Novel 3 Jos, The Boys From Brazil

1. Beschrijvingsopdracht

1.1 Complete titelbeschrijving
Ira Levin, The Boys from Brazil. London 1976, Dell publishing CO.

1.2 Motivatie boekkeuze
We kregen de opdracht om voor Engels een boek te lezen en daarom vroeg ik aan m’n moeder of ze aanraders had. Ze kwam met twee boeken waarvan er een The Boys From Brazil was. Ze zei dat ik dat boek wel goed zou kunnen beschrijven en dat het niet een heel moeilijk verhaal was. Vandaar dat ik voor dit boek gekozen heb.

1.3 Korte weergave inhoud
Josef Mengele organiseert een ontmoeting tussen 6 voormalige SS’ers en vertelt hen dat ze 94 al bekende mannen moeten vermoorden op bepaalde data. Het gesprek wordt echter afgeluisterd en Liebermann krijgt informatie over de moorden van de 65 jaar oude mannen. Hij weet niet waarom Mengele de mannen wil vermoorden, en bezoekt daarom mevrouw Döring, de weduwe van één van de vermoorde mannen. Zij kan hem ook niet verder helpen. In Amerika gaat Liebermann naar een andere weduwe en is geschokt over de gelijkenis tussen de beide zonen van de vrouwen. Het geeft hem een idee want hij herinnert zich dat Mengele in Auschwitz vaak experimenten deed met tweelingen. Liebermann ontdekt dat de jongen geadopteerd is via een bureau waar Frieda Malony, een ex-SS’er werkte. Dertien jaar geleden regelde ze adopties van baby’s voor gezinnen waar de vrouw 13 jaar jonger was dan de man.
De baas van Mengele laat hem weten de moorden moeten stoppen omdat Liebermann er anders achter komt. In Wenen legt een professor aan Liebermann uit dat Mengele er waarschijnlijk in geslaagd is om Hitlers te klonen. Om deze ‘succesvol’ te laten zijn moeten ze in dezelfde psychische, emotionele en sociale omstandigheden opgroeien als Hitler, inclusief de dood van hun vader.
In Amerika zoekt Liebermann contact met de YJD, the Young Jewish Defenders, geleid door rabbi Gorin. Ze bieden hun hulp aan om Mengele te pakken. Mengele weet hiervan en lokt Liebermann in een val. Bij het huis van Wheelock, één van de mannen die op de lijst staat vermoord te worden, houdt Mengele Liebermann onder schot en verteld over de plannen voor het vierde rijk. Als Liebermann probeert te ontsnappen, schiet Mengele hem neer. Dan komt de zoon van Wheelock binnen, een Hitler kloon, en stuurt zijn waakhonden af op Mengele, die doodgebeten wordt.
Als Liebermann wordt ontslagen uit het ziekenhuis, krijgt hij ruzie met Gorin over het al dan niet van vermoorden van de klonen. Gorin wil dat ze vermoord worden, maar Liebermann wil niet dat ze zich verlagen tot het niveau van Mengele. Ze komen er niet uit, maar Liebermann spoelt de lijst door het toilet.
In het laatste hoofdstuk tekent een Hitler in wording een groot publiek dat naar hem als leider juicht.

2. Verdiepingsopdracht
Beste Herr Liebermann,

Ik schrijf deze brief naar aanleiding van uw handelen. Ik vind namelijk dat u in de meeste situaties uitstekend handeld. Ik bewonder u om het feit dat u aan een gevaarlijke missie bent begonnen, waarbij uw leven niet altijd even veilig is. Dit vind ik erg dapper en heldhaftig van u. Ik snap uw handelen ook wel omdat u natuurlijk veel heeft meegemaakt in de tweede wereldsoorlog als Joodse man. Ook andere mensen die zich voor uw belang hard maken zijn dapper maar vooral u, omdat Mengele vooral achter u aanzit. Maar ook u hebt uw zwakkere momenten. Ik had er voor gekozen om de kinderen ook te vermoorden, want het zit er toch dik in dat er een jongen bij zit die wel hetzelfde gaat doen als Hitler. U kan dan ook wel zeggen dat jullie je niet moeten verlagen tot het niveau van Mengele, maar op dit moment is dat wel het beste, het kan helaas niet anders. Wel vind ik weer dat u het meer dan goed heeft gedaan met het tegenhouden van Mengele.
Mocht er nog iets gebeuren met de jongens wil ik u veel succes wensen met het volgende avontuur

