Understanding the Selection. 1. What is the main subject of the above extract?
1. What is the main subject of the above extract?
2. Give a general definition of the text. What are its main characteristics? What features make it a sample of scientific prose?
3. What can you say about the vocabulary of the extract? Does it contain many terms? Are all of them easily translated into Russian? Pick out the most difficult ones and try to explain what they mean. Pick out the most generalized terms.
4. Find sentences containing passive constructions. Does the text abound in them? Is it typical of scientific style?
5. Trace the logical sequence of utterances in the selection.
6. What relations between different linguistic phenomena are disclosed in the text?
7. What is the aim of scientific prose and the aim of this selection in particular?
8. Give your summary of your comments on the extract.
PUSH ANTHOLOGY
PUSH presents the best young writers and artists in America. They are all teenagers, sharing their truths in powerful words and images. Their poems, stories, essays, and works of art give us the real world from different angles – the highs, the lows, and all the thoughts in between. Together they add up to a chorus of songs, shouts, and whispers. They are the voices of the present … and the voices of the future.
An essay given below is written by a winner of the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.
“I Knew a Boy” by Leah Christie
When I think of him I think of the scent of raspberries. And the moon. I think of the tide and trees in the dark. Jumping fence-post hurdles in the inky black of an almost winter night. I think of him driving in that comfortable silence as I watched cars go by on the expressway. And how he sensed my sadness and told me to smile. I think of him tying my shoelaces in knots and timing me as I tried, exasperated, to get them undone (four minutes). Him, tucked into the corner of my study, wrapped in a Mexican-print blanket, humming so that the walls vibrated. I think of Adia. I think of how shocked I was that the décor in our rooms matched, down to the flannel sheets. Birthday cards, meticulously chosen, and phone calls for no other reason than to say hello. I see him at my piano. I hear him singing. I smell him. I feel him breathing, the steady, slow rise and fall of his chest under my head. All the syllables. Dirty socks, thrown out my car window at one in the morning after a “study session”. I think of bowling. His impish grin and mischievous pranks. An “A”. Standing by himself, dressed in lacrosse gear, on the sidelines. There were movies and hugs and advice, cartoon characters and children. I think of him barefoot in the snow, hopping from foot to foot, threatening to wake up the neighborhood. Tousled hair, seeing whose could stand up straighter longer (mine). I think of late-night conversations, falling asleep on the phone as the sun rose. His music. His keys (or glasses or hat or shoes) taken off and put down somewhere where they were inevitably forgotten until it was time to go. Word games. Card games. I think of him in the backseat while I drove, asking me to tell him a secret. Throwing my gloves into the way back of my station wagon. Broken Volvo glove compartments. I think of him decoding dreams. Sandwiches and pizza, ice cream, Scrabble, and those little dice with letters on every side. Breaking things. I think of him dancing, laughing, making me laugh. Standing outside, dressed up, freezing, and eating Pez. He threw bits of candy during class. Inertia, zero seconds, and the annoying way he always got out of everything. I think of the comfort in being myself around him, his quirky, accepting disposition. Adjectives like aristocratic, snooty, and pretentious. Inside jokes. I think of him falling asleep or curling up under blankets. Whispering. I think of the last time he left my house, knowing he wouldn’t come back. Not allowing myself to watch him through the window as he strode down the walk. His shirts were always untucked.