Table of contents Предисловие Tasks for seminars Sentences and extracts for analysis

Sunday 1 January

9st 3 (but post-Christmas), alcohol units 14 (but effectively covers 2 days as 4 hours of party was on New Year's Day),cigarettes 22, calories 5424.
Food consumed today:
2 pkts Emmenthal cheese slices
14 cold new potatoes
2 Bloody Marys (count as food as contain Worcester sauce and tomatoes)
1/3 Ciabatta loaf with Brie
Coriander leaves 1/2 packet
12 Milk Tray (best to get rid of all Christmas confectionery in one go and make fresh start tomorrow)
13 cocktail sticks securing cheese and pineapple
Portion Una Alconbury's turkey curry, peas and bananas
Portion Una Alconbury's Raspberry Surprise made with Bourbon biscuits, tinned raspberries, eight gallons of whipped cream, decorated with glacé cherries and angelica.
Noon. London: my flat. Ugh. The last thing on earth I feel physically, emotionally or mentally equipped to do is drive to Una and Geoffrey Alconbury's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet in Grafton Underwood. Geoffrey and Una Alconbury are my parents' best friends and, as Uncle Geoffrey never tires of reminding me, have known me since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. My mother rang up at 8.30 in the morning last August Bank Holiday and forced me to promise to go. She approached it via a cunningly circuitous route.
'Oh, hello, darling. I was just ringing to see what you wanted for Christmas.'
'Christmas?,
'Would you like a surprise, darling?'
'No!' I bellowed. 'Sorry. I mean . . . '
'I wondered if you'd like a set of wheels for your suitcase.'
'But I haven't got a suitcase.
'Why don't I get you a little suitcase with wheels attached. You know, like air hostesses have.'
'I've already got a bag.'
'Oh, darling, you can't go around with that tatty green canvas thing. You look like some sort of Mary Poppins person who's fallen on hard times. Just a little compact case with a pull-out handle. It's amazing how much you can get in. Do you want it in navy on red or red on navy?'
'Mum. It's eight thirty in the morning. It's summer. It's very hot. I don't want an air-hostess bag.'
'Julie Enderby's got one. She says she never uses anything else.'
'Who's Julie Enderby?'
'You know Julie, darling, Mavis Enderby's daughter. Julie! The one that's got that super-dooper job at Arthur Andersen . . . '
'Mum . . . '
'Always takes it on her trips . . . '
'I don't want a little bag with wheels on.'
'I'll tell you what. Why don't Jamie, Daddy and I all club together and get you a proper new big suitcase and a set of wheels?'
Exhausted, I held the phone away from my ear, puzzling about where the missionary luggage-Christmas-gift zeal had stemmed from. When I put the phone back she was saying: ' . . . in actual fact, you can get them with a compartment with bottles for your bubble bath and things. The other thing I thought of was a shopping trolley.'
'Is there anything you'd like for Christmas?' I said desperately, blinking in the dazzling Bank Holiday sun­light.
'No, no,' she said airily. 'I've got everything I need. Now, darling,' she suddenly hissed, 'you will be coming to Geoffrey and Una's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet this year, won't you?'
'Ah. Actually, I . . . I panicked wildly. What could I pretend to be doing? ' . . . think I might have to work on New Year's Day.'
'That doesn't matter. You can drive up after work. Oh, did I mention? Malcolm and Elaine Darcy are coming and bringing Mark with them. Do you remember Mark, darling? He's one of those top-notch barristers. Masses of money. Divorced. It doesn't start till eight.'
Oh God. Not another strangely dressed opera freak with bushy hair burgeoning from a side-parting. 'Mum, I've told you. I don't need to be fixed up with . . . '
'Now come along, darling. Una and Geoffrey have been holding the New Year Buffet since you were running round the lawn with no clothes on! Of course you're going to come. And you'll be able to use your new suitcase.'

20. As the wizard hobbled and pranced sideways out of the way, the Weasley party moved forward a few steps and Harry read the floor guide:

ARTEFACT ACCIDENTS...Ground floor
Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom crashes, etc.
CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES...First floor
Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.