Hoogachtend,

Jos Heijhuurs

3. Evaluatie
Ik vind dit een bijzonder spannend boek, waarin erg veel gebeurd en dus nooit saai is om te lezen. De schrijver heeft erg veel fantasie, want het is natuurlijk iets dat niet kan, het 94 keer klonen van een persoon. Maar wel is het heel interessant omdat het in de toekomst waarschijnlijk wel gaat kunnen. Ik raad dan ook iedereen aan, behalve mensen die niet van spannende boeken houden, maar van saaie boeken, om Thee Boys From Brazil te gaan lezen. Ik vond dit een fijne verdiepingsopdracht. Minder moeilijk dan andere verdiepingsopdrachten. Want soms moet je de thematiek zien te ontdekken bij zo’n verdiepingsopdracht en dat kan nogal lastig zijn, maar bij deze verdiepingsopdracht hoefde dat gelukkig niet.
Ik vond deze verdiepingsopdracht niet moeilijk, verwarrend of onduidelijk.

Novel 3 Thomas, The Collector

The Collector

by John Fowles

1. Beschrijvingsopdracht
a) John Fowles, The Collector. London 1963 (1ste druk)

b) In de klas hebben we het over het boekverslag gehad, daarbij ging het ook over de boeken die je kon gaan lezen. De juffrouw wist een aantal titels te noemen en daar een kleine impressie over te vertellen. The Collector leek me toen wel een goed boek om te lezen.

c) Op jonge leeftijd is Frederick Clegg al ouderloos. Zijn vader sterft als hij twee is en zijn moeder laat hem achter. Daarom woont hij bij zijn oom Dick en tante Annie. Frederick verzamelt al zijn hele leven vlinders. Dit is zijn enige passie. Op een gegeven moment wint hij de pools en krijgt 72000 pond, maar hij ontdekt dat geld helemaal niet zijn levensdoel is.
Hij raakt helemaal in de ban van een meisje dat hij helemaal niet kent, Miranda. Hij is zo verliefd op haar, dat hij plannen maakt om haar te ontvoeren en vast te houden. Na een maandenlange voorbereiding ontvoert hij haar in zijn busje en neemt haar mee naar zijn afgelegen huis in Sussex. Daar sluit hij haar op in de kelder, die hij helemaal netjes voor haar heeft ingericht.
Hun ontmoeting verloopt stroef. Het enige wat Miranda van Frederick wil, is dat hij haar vrijlaat. Frederick probeert haar zo goed mogelijk te behandelen en koopt alles wat ze wil, in de hoop dat ze verliefd wordt op hem. Ze laat zich af en toe fotograferen en maakt dan tekeningen van Frederick. Miranda probeert meerdere malen te ontsnappen: door hard weg te rennen, te vluchten bij het baden, Frederick tegen de deur te duwen, een tunnel naar buiten te graven, te doen of ze ziek is en op een gegeven moment probeert ze hem zelfs te vermoorden. Als laatste poging probeert Miranda Frederick te verleiden, maar dit mislukt ook. Frederick vindt haar dan minder fantastisch dan eerst. Op een gegeven moment wordt Miranda echt ziek, maar Frederick wil er geen dokter bij halen.
In het tweede deel volg je het verhaal uit het oogpunt van Miranda. Je leest dan haar dagboek. Het verhaal begint dan weer opnieuw. Je komt erachter dat ze Frederick maar een monster vindt en ze noemt hem dan ook na een tijdje Caliban, naar een halfmenselijke slaaf uit een verhaal van Shakespeare. Voornamelijk schrijft ze over haar confrontaties met Frederick. Ze schrijft over haar familie en haar relatie met hen. Ook schrijft ze over een man, G.P., die ze vroeger nooit zag staan, maar waar ze eigenlijk verliefd op is. Ze omschrijft haar ontmoetingen met hem en wat ze van hem vindt. Het is een beetje ironisch, want je leest hoe wanhopig ze wil ontsnappen, terwijl je weet dat het niet zal lukken. Op het eind staan allemaal half afgeschreven brieven, omdat ze zo ziek is.
Deel drie beschrijft de dood van Miranda en Frederick’s reactie daarop. Eerst wil hij zich van kant maken en een brief aan de politie schrijven, maar dan vindt hij Miranda’s dagboek en komt erachter hoe ze echt is.
In deel vier lees je dat Frederick zich alweer klaar maakt voor zijn volgende “gast”,
Marian.

