А. Содержательность и опредмечивающая ее композиция

1. Художественная реальность и художественная идея отрывка.

2. Определяющие смыслы и средства текста, подвергнутые автором категоризации, приводящей к появлению метасмыслов и метаметасмыслов. Растягиваемые смыслы и метасмыслы. Рекуррентные средства и метасредства.

3. Обязательно наличные метасмыслы - конфликты смыслов, перевыражения смыслов, оценочное отношение, нравственная позиция и/или тенденция.

4. Категоризованные метасвязки (единства смыслов и средств) - тональность, своеобразие, метафоризованность, ироничность и др.

5. Художественность текста (=оптимум пробуждения рефлексии и средства построения этого оптимума).

6. Композиция отрывка как средство опредмечивания всей смысловой конструкции.

7. Деление отрывка на композиционные части. Композиционные части в их отношении к развертыванию сюжетной линии. Распределение и расположение центральных и кульминационных микроконтекстов.

8.Расположение композиционных частей как средство развития главного метаметасмысла (=художественной идеи).

9. Характер и средства индивидуации (косвенного указания на способ дальнейшего чтения) - в рамках как абзаца, так и композиционной части или даже всей дроби текста.

 

Б. Монографическое рассмотрение одной композиционной части (по выбору студента)

1. Идейно-художественная значимость данной композиционной части в целой текстовой дроби.

2. Отличие данной композиционной части от других частей по критериям: а) избранные виды словесности; б) преобладающий субъязык, специфика смешения субъязыков; в) глубина партитурной организации речевой цепи; г) особенности места и перемещений образа автора, мера отдаления и приближения образа автора к представленным в тексте вещам и персонажам, слияние образа автора с представленными вещами и персонажами, подвижность образа автора как носителя точки зрения и точки обзора; д) "голоса" персонажей, данные прямыми и косвенными средствами, наличие неявных источников "голосов"; е) синтаксические и иные средства представления человеческой речи (включая и интериоризованную речь); ж) другие наблюдения студента над формой и смыслом; з) идейно-художественная роль всего того, что рассматривается в пунктах (а) - (з).

3. Особенности данной композиционной части по критериям лингвистики текста. Предпочтение тех или иных субституентов из потенциального их набора и идейно-художественная мотивация этих предпочтений в следующих областях: а) ритмика и другие фонетические и просодические средства; б) лексика (выбор по признакам: этимологическому, статистическому, тематическому, эвфоническому, словопроизводному, словосочетательному) и фразеология (по признакам: устойчивость, метафоризованность и др.). в) синтаксис (значащая длина предложений, характер грамматической связи, сложное синтаксическое целое, мера сложного подчинения и пр.); г) морфология (предпочтение личных/неличных форм глагола и т.п.). д) соотношение текстообразующих тенденций: экспликационность/импликационность, актуализация/автоматизация (в трактовке Я. Мукаржовского), избыточность/экономность, дистантность/контактность, полифоничность/монофоничность и др.; е) мера метафоризации, используемые фигуры; ж) направленность рефлексии при метафоризациях (характер рефлективного мостика при метафоризациях).

 

В. Любые обобщения и новые суждения, исходящие от студента.

 

 

TEXTS FOR INTERPRETATION

 

Edward Morgan Forster (1879 - 1970)

HOWARDS END (1910)

It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt and tap surreptitiously when the tunes come - of course not so as to disturb the others - or like Helen, who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music's flood; or like Margaret who can only see the music; or like Tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full score open on his knee; or like their cousin Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers all the time that Beethoven is "echt deutsch"; or like Fraulein Mosebach's young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein Mosebach: in any case the passion of your life becomes more vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is cheap at two shillings. It is cheap even if you hear it at Queen's Hall, the dreariest music-room in London, though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if you sit on the extreme left of the hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap.

"Who is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at the conclusion of the first movement. She was again in London on a visit to Wickham Place. Helen looked down at the long line of their party, and said that she did not know. "Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an interest in?" "I expect so", Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, and she could not enter into the distinction that divides young men whom one takes an interest in from young men whom one knows. "You girls are so wonderful in always having - Oh dear! One mustn't talk." For the Andante had begun - very beautiful, but bearing a family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes that Beethoven had written, and, to Helen's mind, rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. She heard the tune through once, and then her attention wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or the architecture.