MAGICAL BUGS...Second floor

Contagious maladies, e.g. dragon pox, vanishing sickness, scrojungulus, etc.
POTION AND PLANT POISONING...Third floor
Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable 2, etc.
SPELL DAMAGE...Fourth floor
Unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly applied charms, etc.
VISITORS’ TEAROOM / HOSPITAL SHOP...Fifth floor
IF YOU ARE UNSURE WHERE TO GO, INCAPABLE OF NORMAL SPEECH OR UNABLE TO REMEMBER WHY YOU ARE HERE, OUR WELCOMEWITCH WILL BE PLEASED TO HELP.
A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet had shuffled to the front of the queue now.

21. When I look back now, these long years later, when age has taught me that the word family is much more complex than I ever imagined, what happened to me all seems so magnified, dramatic in that way things can only be when you’re young and your blood flows hot and fast, and tears seem to coat the world, blurring it like dime-store eye­glasses. You're certain that if life doesn’t work out exactly how you planned, all nice and neat with tucked-in corners, then you will most certainly die, or worse, keep living with the disappointment stuck in your throat like a peach pit, all rough and jagged and bitter as dirt.

I am here to tell you the pivotal moments in our lives often do not come with any sort of fanfare. Rarely are there snapping flags or warning trumpets or foghorns in­forming us of changes. They usually come, to quote a wiser source, like thieves in the night – a postcard from the lab: "Please contact your physician"– an intersection at the wrong moment, an egg colliding with a sperm in a miniature cosmic explosion, a quarter in a slot machine, the turn of a steering wheel, a trigger pulled, a lover saying no, a child walking away, a voice over the phone – "I'm sorry to inform you..." In an instant, your life is forever altered and you think the rest of your days will become an agonizing before-and-after until you realize from the measured, thoughtful perch of old age that life I is simply a series of befores and afters, a long line of them, and each one can either harden your heart to sun-­baked leather or turn it pliable and welcoming, into an organ of infinite capabilities, a dwelling place for compassion, a vehicle for grace.
I have had my moments. My mother died when I was six, which I don’t much remember. My first husband, the love of my youth, died when I was thirty-four, which I still recall at certain moments with a clarity that can shat­ter my heart like frozen glass. Since then I have lost many people I’ve loved. But they remain solid and real in my heart, and I believe with a conviction as fixed as the hills I watch every morning from my front porch that I will see them all again one day, and it will be a glorious time of rejoicing.
When I study the weathered and still handsome face of the man I have loved now for forty years, this second and unexpected gift from God, I am thankful that we do not know the future. I have come to understand that if we could, it would alter life’s rhythm in such a way that the song would never be the same; it would never have the same magic, the same joy. And, oh, the joy this man has brought me. I could not tell of it in a multitude of Sun­days.
This story is only one of my afters. I thought at the time my heart would break. I know now that human hearts don’t break, they either stretch or turn to stone. I’ve learned it is not the afters themselves but how we handle them that shapes us, that decides our happiness. I discov­ered that we all hold the key to joy in our own free will. My journey to that discovery wasn’t easy, but every heart­rending step was worth the pain.

22. He did not in the least wish the future Mrs. Newland Archer to be a simpleton. He meant her (thanks to his enlightening companionship) to develop a social tact and readiness of wit enabling her to hold her own with the most popular married women of the ``younger set,'' in which it was the recognised custom to attract masculine homage while playfully discouraging it. If he had probed to the bottom of his vanity (as he sometimes nearly did) he would have found there the wish that his wife should be as worldly-wise and as eager to please as the married lady whose charms had held his fancy through two mildly agitated years; without, of course, any hint of the frailty which had so nearly marred that unhappy being's life, and had disarranged his own plans for a whole winter.