2. Verdiepingsopdracht
30 oktober 2007
Frederick,
Ik moet het toch even hebben over jouw activiteiten van de laatste tijd. Ik moet zeggen dat het me toch wel een beetje geschokt heeft, niet zozeer alleen het ontvoeren en opsluiten maar ook de sociale stoornis die je hebt. Het ontvoeren is echt geen goede zaak, op die manier ontneem je haar een van haar twee eerste levensrechten, haar vrijheid. Iemand zou moeten kunnen gaan of staan, waar hij of zij dat zou willen. Maar doordat jij Miranda hebt opgesloten in een klein, stoffig kamertje, kan ze niets meer wat ze zelf graag wil doen. Je hebt haar opgesloten als een gevangene en dat is een zeer ernstige zaak! Het toppunt is dan zelfs nog niet eens bereikt. Je hebt haar gewoon dood laten gaan zonder dat je er een dokter of iets bij hebt gehaald. Als je echt van haar had gehouden dan had je wel beter geweten. Dan had je haar in de eerste plaats niet ontvoerd en had je haar al helemaal niet dood laten gaan. Hield je eigenlijk wel van haar? Zoiets onmenselijks doe je toch niet!
Ook je mentale gesteldheid baart me verschrikkelijke zorgen. Als je zo diep kan zinken en niemand meer aardig kan vinden dan kun je jezelf gewoon niet plaatsen in de maatschappij. Heb je voeger geen vrienden gehad? Het is niet goed om je af te zonderen van alles en iedereen, vrienden heb je nodig. Steun, troost en gezelligheid kunnen zij je allemaal bieden. Maar als je jezelf niet open stelt voor anderen dan wil ook niemand contact met je zoeken. Wees vrolijk, doe gezellig en begeef je onder de mensen.
Ik wens je veel sterkte met je miezerige leven.

Groeten,

Thomas

3. Evaluatie

a) Ik vond het boek erg aangrijpend om te lezen. Dit kwam mede door de situatie die beschreven wordt maar ook door de gestoordheid van de hoofdpersoon. Ik kan het gewoon niet begrijpen hoe iemand zoiets iemand anders aan kan doen. Dan ben je sociaal tot het dieptepunt gedaald en er zelfs onderdoor gegaan maar ook ben je dan een moordenaar, psychopaat en een vrijheidsafnemer.
Toch vond ik het een interessant verhaal omdat je de ontvoeringsituatie van meerdere kanten belicht ziet. Zo merk je dat Frederick nog best heel aardig tegen Miranda is maar dat zij alleen maar aan ontsnappen en G.P. kan denken. Je komt van beide personages heel veel te weten en dat maakt het verhaal best boeiend om te lezen.
Verder is het eigenlijk best wel een saai boek want er gebeurt eigenlijk maar weinig. Het verhaal speelt zich voornamelijk in de kelder voor en daar wordt dan veelal gepraat of je krijgt de gedachten van de personages te lezen.

b) De verdiepingsopdracht was niet moeilijk om uit te voeren want de hoofdpersoon had het zo bont gemaakt dat ik er wel honderd kantjes brief bij had kunnen schrijven. Hij klopte helemaal niet meer en hij handelde zeker niet naar mijn normen en waarden. Als je over iemand tijdens het lezen al een duidelijke gedachte hebt, dan is het echt niet moeilijk om diegene dan duidelijk te vertellen hoe het nu zit en te zeggen wat jij nou wel gepast vindt. Verder had ik gewoon een duidelijke mening en gedachte over hem dus toen ik die op papier moest zetten, hoefde ik alleen maar mijn gedachte te verwoorden en die op een duidelijke, beschaafde manier te zeggen.

c) Er was niets dat ik moeilijk, verwarrend of onduidelijk vond.

