English stylistics: fundamentals of theory and practice | Victoria Zhukovska - guiadeayuntamientos.info
There were thousands of Sissy Millers – drab little women in black carrying He met her eyes with a furtive, haggard look; his eyes were as if glazed with I was in an outhouse; a shed, an old garage maybe, not a stable, no stable smell. That lady from Meet the Millers plays Walter's sister; a lady who seems to be really into theatre and excited about . He looked distraught and haggard. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to the garage to have the chains taken off. during the war, back in the early 40's, I used to meet a not-too- pleasant individual under . bronchogenic carcinoma has been reported in miners, millers , and protecting for eight hours a day goes home and in her garage she refinishes Haggard, H. W. (a), The absorption, distribution, and elimina- tion of ethyl.
Outside, too, they are almost unrecognisable, with their freshly pointed brickwork, their oak front doors, their wrought-iron knockers, and the neat posts and chains which have taken the place of the faded wooden palings. One of them has a board up saying "Disposed Of," and a newly married couple comes and moons about in it every day with foot-rules and patterns of cretonne. The young man is exquisitely clean and pink, and wears a rather tight jacket and a very blue shirt; the girl has blonde elaborate hair escaping from beneath a carefully Bohemian hat: This morning we stood at our drawing-room window watching the last of the old families moving out of Pump Lane.
It was the Jackmans—father, mother, Gladys, Ellen and Mick-ay. Gladys and Ellen were two of our keenest yodellers. Still, it held the Jackmans' belongings all right: But at the last moment came the familiar screech of "Mick-ay! Jackman was forced to rush back to collect her youngest, who had had an eleventh-hour urge to take one of the old palings with him for a gun. Yelling lustily but still clutching his gun, he was dragged along in the wake of the retreating van. Water laid on, and gas.
FEATHER BROOMS IT was obvious, from the moment when he shuffled round the corner into the square, that he would leave it without having sold a single broom; and I felt as I watched him from my window that sinking of the heart, that small embarrassed misery, which you feel when you see a grown-up about to play a practical joke on a child, or when there is a little man at a party whose card tricks do not quite come off.
He evidently had not the faintest idea of how to sell feather brooms, or anything else. Salesmanship, that widely studied art, was a closed book to him, and he did not even seem to have common-sense to fall back upon. For one thing, he made no noise. The people who come to sell things in the square are divided into three classes: The first class sell, roughly speaking, logs, muffins and strawberries; the second, bootlaces, buttons, hairy writing-pads and hand-made lace of distressing design; the third, water-softeners and labour-saving appliances.
Class I are legitimate and useful traders, who make no demands upon your time or your emotions; either you want logs, in which case you shout "Hi!
Class II are more difficult to deal with, because they hit you below the belt; somehow you never seem to have just run out of hand-made lace, and you generally salve your conscience by parting with your favourite pair of old shoes, which you would have gone on wearing for years, for the benefit of their youngest daughter, who happens they say, after a rapid and expert glance at your own feet to take size three-and-a-half.
Class III are emissaries of the Tempter, wasters of time and wreckers of content. The only way to get rid of them is to keep a permanent case of scarlet fever in the house—and even then some of them have had it. But the old man with the feather brooms did not fit into any of these categories.
He did not shout "Fine broom-O! He did not ring at a single bell, or even clamber down the steep area steps to tap at kitchen windows. He just pottered very slowly round the square, pausing uncertainly every few yards and gazing up at each house in turn, as though by the mere power of thought he could induce the occupants to become broom-conscious. But his will-power was evidently as weak and bleary as his eyes; too weak, at any rate, to pierce the well-knit brickwork, the prim, trim stucco of Sycamore Square: Occasionally a lady of the house would shut her front door behind her, pause a moment on the step to draw on her gloves and taste the fresh morning air, and then, with delicate leisured assurance, walk away up the square to do her morning's shopping in the King's Road.
With unfailing regularity the old man missed his chance. All he did was to stand there as dumb as a lamp-post, making a small ineffective gesture with his unwieldy handful of brooms. It was not surprising that the lady of the house either walked on without noticing him or else drew perceptibly aside. And when she had gone past he would blink resignedly and move on a few steps further to stare at the next house. My mind was exasperated and my heart wrung.