How this miracle of fire and ice was to be created, and to sustain itself in a harsh world, he had never taken the time to think out; but he was content to hold his view without analysing it, since he knew it was that of all the carefully-brushed, white-waistcoated, button-hole-flowered gentlemen who succeeded each other in the club box, exchanged friendly greetings with him, and turned their opera-glasses critically on the circle of ladies who were the product of the system. In matters intellectual and artistic Newland Archer felt himself distinctly the superior of these chosen specimens of old New York gentility; he had probably read more, thought more, and even seen a good deal more of the world, than any other man of the number. Singly they betrayed their inferiority; but grouped together they represented ``New York,'' and the habit of masculine solidarity made him accept their doctrine on all the issues called moral. He instinctively felt that in this respect it would be troublesome -- and also rather bad form -- to strike out for himself.
``Well -- upon my soul!'' exclaimed Lawrence Lefferts, turning his opera-glass abruptly away from the stage. Lawrence Lefferts was, on the whole, the foremost authority on ``form'' in New York. He had probably devoted more time than any one else to the study of this intricate and fascinating question; but study alone could not account for his complete and easy competence. One had only to look at him, from the slant of his bald forehead and the curve of his beautiful fair moustache to the long patent-leather feet at the other end of his lean and elegant person, to feel that the knowledge of ``form'' must be congenital in any one who knew how to wear such good clothes so carelessly and carry such height with so much lounging grace. As a young admirer had once said of him: ``If anybody can tell a fellow just when to wear a black tie with evening clothes and when not to, it's Larry Lefferts.'' And on the question of pumps versus patent-leather ``Oxfords'' his authority had never been disputed.
``My God!'' he said; and silently handed his glass to old Sillerton Jackson.
Newland Archer, following Lefferts's glance, saw with surprise that his exclamation had been occasioned by the entry of a new figure into old Mrs. Mingott's box. It was that of a slim young woman, a little less tall than May Welland, with brown hair growing in close curls about her temples and held in place by a narrow band of diamonds. The suggestion of this headdress, which gave her what was then called a ``Josephine look,'' was carried out in the cut of the dark blue velvet gown rather theatrically caught up under her bosom by a girdle with a large old-fashioned clasp. The wearer of this unusual dress, who seemed quite unconscious of the attention it was attracting, stood a moment in the centre of the box, discussing with Mrs. Welland the propriety of taking the latter's place in the front righthand corner; then she yielded with a slight smile, and seated herself in line with Mrs. Welland's sister-in-law, Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who was installed in the opposite corner.

23. When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.

"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord Canterville, "since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library."
"My Lord," answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show."
"I fear that the ghost exists," said Lord Canterville, smiling, "though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family."
"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy."
"You are certainly very natural in America," answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember I warned you."
A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called "The Star and Stripes," as they were always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only true republicans of the family.

24. Her hand dropped to a little table beside her, fingering a tiny china rose-bowl on which two china cherubs smirked. The room was so still she almost screamed to break the silence. She must do something or go mad. She picked up the bowl and hurled it viciously across the room toward the fireplace. It barely cleared the tall back of the sofa and splintered with a little crash against the marble mantelpiece.