Boekverslag gemaakt door: Thomas van der Sanden, 6va

Poem 6 The Lesson

Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
as bravely the teacher walked in
the hooligans ignored him
his voice was lost in the din

"The theme for today is violence
and homework will be set
I'm going to teach you a lesson
one that you'll never forget"

He picked on a boy who was shouting
and throttled him then and there
then garrotted the girl behind him
(the one with grotty hair)

Then sword in hand he hacked his way
between the chattering rows
"First come, first severed" he declared
"fingers, feet or toes"

He threw the sword at a latecomer
it struck with deadly aim
then pulling out a shotgun
he continued with his game

The first blast cleared the backrow
(where those who skive hang out)
they collapsed like rubber dinghies
when the plug's pulled out

"Please may I leave the room sir?"
a trembling vandal enquired
"Of course you may" said teacher
put the gun to his temple and fired

The Head popped a head round the doorway
to see why a din was being made
nodded understandingly
then tossed in a grenade

And when the ammo was well spent
with blood on every chair
Silence shuffled forward
with its hands up in the air

The teacher surveyed the carnage
the dying and the dead
He waggled a finger severely
"Now let that be a lesson" he said

Roger McGough

Short Story 4 The way up to heaven

The Way up to Heaven
by
Roald Dahl


ALL HER LIFE MRS FOSTER had had an almost pathological fear of missing a train, a plane, a boat, or even a theatre curtain. In other respects, she was not a particularly nervous woman, but the mere thought of being late on occasions like these would throw her into such a state of nerves that she would begin to twitch. It was nothing much just a tiny vellicating muscle in the corner of the left eye, like a secret wink but the annoying thing was that it refused to disappear until an hour or so after the train or plane or whatever it was had been safely caught.
It was really extraordinary how in certain people a simple apprehension about a thing like catching a train can grow into a serious obsession. At least half an hour before it was time to leave the house for the station, Mrs Foster would step out of the elevator all ready to go, with hat and coat and gloves, and then, being quite unable to sit down, she would flutter and fidget about from room to room until her husband, who must have been well aware of her state, finally emerged from his privacy and suggested in a cool dry voice that perhaps they had better get going now, had they not?
Mr Foster may possibly have had a right to be irritated by this foolishness of his wife's, but he could have had no excuse for increasing her misery by keeping her waiting unnecessarily. Mind you, it is by no means certain that this is what he did, yet whenever they were to go somewhere, his timing was so accurate just a minute or two late, you understand and his manner so bland that it was hard to believe he wasn't purposely inflicting a nasty private little torture of his own on the unhappy lady. And one thing he must have known that she would never dare to call out and tell him to hurry. He had disciplined her too well for that. He must also have known that if he was prepared to wait even beyond the last moment of safety, he could drive her nearly into hysterics. On one or two special occasions in the later years of their married life, it seemed almost as though he had wanted to miss the train simply in order to intensify the poor woman's suffering.
Assuming (though one cannot be sure) that the husband was guilty, what made his attitude doubly unreasonable was the fact that, with the exception of this one small irrepressible foible, Mrs Foster was and always had been a good and loving wife. For over thirty years, she had served him loyally and well. There was no doubt about this. Even she, a very modest woman, was aware of it, and although she had for years refused to let herself believe that Mr Foster would ever consciously torment her, there had been times recently when she had caught herself beginning to wonder.
Mr Eugene Foster, who was nearly seventy years old lived with his wife in a large six storey house in New York City, on East Sixty second Street, and they had four servants. It was a gloomy place, and few people came to visit them. But on this particular morning in January, the house had come alive and there was a great deal of bustling about. One maid was distributing bundles of dust sheets to every room, while another was draping them over the furniture. The butler was bringing down suitcases and putting them in the hall. The cook kept popping up from the kitchen to have a word with the butler, and Mrs Foster herself, in an old fashioned fur coat and with a black hat on the top of her head, was flying from room to room and pretending to supervise these operations. Actually, she was thinking of nothing at all except that she was going to miss her plane if her husband didn't come out of his study soon and get ready.
'What time is it, Walker?' she said to the butler as she passed him.
'It's ten minutes past nine, Madam.'
'And has the car come?'
'Yes, Madam it's waiting. I'm just going to put the luggage in now.' 'It takes an hour to get to Idlewild' she said. `My plane leaves at eleven. I have to be there half an hour beforehand for the formalities. I shall be late. I just know I'm going to be late.'
'I think you have plenty of time, Madam' the butler said kindly. 'I warned Mr Foster that you must leave at nine fifteen. There's still another five minutes.'