I put down my pen and marched out into the square. There was, I felt, nothing in life I wanted less at that moment than a new feather broom. Still, they could not cost more than a shilling, and that seemed a small price to pay for an eased conscience.
His face lit up hopefully as he shambled towards me. Instead, he gave an almost inaudible sigh, picked up his brooms and began to move away. Against such humility—or was it, after all, such pride? I always makes 'em to last. Somehow this, his only attempt at deliberate pathos, was the most heart-rending thing of all.
That he should be so pitiful an object was bad enough: I said good-bye rather curtly and went indoors. But he kept coming between me and my thoughts, and after a few minutes I had to go to the window and look at him again. By this time he had reached the Barringtons' house, three doors away.
The Barrington pram, as usual, was strapped to the area railings, and the Barrington baby was having its morning yell. Barrington is one of those modern young mothers who hold that the time-honoured practice of pram-jiggling is bad for a baby's nerves. Grown-ups, it appears, have none. So Edward Barrington goes purple in the face from ten-thirty to ten-forty-five every morning, and if we don't like it we can always shut our windows.
The old man with the brooms was standing by the pram looking down at the baby's contorted face and whirling fists. The old man, who had never heard of modern mother-craft, glanced inquiringly at the front door, but nobody came. So he took out one of his brooms and tickled the baby's face with it. The effect was magical. The yelling stopped at once; it was followed by a few hysterical hiccups and then by an unmistakable crow. Two starfish hands and two woollen-booted feet shot simultaneously into the air towards the soft waving feathers.
Again he tickled it; again it crowed with delight. But at this moment the Barrington front door opened and the Barrington Nannie appeared—puzzled, no doubt, by the untimely cessation of the morning yell. I've a good mind to send for the police. His one success over, the old man shouldered his brooms again and trailed away up the square.
His broken boots moved over the flagstones like two misshapen toads. Asked why he had done this, the man replied 'Just for fun. But to me, at any rate, it has a noble significance. It is a symbol of the age-long antagonism between the large and the small.
In the old days, when might was right and when size and strength meant bread, money and acres, the small man feared the large man and tried to destroy him. Hence Hop-o'-my-thumb, hence David, hence Jack the Giant-killer. But nowadays, when bulk is not only useless, but, in a world of flats and buses, inconvenient, the small man no longer wants to kill the large one, because the latter no longer represents a physical danger.
He remains, however, a social and psychological menace; for mere size still has a certain spurious publicity value, a base hold over the enfeebled imaginations of the crowd.
We're the Millers () - Laura-Leigh Claire as Kymberly - IMDb
A fine figure of a man So run the admiring whispers, thither turn the adoring eyes of Her whose favours you yourself are seeking; past he strides in his immense tweeds, or saunters in his vast immaculate flannels, that godlike nitwit, that six-foot-three of curly-headed inanity: There are no prizes for neatness, no tokens of gratitude for taking up less room on an overcrowded planet. The most you can hope for is pity, or an amused and tolerant friendship: You, as the small man, have the choice of weapons: The first is easy but dangerous: If you get the better of the large man in business, they will suspect you of being a bit of a cad; if you outshine him in conversation they will label you an insufferable highbrow, while he himself will take refuge in a bluff and engaging Philistinism.
The small man, therefore, must fall back on his only infallible weapon—ridicule. If he can make the large man look silly he has gone a long way towards making him, as the saying is, look small.
For although people in general, and women in particular, find stupidity tolerable or even charming, they will not easily forgive mere silliness. And they will forgive it still less in a large man than in a small one; perhaps they have an illogical feeling that the former is the further removed of the two from the status of childhood as he is from its stature, and that therefore he has less excuse for looking undignified.
Be that as it may, when a small man slips on a banana-skin, or falls over a rug, or runs after his own hat, or sits down where there isn't a chair, the incident strikes people as laughable but not incongruous; they think no less of him for it—though that may be partly because they thought so little of him before.
