown on hedges, and high pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews in fine cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, "hospital boys" in blue—the sun discovers them—the loud, bold music holds them together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushing each other on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging; the old ones are talking: "So I said to 'im, if you wants the doctor to yourself, fetch 'im, says I."
"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so much as you could put in the palm of me' and!"
The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, as close up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their backs, their eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny staggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets up again.
"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind her hand.
And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, and again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up the hill.
At the comer of the road the stalls begin.
"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a tickler? Tickle 'em up, boys." Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by the soldiers.
"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog! "
"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!"
"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys."
"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?"
"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear feathers threaded through their bonnets.
And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an'put it on!"
It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadow flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel it burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel their bodies expanding, coming alive...so that they make large embracing gestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into laughter.
Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth; and lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, like a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't
they drink it without spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back the last drops are thrown in a ring.
Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass cover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream trumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon plunges in; one shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching.
"Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands beside the cage, a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a green-and-gold scarf.
And inside their prison the love-birds flutter towards the papers in the seed-tray.
"You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired man and have three children. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out! Look out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. Inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward- rushing through your life--beware! beware!
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I tell you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from me and a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence across his chest; the sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his forehead. Nobody buys a watch.
Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill.
Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his banner. He is here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and swearing a moment before * hand across their sixpence, and stand before him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the Professor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree.
The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices.
The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside the two swing- doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the mouth of a sweet-jar.
And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them—drawn up into the full, bright, dazzling radiance to...what?
A happy man by H.E Bates
There were many sides to the character of my Uncle Silas which were very doubtful; but there was nothing doubtful about his friendship with Walter Hawthorn.
Walter and Silas had been friends for fifty or sixty or perhaps even seventy years, though for more than half that time they had never seen each other. Walter had been a soldier: long periods of service on the North-West Frontier*, the Sudan, garrison at Singapore.
He was a big man, with huge sun-dark hands, massive shoulders as stiff and square as iron brackets. He had been wounded twice on the Frontier and once in the Sudan, but he never talked about it. They had given him medals for conspicuous gallantry in a tribal ambush in Afghanistan and others for long service and distinguished service, and he had a row of ribbons that was like a section out of a rainbow. But he never wore the medals or the ribbons and when folks tried to get him to talk about his campaigns and his bravery he would just say, “Yes, that was in 79. It was bad,” or "Yes, that was in 84. That was the day.”
He was a man who had seen things and done things and had helped to make history, but it was as though he had done nothing at all. There are men who go round the world and see all there is to be seen and who come back and say, 'It was very nice indeed.'
Walt Hawthorn was one of these men. Except that when he came home, after more than forty years of service, he didn't even say that. He said nothing at all, and settled down to grow flowers.
It was not the fact that he grew flowers that was in any way remarkable: it was the kind of flowers he grew. My Uncle Silas also grew flowers. He had always been an ugly little man, and it was as though the littleness and ugliness in him demanded to be expressed in something huge and wonderful.
His dahlias were like grand velvet cushions of salmon and scarlet, his asters like ostrich plumes of pink and mauve. He gloried in sprays of monster golden lilies that were like the brasses in an orchestra. He liked roses into which he could bury his face.
But Walt Hawthorn was fond of little flowers. His garden was at the other end of the lane from my Uncle Silas, and the two gardens were like the plus and minus of things. Where my Uncle Silas's flowers flaunted and flared over the hedge in the sun, Walt Hawthorn had scarcely a flower that could look over the fence.
In spring he grew things like forget-me-nots and violets and narcissi and Dresden daisies; in summer he had Virginia stock and snapdragons and pinks and button asters. When he went to my Uncle Silas's garden my Uncle Silas would take a yardstick to the dahlias, but when Silas went to see Walt Hawthorn, Walt would take him to see a rose no bigger than a thimble or his six-inch fuchsia, in a pot, with flowers no bigger than a pendant ear-ring.
They went on like this for years. It seemed to consolidate their friendship. With other men my Uncle Silas boasted of his flowers as he boasted of his women, or he lied of one as easily as he lied of the other. But he never boasted to Walt Hawthorn, and, except for one simple occasion, he never lied.
Walt Hawthorn and my Uncle Silas, though they differed in almost every other way, were alike on one thing. They liked a drink about midday. And every day, just before twelve o'clock, they walked down to ‘The Swan with Two Nicks’ and drank the same thing: a pint of ale.