Much did she censure the attenuated Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen's Hall, inclining each to each with vapid gestures, and clad in sallow pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck. "How awful to marry a man like those Cupids!" thought Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune, so she heard him through once more, and then smiled at her cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical Music, could not respond. Herr Leisecke, too, looked as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there were lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his pince-nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick white hand on either knee. And next to her was aunt Juley, so British, and wanting to tap.

How interesting that row of people was! What diverse influences had gone to the making! Here Beethoven after humming and hawing with great sweetness, said "Heigh-ho", and the Andante came to an end. Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and "prachtvolleying" from the German contingent. Margaret started talking to her new young man; Helen said to her aunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing"; and Tibby implored the company generally to look out for the transitional passage on the drum. "On the what, dear?" "On the drum, Aunt Juley." "No, look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right.

Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitional passage on the drum. For, as the things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, and then - he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demi-gods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars.

And the goblins - they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return - and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over and waste the steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible ominous note, and a goblin with increased malignity walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.

Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to the conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.

 

John Galsworthy (1867 - 1933)

THE MAN OF PROPERTY (1906)

Chapter V. A Forsyte Menage

The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth - a distinguishing elegance - and so far had not spoken a word. Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked Irene's silence did not distress him. This evening he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her.

His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had no business to make him feel like that - a wife and a husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her - yes, and with an ache in his heart - that she should sit there, looking - looking as if she saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table.

The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms - Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high frocks or with teagowns, when they dined at home. Under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made a strange contrast with her dark brown eyes. Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue among Forsytes, who, competitive and full of common sense, had no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very secrets of her heart.

Out of his property, out of all the things he had collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none. In this house of his there was writing on every wall. His business-like temperament protested against a mysterious warning that she was not made for him. He had married this woman, conquered her, made her his own, and it seemed to him contrary to the most fundamental of all laws, the law of possession, that he could do no more than own her body - if indeed he could do that, which he was beginning to doubt. If anyone had asked him if he wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him both ridiculous and sentimental. But he did so want, and the writing said he never would.

She was ever silent, passive, gracefully averse; as though terrified lest by word, motion, or sign she might lead him to believe that she was fond of him; and he asked himself: Must I always go on like this? Like most novel readers of his generation (and Soames was a great novel reader), literature coloured his view of life; and he had imbibed the belief that it was only a question of time. In the end the husband always gained the affection of his wife. 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.

He often took Irene to the theatre, instinctively choosing the modern Society plays with the modern Society conjugal problem, so fortunately different from any conjugal problem in real life. He found that they too always ended in the same way, even when there was a lover in the case. While he was watching the play Soames often sympathized with the lover; but before he reached home again, driving Irene in a hansom, he saw that this would not do, and he was glad the play ended as it had. There was one class of husband that had just then come into fashion, the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly successful at the end of the play; with this person Soames was really not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, would have expressed his disgust with the fellow. But he was so conscious of how vital to himself was the necessity for being a successful, even a "strong" husband, that he never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality in himself.

But Irene's silence this evening was exceptional. He had never before seen such an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual that alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. When she had left the room, he filled his glass with wine and said:

"Anybody been here this afternoon?" "June." "What did she want?"

It was an axiom with the Forsytes that people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. "Came to talk about her lover, I suppose?" Irene made no reply. "It looks to me", continued Soames, "as if she were sweeter on him than he is on her. She's always following him about." Irene's eyes made him feel uncomfortable. "You have no business to say such a thing!" she exclaimed.

"Why not? Anybody can see it." "They cannot. And if they could, it's disgraceful to say so." Soames' composure gave way. "You're a pretty wife!" he said. But secretly he wondered at the heat of her reply; it was unlike her. "You're cracked about June! I can tell you one thing: now that she has the Buccaneer in tow, she doesn't care twopence about you and you'll find it out. But you won't see so much of her in future; we're going to live in the country."

 

James Joyce (1882 - 1941)

ULYSSES (1922) chapter 2

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering green-goldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick.

Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap; bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary: and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniursia patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered: vainly then released, forth flowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing landward, a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit... God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

A seachange this brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Come, I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. No. My cockle hat and staff and his my sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it? Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. Gia.

 

 

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