We might tell a medium friend, for example, that yesterday we had a fight with our husband. And we might tell a pretty good friend that this fight made us so mad that we slept on the couch. And we might tell a very good friend that the reason we got so mad in that fight that we slept on the couch had something to do with that girl who works in his office.
Еще одной отличительной чертой эссе Джудит Вьорст является повтор первого абзаца в конце эссе. В повторной интерпретации исчезают некоторые детали и комментарии автора, но от этого сама идея эссе вырисовывается четче, чем она была обозначена в начале, как это и должно быть в заключительном абзаце:
The best of friends, I still believe, totally love and support and trust each other, and bare to each other the secrets of their souls, and run — no questions asked — to help each other, and tell harsh truths to each other when they must be told.
Для эссе Вильяма Бакли-младшего «Up from Misery» так же, как и для эссе других авторов, характерна инверсия, но ее тип несколько отличается от уже упомянутых (1). В манере Бакли — выносить в начало предложения обстоятельство времени или цели либо вообще дополнение, тем самым выделяя различные детали повествования.
But always — this fascinated him, as gradually he comprehended the totality of his servitude — he would, on turning the door handle, go back: for just one more.
Blackouts, he called the experiences.
Обратим внимание на то, как Бакли умело сочетает в одном предложении инверсию и параллельные конструкции с синонимичными глаголами, расположенными в порядке возрастания их воздействия на читателя — каждый из глаголов семантически более сильный, чем предыдущий:
But for the late afternoon martinis he thirsted, and he hungered, and he lusted.
Еще более удачным примером интенсифицирующего параллелизма является предложение с параллельными предикативами, описывающее радость главного героя эссе, сумевшего освободиться от алкогольной зависимости:
He was so excited, so pleased, so elated, he could not sleep until early morning for pleasure of re-experiencing life.
Итак, здесь перечислены основные формы эмфатических средств, характерных для стиля эссе. Интересно, что произведение каждого писателя отличается своими особенностями, своими «любимыми» эмфатическими конструкциями и элементами, но в целом для всех эссе характерен определенный набор эмфатических «штучек», делающих их такими живыми, убедительными, завораживающими при чтении. Поистине потрясающим по силе воздействия выглядит заключительный абзац эссе Джозефа Эпстейна «TheVirtues of Ambition», сочетающий в себе чередование хлестких по силе своих выводов простых предложений и долгих, рассудительных, детализирующих сложных предложений, несколько верениц параллельных конструкций, сеть антонимических противопоставлений, несколько разновидностей инверсии (2):
We do not choose to be born. We do not choose our parents. We do not choose our historical epoch, the country of our birth or the immediate circumstances of our upbringing. We do not, most of us, choose to die; nor do we choose the time or conditions of our death. But within all this realm of choicelessness, we do choose how we shall live: courageously or in cowardice, honorably or dishonorably, with purpose or in drift. We decide what is important and what is trivial in life. We decide that what makes us significant is either what we do or what we refuse to do. But no matter how indifferent the universe may be to our choices and decisions, these choices and decisions are ours to make. We decide. We choose. And as we decide and choose, so are our lives formed. In the end, forming our own destiny is what ambition is about.
1. Buckley, William E. Up to Misery / W. E. Buckley // Mind Speaks to Mind. Selected American Essay for Advanced Students of English as a Foreign language / United States Information Agency. — Washington : D. C., 1994. — P. 7—8.
2. Epstein, Joseph. The Virtues of Ambition / J. Epstein. Ibid. — P. 16—19.
3. Hoagland, Edward. On Essays / E. Hoagland. Ibid. — P. 26—27.
4. Thompson, W. Furness. Why Don’t Scientists Admit They’re Human? / W. F. Thompson. Ibid. — P. 35—37.
5. Viorst, Judith. Friends, Good Friends and Such Good Friends / J. Viorst. Ibid. — P. 73—76.
ЧАСТЬ ВТОРАЯ
1
An old man with steel-rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle-deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
«Where do you come from?», I asked him.
«From San Carlos», he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
«I was taking care of animals», he explained.
«Oh», I said, not quite understanding.
«Yes», he said, «I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos».
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel-rimmed spectacles and said, «What animals were they?»
«Various animals», he said, and shook his head. «I had to leave them».
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever-mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
«What animals were they?», I asked.
«There were three animals altogether», he explained. «There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons».
«And you had to leave them?», I asked.
«Yes. Because of the artillery, captain told me to go because of the artillery».
«And you have no family?», I asked watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.
«No», he said, «only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others».
«What politics have you?», I asked.
«I am without politics», he said. «I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further».
«This is not a good place to stop», said. « If you can make it, there trucks up the road where it forks Tortosa».
«I will wait a while», he said, «and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?»
«Towards Barcelona», I told him.
«I know no one in that direction», he said, «but thank you very much. Thank you again very much».
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, having to share worry with someone, «The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But others. Now what do you think about the others?»
«Why, they’ll probably come through it all right».
«You think so?»
«Why not?» I said, watching the bank where now there were no carts.
«But what will they do under artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?»
«Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?» I asked.
«Yes».
«Then they’ll fly».
«Yes, certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others», he said.
«If vou are rested I would go», I urged. « Get up and try to walk now». «Thank you», he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
«I was taking care of animals», he said dully, but no longer to me. «I was only taking care of animals». There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how took after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.