"This," said a voice from the depths of the sofa, "is too much."
Nothing had ever startled or frightened her so much, and her mouth went too dry for her to utter a sound. She caught hold of the back of the chair, her knees going weak under her, as Rhett Butler rose from the sofa where he had been lying and made her a bow of exaggerated politeness.
"It is bad enough to have an afternoon nap disturbed by such a passage as I've been forced to hear, but why should my life be endangered?"
He was real. He wasn't a ghost. But, saints preserve us, he had heard everything! She rallied her forces into a semblance of dignity.
"Sir, you should have made known your presence."
"Indeed?" His white teeth gleamed and his bold dark eyes laughed at her. "But you were the intruder. I was forced to wait for Mr. Kennedy, and feeling that I was perhaps persona non grata in the back yard, I was thoughtful enough to remove my unwelcome presence here where I thought I would be undisturbed. But, alas!" he shrugged and laughed softly.
Her temper was beginning to rise again at the thought that this rude and impertinent man had heard everything-heard things she now wished she had died before she ever uttered.
"Eavesdroppers-" she began furiously.
"Eavesdroppers often hear highly entertaining and instructive things," he grinned. "From a long experience in eavesdropping, I-"
"Sir," she said, "you are no gentleman!"
"An apt observation," he answered airily. "And, you, Miss, are no lady." He seemed to find her very amusing, for he laughed softly again. "No one can remain a lady after saying and doing what I have just overheard. However, ladies have seldom held any charms for me. I know what they are thinking, but they never have the courage or lack of breeding to say what they think. And that, in time, becomes a bore. But you, my dear Miss O'Hara, are a girl of rare spirit, very admirable spirit, and I take off my hat to you. I fail to understand what charms the elegant Mr. Wilkes can hold for a girl of your tempestuous nature. He should thank God on bended knee for a girl with your-how did he put it?-'passion for living,' but being a poor-spirited wretch-"
"You aren't fit to wipe his boots!" she shouted in rage.
"And you were going to hate him all your life!" He sank down on the sofa and she heard him laughing.
If she could have killed him, she would have done it. Instead, she walked out of the room with such dignity as she could summon and banged the heavy door behind her.
25. At last he was so dazed and cold that he closed his eyes, forgot his own name, just straddled the plank half sleeping, half waking, careless of disaster. His life had been short, but where lies the virtue in a life long in misery?
When he opened his eyes again, all was dim and blue-grey like wood-smoke. He thought he had been asleep and had gone down into the sea’s depths to drowned death. He was surprised how easy the passing had been, not at all like the agony that battle-poets sang of.
Then a gull came out of the greyness and perched on the bobbing end of the plank with red feet and a clacking bill. And then Runolf knew that he was sailing through a heavy sea-mist and was not on the ocean-bed after all.
He raised his head and the gull, seeing that he was not yet dead, squawked out in anger and flew away on rattling, black wings.
A grey seal nosed up through the mist and scratched its shiny back on the plank, then paddled alongside for a while, staring with mild and blue-filmed eyes, before the mood took it to plunge away out of sight into the deep kingdom below.
Runolf was sorry to see the seal go. It was the only kindly creature in all the grey wilderness of mist… Then, suddenly, the boy almost shouted in terror. Through the swirling greyness, somewhere to his right, came a distant and mournful crying. Runolf could not put a name to it, but to his fear-sharpened ears it sounded like the sad voices of all dead voyagers, singing through the chill grey dawn to welcome him to their number. He even thought that he could hear the voice of the dead baresark, calling deeply and waveringly, ‘Runolf. . . Runolf. . . Where? . . . Where?’
About the fires at the steading, fisherfolk had often gathered when they brought their catch to barter at Kolbein’s steading, and often they had yarned, the warmed ale in them, of strange things that a seafarer sees and which landfolk know nothing of. Wide-eyed, young Runolf had heard them whisper of sea-calves and sea-cows, and even sea-wolves, but all different from the creatures of the land; all of them scaly and not hairy and with great grey fins instead of tails. One rover named Ubbi had even set eyes on a sea-farmer, scaly like the rest, with webbed hands and feet and weed for hair, who had rolled under the bow of his boat, glaring with fish-eyes and never uttering a word from his wide-open mouth when they called down a greeting.
Runolf remembered all this and was afraid. Then the dirge-like sound became louder and he knew that he was drifting through the sea-fret, nearer and nearer to whatever it might be.
For a little while, he thought of sliding down the plank and of trying to swim away from this place, and its troll-like folk. He was still trying to unhook his frozen fingers and move his tight-gripped knees when his heart almost stopped beating, for out of the grey blanket of mist loomed a long dark shape, bobbing low and clumsy in the water and running almost alongside him.
To his eyes, it seemed like a whale now, and he knew that the swirl which carried him onwards would surely dash him against the great beast’s side. His terror rose, to think what the Water-King would do to him; how he would open his great jaws and munch him up, or dive over him, dragging him down in a roaring whirlpool, into the sea's dark belly.


III
E.A. Poe.