But when a large man does any of these things the laughter of the world has a crueller ring; his own magnificence is the measure of his own defeat; the greater the bulk, it seems, the greater the bathos. And though it is not always easy to arrange deliberately for any of these accidents, on the material plane, to befall your hulking rival at the right moment, there are many spiritual banana-skins towards which, in Her presence, you can adroitly lead him.
That is why—for I am no great height myself—I feel such an overwhelming rush of sympathy towards the man who did this admirably symbolic deed; the man who, with a single sharp movement of the hand, expressed the feelings of all the small ones of the world towards all the large ones. There were many other less direct and less personal ways in which he might have done it.
He might, for instance, have gone to the Zoo with a peashooter in his pocket and spent the morning making some of the larger mammalia jump; he might have gone stealthily by night to Parliament Square and balanced a paper hat or something better upon the head of each of those more-than-life-size statesmen; he might have contented himself with taking a running kick at the Albert Hall.
But he did none of these things. With the simple directness of pure genius he just made a bee-line for the largest man he knew of, and slapped him. Slapped him, you notice, not hit him. To hit a giant, especially when he happens to be a boxer and therefore accustomed to being hit, is simply to make yourself, and not him, ridiculous; but to slap a giant boxer—that is sublime.
And to say, when questioned, that you did it "just for fun"—that is sublimer still; that is the ultimate snook which David, in these bloodless days, can cock at Goliath. You should be grateful, you tweed-clad Apollo, to the man who slapped Carnera.
For his one inimitable gesture has taken all the itch out of my own fingers; I feel vindicated, satisfied, assuaged. I will not as I had planned tweak away that shooting-stick from under your vast person just as you are going to sit down, in order that She may see you looking silly. No, I will be magnanimous: I wish her joy of you. The first is to choose something you think they would like; the second, something you would like yourself; the third, something you think they ought to have.
Of these methods the first is the wisest but the least common; the second is less wise but more usually followed; while the third is wholly unforgivable and accounts for much of the post-Christmas bitterness from which we are apt to suffer. My great-aunt Hildegarde is an almost fanatical devotee of the third method. Many people would call her an ideal aunt; that is to say, she gives us presents not only at Christmas but for each of our birthdays and often in between times as well.
But her gifts have, so to speak, a sting in the tail; they represent her unspoken criticisms on our habits, customs and whole mode of living. Whenever we see her firm capable handwriting on a parcel, or a box arrives from a shop with one of her cards enclosed, we pause before unpacking it any further, sit back on our haunches and wonder what we've done wrong now. The menu-card was propped up against the candlestick, and she said how awkward it was the way it kept slipping down.
Once she came to tea with me on a pouring wet day and found nowhere to park her umbrella. The next day a large tubular object arrived. It had vaguely military associations, but it had been so converted and distorted that it was difficult to tell whether it had originally been a large German shell or part of a small field-gun used in the Russo-Japanese War.
A third possibility is that it was once a moth-proof travelling container for a Balkan field-marshal's top-boots. At any rate, it takes up a great deal of room in the hall. And another time, I remember, she wanted to write a note at my desk and was scandalised because there was no proper pen and ink—although, as I explained, I had three fountain-pens, any of which I was willing to lend her.
Four days elapsed and I began to breathe more freely. But on the fifth there came a small square parcel containing a silver-mounted ink-pot with my initials irrevocably engraved upon it which accounted, no doubt, for the delay. Like the umbrella stand, it was a convert; but in this case there was no difficulty in guessing its original function.
To make matters quite clear, Aunt Hildegarde had attached a note saying: This is the very hoof which she used to lift so prettily to shake hands. May it bring you lots of inspiration for your little poems!! I do not wish to look a gift-hoof in the mouth or to seem in any way ungrateful, but the thing is getting on our nerves. Not only are we developing an inferiority complex about our own home but we are becoming self-conscious about entertaining Aunt Hildegarde.
We dare not give her grapes, lest she should think that we are hinting at grape-scissors; nor lobster, for fear of invoking a set of silver-plated picks. But however careful we are we cannot think of everything. We did not, for instance, foresee that she would give us an electric clock for Christmas. It is true that when she came to stay with us a month ago our drawing-room clock was not behaving quite as a good clock should.