One day when my Uncle Silas shouted: 'Ready, Walt?' over the fence it was three or four minutes before Walt Hawthorn appeared. It was a blinding hot day in July, the crest of a heat wave that had been rising for almost a week, and when Walt appeared my Uncle Silas noticed a curious, unusual thing about him. He was wearing a bunch of flowers in his buttonhole.
Normally, beside my Uncle Silas, Walt Hawthorn looked like a man on stilts; but that day, as they walked in the blazing sunshine, it seemed to Silas that Walt had shrunk a little. The brackets of his shoulders seemed to have bent down a little. His feet kept scraping the ground.
My Uncle Silas looked at the flowers in his buttonhole. ‘Toffed up a bit?’ he said.
'Ah,' Walter said. His eyes were fixed on the distance. 'Got me medals on.'
Silas did not take much notice of that remark. He took it for a kind of joke. He did not take much notice of the next remark either. 'Don't walk so fast, general,' Walt said.
The reason Silas did not take much notice of this remark was because there were odd times when Walt Hawthorn did call him 'general.' What he noticed was that Walt was walking very slowly.
Silas noticed this all the way to the pub and all the way back and he noticed it even more the following day. It was hotter than ever that day, and Walt had a bigger bunch of flowers in his buttonhole.
‘Got your medals on again?’ Silas said.
‘Yes,’ Walt said, and suddenly he took one of the flowers, a pansy, and put it in Silas's buttonhole.
Silas did not say anything. There was nothing very odd after all in putting a flower in the buttonhole of a friend. But when they reached the pub something else happened.
Walter began to take all the flowers out of his own coat and put them into Silas's buttonholes - not only the buttonholes of his coat but the buttonholes of his waistcoat and then the buttonholes of his trousers. The large sun-browned hands moved very gently. They handled the little Virginia stocks and pansies and pinks, limp now from sun, with crazy affection. My Uncle Silas did not say anything, but as he sat there, letting the flowers be threaded foolishly and lovingly in his garments, he felt that he saw a big man growing little before his eyes.
He saw the eyes of a big man who had seen the world and had helped to hammer out its history becoming the eyes of a child who has seen nothing and wants to do nothing better than play with a handful of flowers.
Gradually Silas got Walter Hawthorn out into the sun again and began to lead him home. Suddenly Walter leapt into the air and slid down into the ditch by the roadside, pulling Silas with him, and began to fire at rebel tribesmen on the North-West Frontier.
It was then that my Uncle Silas began to tell lies to Walter Hawthorn. He told him lies about everything: the dead, the living, the way the fight was going. After the skirmish was over he got Walter back to his house and then told more lies. Yes, there was plenty of ammunition. Yes, the general was here. Then Walter began to point to the flowers in the garden, raving. 'See 'em?' he yelled. 'See 'em? See 'em, general?' and Silas got ready to lie about them, too, thinking that perhaps Walter saw them as soldiers. But Walter leant up in crazy terror. “It's a mirage!” he shouted. “It’s a bloody mirage.”
Soon after that he became quieter. He sat in the kitchen, in the cool, out of the sun, and Silas gave him a little whisky and water. Then Silas got him to lie down on the sofa, and after that he went home.
It was less than two hours when Silas went back to him. When he went into the garden, in the dead still heat of the afternoon, he was dumbfounded. The flowers had been pulled up everywhere; they were strewn over the paths and the grass and the steps of the house and in the house itself. They had been clawed up by the desperate savagery of a man who sees a mirage and wants to grasp it before it vanishes, and Walter himself was lying down among them, exhausted, like a man who had fought all his campaigns in a single afternoon.
Later that evening they fetched him in an old-fashioned limousine with black bobbed curtains that could be drawn over the windows. He was quite quiet and gentle and Silas helped to lead him out of the house. In his huge feeble hands he held large bunches of little flowers.
'Well, general,' he said to Silas, where are we bound for this time? India?'
'India it is,' Silas said.
He stood in the road and watched the limousine depart. As it went down the road he saw one of Walter Hawthorn's huge hands come out of the window. The hand flung flowers on to the road, and in that moment it seemed to my Uncle Silas that Walter Hawthorn was a happy man.
*the North-West Frontier refers to Pakistan
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