Exploring Ideas and Questions for Discussion
1. What is a symbol? What can be a symbol in a fictional text?
2. What are the characters of the story? What are two attitudes to war expressed in the story?
3. What does the image of the old man symbolize in the story? Prove your idea.
4. What other symbolic words can you find in the text of the story?
5. What stylistic devices does the author use to create symbols in the story?
This valley, he thought, all this country between the mountains is mine, home to me, the place I dream about, and everything is the same, not a thing is changed, water sprinklers still splash in circles over lawns of Bermuda grass, good old home town, simplicity, reality.
Walking along Alvin Street he felt glad to be home again. Everything was fine, common and good, the smell of earth, cooking suppers, smoke, the rich summer air of the valley full of plant growth, grapes growing, peaches ripening, and the oleander bush swooning with sweetness, the same as ever. He breathed deeply, drawing the smell of home deep into his lungs, smiling inwardly. It was hot. He hadn’t felt his senses reacting to the earth so cleanly and clearly for years; now it was a pleasure even to breathe. The cleanliness of the air sharpened the moment so that, walking, he felt the magnificence of being, glory of possessing substance, of having form and motion and intellect, the piety of merely being alive on the earth.
Water, he thought, hearing the soft splash of a lawn sprinkler; to taste the water of home, the full cool water of the valley, to have that simple thirst and that solid water with which to quench it, fulfillment, the clarity of life. He saw an old man holding a hose over some geranium plants, and his thirst sent him to the man.
«Good evening», he said quietly; «may I have a drink?»
The old man turned slowly, his shadow large against the house, to look into the young man’s face, amazed and pleased. «You bet», he said; «here», and he placed the hose into the young man’s hands. «Mighty fine water», said the old man, «this water of the San Joaquin1 valley; best yet, I guess. That water up in Frisco2 makes me sick; ain’t got no taste. And down in Los Angeles, why, the water tastes like castor oil; I can’t understand how so many people go on living there year after year».
While the old man talked, he listened to the water falling from the hose to the earth, leaping thickly, cleanly, sinking swiftly into the earth. «You said it», he said to the old man; «you said it; our water is the finest water on earth».
He curved his head over the spouting water and began to drink. The sweet rich taste of the water amazed him, and as he drank, he thought, God, this is splendid. He could feel the cool water splashing into his being, refreshing and cooling him. Losing his breath, he lifted his head, saying to the old man, «We’re mighty lucky, us folk in the valley».
He bent his head over the water again and began again to swallow the splashing liquid, laughing to himself with delight. It seemed as if he couldn’t get enough of it into his system; the more he drank, the finer the water tasted to him and the more he wanted to drink. The old man was amazed. «You drunk about two quarts», he said. Still swallowing the water, he could hear the old man talking, and he lifted his head again, replying, «I guess so. It sure tastes fine». He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, still holding the hose, still wanting to drink more. The whole valley was in that water, all the clarity, all the genuineness, all the goodness and simplicity and reality.
«Man alive», said the old man. «You sure was thirsty. How long since you had a drink, anyway?»
«Two years», he replied. «I mean two years since I had a drink of this water. I been away, traveling around. I just got back. I was born here, over on G Street in Russian town; you know, across the Southern Pacific3 tracks; been away two years and I just got back. Mighty fine too, let me tell you, to be back. I like this place. I’m going to get a job and settle down».
He hung his head over the water again and took several more swallows; then he handed the hose to the old man.
«You sure was thirsty», said the old man. «I ain’t never seen anybody anywhere drink so much water at one time. It sure looked good seeing you swallow all that water».
He went on walking down Alvin Street, humming to himself, the old man staring at him.
Nice to be back, the young man thought; greatest mistake I ever made, coming back this way.
Everything he had ever done had been a mistake, and this was one of the good mistakes. He had come south from San Francisco without even thinking of going home; he had thought of going as far south as Merced,4 stopping there awhile, and then going back, but once he had got into the country, it had been too much. It had been great fun standing on the highway in his city clothes, hitchhiking.
One little city after another, and here he was walking through the streets of his home town, at seven in the evening. It was great, very amusing; and the water, splendid.
He wasn’t far from town, the city itself, and he could see one or two of the taller buildings, the Pacific Gas & Electric Building, all lit up with colored lights, and another, a taller one, that he hadn’t seen before. That’s a new one, he thought; they put up that one while I was away; things must be booming.
He turned down Fulton Street and began walking into town. It looked great from where he was, far away and nice and small, very genuine, a real quiet little town, the kind of place to live in, settle down in, marry in, have a home, kids, a job, and all the rest of it. It was all he wanted. The air of the valley and the water and the reality of the whole place, the cleanliness of life in the valley, the simplicity of the people.
In the city everything was the same; the names of the stores, the people walking in the streets, and the slow passing of automobiles; boys in cars walking to pick up girls; same as ever, not a thing changed. He saw faces he had known as a boy, people he did not know by name, and then he saw Pony Rocca, his old pal, walking up the street toward him, and he saw that Tony recognized him. He stopped walking, waiting for Tony to come into his presence. It was like a meeting in a dream, strange, almost incredible. He had dreamed of the two of them playing hooky from school to go swimming, to go out to the county fair, to sneak into a moving-picture theater; and now here he was again, a big fellow with a lazy, easy-going walk, and a genial Italian grin. It was good, and he was glad he had made the mistake and come back.