One day it was a few minutes slow and she missed the weather forecast on the wireless. And another day it ran down altogether and made her late for church. At least, it looks like maple, but it is actually so the accompanying leaflet informs us made of steel, which can neither shrink nor warp, neither rust nor tarnish.
It runs off the electric mains; it needs no winding; it is guaranteed to keep absolutely perfect time; and ever since it came into the house we have felt acutely ill at ease. Our old happy-go-lucky days are over. No more can we think comfortingly as we start out rather late for a dinner-party: Gone too are sundry minor pleasures, such as listening for the radio Time Signal and leaping up to make a half-minute adjustment; and, better still, squandering pennies in a lordly way by dialling T.
And gone—worst of all—is the small friendly sound which used to accompany our thoughts, the balanced alternation of tick and tock, like the footsteps of a little dog walking very quickly beside you on the pavement. Time now proceeds for us in a series of hard metallic clicks, one every minute, each identical with the last: For fifty-nine seconds it stands still; we escape it; we are immortal; and then with a sudden deft leap it catches us up again.
Better never to escape; better to have our little trotting dog. But there is nothing to be done about it. If we did not use the clock, or if we banished it to the dining-room, Aunt Hildegarde would not only think us both mad and decadent—for what sane responsible citizen would not jump at the opportunity of being always certain of the time?
It was touching to see her when she came to tea yesterday, gazing up with reverent eyes at the angular, impersonal, implacable monster on the mantelpiece. Even in our nursery days we perceived that it was a very ticklish affair. There were no proper rules, only a few loose and ambiguous axioms which always seemed to work in the other person's favour. If you went to tea with Marmaduke, you were not allowed to take things away from him because, after all, they were his toys; but if Marmaduke came to tea with you, you had to give him everything he wanted because he was the visitor.
As Marmaduke's nurse was busy instilling the same principles into him, the visit was pretty well bound to end in either a fiasco or a free fight. Also it gave you such a scunner of the whole affair that you never again felt quite the same about Marmaduke. As a matter of fact, you never do feel quite the same about anybody who has been either your host or your guest; you know too much about him, about his personal fads, his pet economies, and his methods of treating soap.
The ideal relationship, undoubtedly, is that of guest and fellow-guest. Between two people staying in the same house there may spring up the most delightful of friendships. They can bask in the same luxuries or groan beneath the same discomforts unembarrassed by either a sense of gratitude in the one case or a sense of grievance in the other. Each can present to the other whatever side of his character he chooses, since he is not hampered by the presence of those two great give-aways, his own house or his own relations.
Moreover, when the two of them have reached a certain degree of intimacy they can slope off together, on the time-honoured pretext of buying stamps, and have a good old gossip about their host and hostess, than which there is no more satisfying conversation in the world. A fellow-guest, then, is the best thing to be.
But fellow-guests cannot exist without a host—until someone has the good sense to invite to his house a collection of carefully chosen people, plan out for them a series of exquisite meals and congenial pastimes, and then go away himself for the weekend, which I have always thought would be the ideal house-party from everybody's point of view.
Let us, therefore, tackle the problem as it stands and do what we can to make the host-guest relationship a less troublesome one. To my mind the chief trouble lies in the falseness of popular ideas on the subject.
It is conventionally assumed that all the kindness is on the host's side, and that all the gratitude ought to be on the guest's; that the host is conferring a great favour, and the guest receiving an unmixed boon. The outward symbol of this convention can be seen in the fawning and servile tone adopted by the ex-guest when composing his bread-and-butter letter.
And, sincere as they often are, did they not arouse in you, the ex-guest, a faint sense of injustice, and in you, the ex-host, a half-conscious feeling of shame? For consider what actually happens. The host, or more probably the hostess since nature has decreed that for what men suffer by having to shave, be killed in battle, and eat the legs of chickens, women make amends by housekeeping, childbirth, and writing all the letters for both of them —the hostess, I say, is the person who suggests the visit in the first place.
She begs, she implores you to come and stay. And "So hoping you are not already booked up for that week-end—I know how sought-after you are! But as soon as you accept you find yourself de-rated. The beautiful maiden becomes merely another superfluous woman who has been lucky enough to get off.