'Yes, Walker, I know, I know. But get the luggage in quickly, will you please?'
She began walking up and down the hall, and whenever the butler came by, she asked him the time. This, she kept telling herself, was the one plane she must not miss. It had taken months to persuade her husband to allow her to go. If she missed it, he might easily decide that she should cancel the whole thing. And the trouble was that he insisted on coming to the airport to see her off.'
'Dear God' she said aloud, `I'm going to miss it. I know, I know, I know I'm going to miss it. 'The little muscle beside the left eye was twitching madly now. The eyes themselves were very close to tears.
'What time is it, Walker?'
'It's eighteen minutes past, Madam.'
'Now I really will miss it' she cried. `Oh, I wish he would come!'
This was an important journey for Mrs Foster. She was going all alone to Paris to visit her daughter, her only child, who was married to a Frenchman. Mrs Foster didn't care much for the Frenchman but she was fond of her daughter, and, more than that, she had developed a great yearning to set eyes on her three grandchildren. She knew them only from the many photographs that she had received and that she kept putting up all over the house. they were beautiful, these children. She doted on them, and each time a new picture arrived she would carry it away and sit with it for a long time, staring at it lovingly and searching the small faces for signs of that old satisfying blood likeness that meant so much. And now, lately, she had come more and more to feel that she did not really wish to live out her days in a place where she could not be near these children, and have them visit her, and take them for walks, and buy them presents, and watch them grow. She knew, of course, that it was wrong and in a way disloyal to have thoughts like these while her husband was still alive. She knew also that although he was no longer active in his many enterprise, he would never consent to leave New York and live in Paris. It was a miracle that he had ever agreed to let her fly over there alone for six weeks to visit them. But, oh, how she wished she could live there always, and be close to them! 'Walker, what time is it?'
'Twenty two minutes past, Madam.'
As he spoke, a door opened and Mr Foster came into the hall. He stood for a moment, looking intently at his wife, and she looked back at him at this diminutive but still quite dapper old man with the huge bearded face that bore such an astonishing resemblance to those old photographs of Andrew Carnegie.
'Well,' he said, `I suppose perhaps we'd better get going fairly soon if you want to catch that plane.'
'Yes, dear yes ! Everything's ready. The car's waiting.'
'That's good,' he said. With his head over to one side, he was watching her closely. he had a peculiar way of cocking the head and then moving it in a series of small, rapid jerks. Because of this and because he was clasping his hands up high in front of him, near the chest, he was somehow like a squirrel standing there a quick clever old squirrel from the Park.
'Here's Walker with your coat, dear. Put it on.'
'I'll be with you in a moment,' he said.
`I'm just going to wash my hands.'
She waited for him, and the tall butler stood beside her, holding the coat and the hat.
'Walker, will I miss it?'
'No, Madam,' the butler said. `I think
you'll make it all right.'
Then Mr Foster appeared again, and the
butler helped him on with his coat. Mrs Foster hurried outside and got into the hired Cadillac. Her husband came after her, but he walked down the steps of the house slowly, pausing halfway to observe the sky and to sniff the cold morning air.
'It looks a bit foggy,' he said as he sat down beside her in the car. `And it's always worse out there at the airport. I shouldn't be surprised if the flight's cancelled already.'
'Don't say that, dear please.'
They didn't speak again until the car had crossed over the river to Long Island.
'I arranged everything with the servants,' Mr Foster said. 'They're all going off today. I gave them half pay for six weeks and told Walker I'd send him a telegram when we wanted them back.' 'Yes,' she said. `He told me.'
'I'll move into the club tonight. It'll be a nice change staying at the club.'
'Yes, dear. I'll write to you.'
'I'll call in at the house occasionally to see that everything's all right and to pick up the mail.'
'But don't you really think Walker should stay there all the time to look after things?' she asked meekly.
'Nonsense. It's quite unnecessary. And anyway, I'd have to pay him full wages.'
'Oh yes,' she said. `Of course.'
'What's more, you never know what people get up to when they're left alone in a house,' Mr Foster announced, and with that he took out a cigar and, after snipping off the end with a silver cutter, lit it with a gold lighter.
She sat still in the car with her hands clasped together tight under the rug.
'Will you write to me?' she asked.
'I'll see,' he said. `But I doubt it. You know I don't hold with letter writing unless there's something specific to say.'
'Yes, dear, I know. So don't you bother.'
They drove on, along Queen's Boulevard, and as they approached the flat marshland on which Idlewild is built, the fog began to thicken and the car had to slow down.
'Oh dear!' cried Mrs Foster. `I'm sure I'm going to miss it now! What time is it !'
'Stop fussing,' the old man said, `It doesn't matter anyway. It's bound to be cancelled now, They never fly in this sort of weather. I don't know why you bothered to come out'