From now on, until the moment when you take the pen between your teeth to compose your Collins, you are popularly supposed to be the beneficiary, your hostess the benefactor. The facts, as a brief audit will show, are otherwise. You, it is true, have saved the price of a few days' food, but that is more than swallowed up by your railway fare and your tips.
You are the richer by a few days and nights of country air, which, if it happens to be a part of the country that suits you, is a distinct asset; but against that you must set the agonising discomfort of midge-bites in summer and arctic bedrooms in winter. All very well to talk about roaring fires, but I have yet to meet the house where the fires are lit in time for you to get up in the morning. You have voluntarily undertaken, for friendship's sake, the two most disagreeable tasks in the world—packing and unpacking.
You have had, certainly, the pleasure of talking to your host and hostess again; but you have also had to talk to their neighbours—or, more likely, to listen to them talking to each other about people you do not know. And for all this, if you please, you, and you only, are expected to write an effusive letter of gratitude: That is the gnawing canker at the heart of the house-party system.
If public opinion will not agree that the boot should be on the other leg, let it at least admit that there ought to be one on each; and let us introduce the pretty custom of Snillocs, or reversed Collinses, to be written by the grateful hostess to the departed guest. And it is, of course, from the guest's point of view that I am mainly qualified to speak; though probably, if my ex-hostesses read this, for the last time.
I went there by myself: So I set out for Paradise to make my investigations. When I say that I went alone it is not strictly true, for I took Lady Lilian with me, wrapped up in tissue paper to protect her waxen nose; it seemed a pity for it to get damaged when I had somehow kept it intact for thirty years.
There is one great difference between the Modern Girl and the Modern Doll: That is why he often writes such nonsense.
Laura-Leigh Claire: Kymberly
But with the Modem Doll it is easy: That is, if you have been careful enough or lucky enough to preserve one. Lady Lilian was given to me for Christmas when I was six years old. I christened her—with real water, which disfigured her wax forehead a little, but it didn't show if you pulled her hair well forward—I christened her Lady Lilian because she was so like the heroine of that name in a novelette which my nurse was reading at the time and which I used to dip into whenever I was left alone.
She—Lady Lilian—had to have a new head a few months later owing to a brush with my brother, and a new body the following spring owing to my stabbing her too realistically with a paper-knife when she was the villainess in a play: Anyway, I took her. The lift shot us up and shot us out. There flashed across my mind's eye a kaleidoscopic vision of the plaited shiny paper mats, the gilt cardboard hair-tidies, which my own mother was so often forced to accept from me thirty years ago.
And so we came to the section labelled "Dolls and Cuddly Toys. Gollywogs were just going out, Teddy Bears just coming in; we had some stuffed animals, certainly, but they were hard, unbreakable creatures, modelled to scale and covered with real skin; the era of dyed plush and mass production was not yet at hand.
In those days dolls were still the thing. Nowadays the pendulum has swung back, and dolls are again the thing. Nevertheless, Cuddly Toys have clearly come to stay; and here I found myself faced with a difficulty—should they be included in my treatise? It is true that they have certain doll-like qualities; you can take them to bed with you, or out in your pram; they can even be made to sit up and fill a gap at a dolls' tea-party, though I for one do not care to see performing animals: So I resisted the temptation to linger among the acres of sky-blue bears, the waves of apple-green monkeys, the banks of rose-pink elephants which lay on either side of me, and found myself at last among the dolls proper.
I unwrapped Lady Lilian. If I did not know for a fact that she has no blinking apparatus, I could swear that she blinked at the sudden light. At any rate, she sat bolt upright in my arms, staring disdainfully at the younger generation, while the younger generation stared back at her with a thousand tiny faces. As I watched the comedy I felt that my treatise on the Modem Doll was as good as written. Comparisons and generalisations, couched in the best journalese, came thronging into my head.
Gone are the unhealthy pallor of wax and the consumptive flush of painted china: Gone are the unbelievably flaxen ringlets: Gone are the impossibly enormous eyes, the improbably tiny mouth, the expression at once simpering and supercilious: She is hardier, too, than her predecessors: Eager to get home and begin on it, I turned round rather too quickly and collided with a rocking-horse which two workmen were carrying past. Alas for Lady Lilian! Like her namesake in the novelette, she fell to the floor a lifeless wreck.