She couldn't be sure, but it seemed to her that there was suddenly a new note in his voice, and she turned to look at him. It was difficult to observe any change in his expression under all that hair. The mouth was what counted. She wished as she had so often before, that she could see the mouth clearly. The eyes never showed anything except when he was in a rage.
'Of course,' he went on, ' if by any chance it does go, then I agree with you you'll be certain to miss it now. Why don't you resign yourself to that?'
She turned away and peered through the window at the fog. It seemed to be getting thicker as they went along, and now she could only just make out the edge of the road and the margin of grassland beyond it. She knew that her husband was still looking at her. She glanced at him again, and this time she noticed with a kind of horror that he was staring intently at the little place in the corner of her left eye where she could feel the muscle twitching.
'Won't you?' he said.
'Won't I what?'
'Be sure to miss it now if it goes. We can't drive fast in this muck.'
He didn't speak to her any more after that. The car crawled on and on. The driver had a yellow lamp directed on to the edge of the road, and this helped him to keep going. Other lights, some white and some yellow, kept coming out of the fog towards them and there was an especially bright one that followed close behind them all the time.
Suddenly, the driver stopped the car.
'There!' Mr Foster cried. `We're stuck. I knew it.’
'No, sir,' the driver said, turning round. `We made it. This is the airport.'
Without a word, Mrs Foster jumped out and hurried through the main entrance into the building. There was a mass of people inside, mostly disconsolate passengers standing around the ticket counters. She pushed her way through and spoke to the clerk.
'Yes,' he said. `Your flight is temporarily postponed. But please don't go away. We're expecting this weather to clear any moment.'
She went back to her husband who was still sitting in the car and told him the news. `But don't you wait dear,' she said. ' There's no sense in that.'
'I won't,' he answered. ` So long as the driver can get me back. Can you get me back, driver ? '
'I think so,' the man said
'Is the luggage out?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good bye, dear,' Mrs Foster said, leaning into the car and giving her husband a small kiss on the coarse grey fur of his cheek.
'Good bye,' he answered. ` Have a good trip.'
The car drove off, and Mrs Foster was left alone.
The rest of the day was a sort of nightmare for her. She sat for hour after hour on a bench, as close to the airline counter as possible, and every thirty minutes or so she would get up and ask the clerk if the situation had changed. She always received the same reply that she must continue to wait, because the fog might blow away at any moment. It wasn't until after six in the evening that the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight had been postponed until eleven o'clock the next morning.
Mrs Foster didn't quite know what to do when she heard this news". She stayed sitting on her bench for at least another half hour, wondering, in a tired, hazy sort of way, where she might go to spend the night. She hated to leave the airport. She didn't wish to see her husband. She was terrified that in one way or another he would eventually manage to prevent her from getting to France. She would have liked to remain just where she was, sitting on the bench the whole night through. That would be the safest. But she was already exhausted, and it didn't take her long to realise that this was a ridiculous thing for an elderly lady to do. So in the end she went to a phone and called the house.
Her husband who was on the point of leaving for the club, answered it himself. She told him the news, and asked whether the servants were still there.
'They've all gone,' he said
'In that case, dear, I'll just get myself a room somewhere for the night. And don't you bother yourself about it at all.'
'That would be foolish,' he said `You've got a large house here at your disposal. Use it.'
'But, dear, it's empty.'
'Then I'll stay with you myself.'
'There's no food in the house. There's nothing.'
'Then eat before you come in. Don't be so stupid woman. Everything you do, you seem to want to make a fuss about it.'
'Yes,' she said. `I'm sorry. I'll get myself a sandwich here, and then I'll come on in.'
Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn't arrive back at the house on Sixty second Street until fairly late.
Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. ` Well, ' he said standing by the study door, ` how was Paris?'
'We leave at eleven in the morning,' she answered `It's definite.'
'You mean if the fog clears.'
'It's clearing now. There's a wind coming up.'
'You look tired,' he said. `You must have had an anxious day. '
'It wasn't very comfortable. I think I'll go straight to bed'
'I've ordered a car for the morning,' he said. `Nine o'clock'
'Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you're not going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.'
'No,' he said slowly. `I don't think I will. But there's no reason why you shouldn't drop me at the club on your way.'
She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn't be sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.
'The club Is downtown,' she said. `It isn't on the way to the airport.'
'But you'll have plenty of time, my dear. Don't you want to drop me at the club?'
'Oh, yes of course.'