Her haughty stare and her aristocratic nose tumbled in one direction; her pointed chin and her tiny petulant mouth in another. I gathered up the pieces in my handbag and went home with a heavy heart. My treatise on the Modern Doll will never be written now: She had taken the cartridges out of her gun and was lying on her back among the reeds, looking up at the sky and stretching out her arms and legs in a straight line until she measured, as M.
All around us lay the Vardar marshes, about a quarter of a million acres of them; beyond, on three sides, a jagged white frieze of mountains; to the south, the shimmering distant blue of the Gulf of Salonika; and away to the south-west, dominating everything, Mount Olympus. It is a very subtle domination, more psychological than physical. Most mountains tower over you in an understandable way, rising solid and dark from the earth itself, visible, palpable giants.
But Olympus is different: Its power lies in its very unreality, like the power of a dream. There had been five of us when we had started out from Salonika in the morning—our four selves and P.
But no sooner had the toy train deposited us at a toy station labelled "Adendron" and trundled away over the marshes than we began to collect followers.
The first ones were two charming dogs, who came bounding up from behind a hut and refused to leave us. They were not ordinary village mongrels, but enormous fluffy year-old creatures like a cross between sheep-dogs and golden retrievers. They were an abominable nuisance all day, putting up birds far out of shot, chasing the grey woolly cattle all over the marsh, falling into rivers and failing to retrieve anything except one drowned rat.
It turned out afterwards that they were English-speaking dogs belonging to a Scotsman on the Settlement Commission who was quartered in the village. The village, by the way, used under the Turkish rule to be called "Kirjilar. They sent an indignant protest to the Government, saying, "But we have got some trees! At least, that was P. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "You are in Macedonia. They are not sure which. We, with our strait-laced British attitude towards law and order, were appalled at this suggestion; we saw ourselves being held responsible to the League of Nations for facilitating an international outrage which might easily prove to be the Sarajevo of the next world war.
They were even more of a nuisance than the dogs, though fully as charming. They burst into excited chattering when geese were just coming over; they tramped noisily along the narrow mud paths until the whole reed-bed shook and clattered; they wasted a great deal of Government ammunition in shooting, or rather shooting at, bustards; finally, they risked their lives and lacerated our nerves by wobbling out in a leaky punt on to the brown icy racing flood-waters of the Vardar to retrieve an unimportant bird which had dropped in mid-stream.
Oh God, what's the Greek for a coot? We ate bread and cheese and ham and raisins and pieces of chicken and bananas and apples and chocolate and more bread and more cheese. I am not used to drinking Greek wine at picnics; moreover, walking in the sun had made me thirsty. So after luncheon the day seemed to me even more magic than it had before. It was about as hot as August sometimes is in the Highlands, although there was a little glittering ring of ice round the stem of every reed where the receding floods had left it.
The soldiers after squabbling so violently over the ownership of the small bedraggled coot that the punt nearly capsized had come back from their voyage; one of them was finishing the dregs of P.
He finally gets the courage to do so but is thwarted by some sort of technical error on his computer-cue sad face. The next scene shows him at the train stop or is it a light rail? In the middle of this conversation is when we are introduced to one of the most enthralling parts of this film; the daydreaming sequences.
The first one,the one at the station, shows Walter jumping through the 3rd story window of a building that is about to explode and rescuing a three-legged puppy while also assembling some sort of prosthesis for the aforementioned canine. As a matter of fact these daydreaming sequences broke up what could have been a long and somewhat slow paced movie into manageable chunks of meaningful and ofttimes genuinely funny comedy.
The fact that Ben Stiller has the talent to direct scenes like that is shocking. The company is in the process of transitioning to new management and is on its way to becoming an online only magazine. Adam Scott is part of the company that is taking over Life and his job is to help make the transition smoother. Kristen Wiig is a new employee at Life and knows her job is in peril because of it. Sean Penn plays a photographer and is the person that Walter is trying to find throughout most of the film.