'That's good. Then I'll see you in the morning at nine.'
She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after she lay down.
Next morning, Mrs Foster was up early, and by eight thirty she was downstairs and ready to leave.
Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. ` Did you make any coffee?' he asked.
'No, dear. I thought you'd get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It's been waiting. I'm all ready to go.'
they were standing in the hall they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays she with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels. 'Your luggage?'
'It's at the airport.'
'Ah yes,' he said. ` Of course. And if you're going to take me to the club first, I suppose we'd better get going fairly soon hadn't we?'
'Yes' she cried. `Oh, yes please!'
'I'm just going to get a few cigars. I'll be right with you. You get in the car.' '
She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for her as she approached.
'What time is it?' she asked him.
'About nine fifteen. '
Mr Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps; she noticed that his legs were like goat's legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As on the day before, he paused half way down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.
'Perhaps you'll be lucky this time,' he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.
'Hurry, please,' she said to the chauffeur. `Don't bother about the rug. I'll arrange the rug. Please get going. I'm late.'
The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.
'Just a moment !' Mr Foster said suddenly. `Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?'
'What is it, dear?' She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.
'I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,' he said. 'Now, where on earth is it? I'm sure I had it in my hand as I came down.'
'I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present? '
'A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it to you yesterday. I don't want to forget it today.'
'A little box ! ' Mrs Foster cried. ` I never saw any little box ! ' She began hunting frantically in the back of the car.
Her husband continued searching through the pockets of his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat and felt around in his jacket. 'Confound it,' he said, `I must've left it in my bedroom. I won't be a moment.'
'Oh, please' she cried. `We haven't got time! Please leave it! You can mail it. It's only one of those silly combs anyway. You're always giving her combs.'
'And what's wrong with combs, may I ask?' he said, furious that she should have forgotten herself for once.
'Nothing, dear, I'm sure. But . . . '
'Stay here ! ' he commanded. ` I'm going to get it.'
'Be quick, dear! Oh, please be quick'
She sat still, waiting and waiting.
'Chauffeur, what time is it?'
The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. `I make it nearly nine thirty.'
'Can we get to the airport in an hour?'
'Just about.'
At this point, Mrs Foster suddenly spotted a comer of something white wedged down in the crack of the seat on the side where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and pulled out a small paper wrapped box, and at the same time she couldn't help noticing that it was wedged down firm and deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.
'Here it is ! ' she cried. ` I've found it. Oh dear, and now he'll be up there for ever searching for it ! Chauffeur, quickly run in and call him down, will you please ?' The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth didn't care very much for any of this, but he climbed out of the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house. Then he turned and came back. ` Door's locked,' he announced. ` You got a key?'
'Yes wait a minute.' She began hunting madly in her purse. The little face was screwed up tight with anxiety, the lips pushed outward like a spout.
'Here it is ! No I'll go myself. It'll be quicker. I know where he'll be.'
She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front door, holding the key in one hand. She slid the key into the keyhole and was about to turn it and then she stopped Her head came up, and she stood there absolutely motionless, her whole body arrested right in the middle of all this hurry to turn the key and get into the house, and she waited - five, six, seven, eight nine, ten seconds, she waited. The way she was standing there, with her head in the air and the body so tense, it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of some sound that she had heard a moment before from a place far away inside the house.
'Yes quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude was a listening one. She appeared actually to be moving one of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up against the door, and for still another few seconds she remained in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key, about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed, to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly from this place deep within the house. '
Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew the key from the door and came running back down the steps.
'It's too late!' she cried to the chauffeur. `I can't wait for him, I simply can't. I'll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver, hurry! To the airport!'
The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright and the voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.
'Hurry, driver, hurry!'
'Isn't your husband travelling with you?' the man asked astonished.
'Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club. It won't matter. He'll understand. He'll get a cab. Don't sit there talking, man. Get going! I've got a plane to catch for Paris!'
With Mrs Foster urging him from the back seat, the man drove fast all the way, and she caught her plane with a few minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic, reclining comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last. The new mood was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer sort of way, wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all, but this was more from pure astonishment at what she had done than anything else, and as the plane flew farther and farther away from New York and East Sixty second Street, a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time she reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as she could wish. She met her grandchildren, and they were even more beautiful in the flesh than in their photographs. They were like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every day she took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought them presents, and told them charming stories.
Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her husband a nice, chatty letter full of news and gossip, which always ended with the words `Now be sure to take your meals regularly, dear, although this is something I'm afraid you may not be doing when I'm not with you.'
When the six weeks were up, everybody was sad that she had to return to America, to her husband. Everybody, that is, except her. Surprisingly, she didn't seem to mind as much as one might have expected, and when she kissed them all good bye, there was something in her manner and in the things she said that appeared to hint at the possibility of a return in the not too distant future.
However, like the faithful wife she was, she did not overstay her time. Exactly six weeks after she had arrived, she sent a cable to her husband and caught the plane back to New York.
Arriving at Idlewild, Mrs Foster was interested to observe that there was no car to meet her. It is possible that she might even have been a little amused. But she was extremely calm and did not overtip the porter who helped her into a taxi with her baggage.
New York was colder than Paris, and there were lumps of dirty snow lying in the gutters of the streets. The taxi drew up before the house on Sixty second Street, and Mrs Foster persuaded the driver to carry her two large cases to the top of the steps. Then she paid him off and rang the bell. She waited, but there was no answer. Just to make sure, she rang again and she could hear it tinkling shrilly far away in the pantry, at the back of the house. But still no one came.
So she took out her own key and opened the door herself.
The first thing she saw as she entered was a great pile of mail lying on the floor where it had fallen after being slipped through the letter box. The place was dark and cold. A dust sheet was still draped over the grandfather clock. In spite of the cold the atmosphere was peculiarly oppressive, and there was a faint and curious odour in the air that she had never smelled before. She walked quickly across the hall and disappeared for a moment around the corner to the left, at the back. There was something deliberate and purposeful about this action; she had the air of a woman who is off to investigate a rumour or to confirm a suspicion. And when she returned a few seconds later, there was a little glimmer of satisfaction on her face.
She paused in the centre of the hall, as though wondering what to do next, Then, suddenly, she turned and went across into her husband's study. On the desk she found his address book, and after hunting through it for a while she picked up the phone and dialled a number.
'Hello,' she said. `Listen this is Nine East Sixty second Street. . . . Yes, that's right. Could you send someone round as soon as possible, do you think? Yes, it seems to be stuck between the second and third floors. At least, that's where the indicator's pointing. . . . Right away? Oh, that's very kind of you. You see, my legs aren't any too good for walking up a lot of stairs. Thank you so much. Good bye.'
She replaced the receiver and sat there at her husband's desk, patiently waiting for the man who would be coming soon to repair the lift.

Short Story 3 The Lottery Ticket

The Lottery Ticket

IVAN DMITRITCH, a middle-class man who lived with his family on an income of twelve hundred a year and was very well satisfied with his lot, sat down on the sofa after supper and began reading the newspaper.

"I forgot to look at the newspaper today," his wife said to him as she cleared the table. "Look and see whether the list of drawings is there."

"Yes, it is," said Ivan Dmitritch; "but hasn't your ticket lapsed?"

"No; I took the interest on Tuesday."

"What is the number?"

"Series 9,499, number 26."

"All right . . . we will look . . . 9,499 and 26."

Ivan Dmitritch had no faith in lottery luck, and would not, as a rule, have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, but now, as he had nothing else to do and as the newspaper was before his eyes, he passed his finger downwards along the column of numbers. And immediately, as though in mockery of his scepticism, no further than the second line from the top, his eye was caught by the figure 9,499! Unable to believe his eyes, he hurriedly dropped the paper on his knees without looking to see the number of the ticket, and, just as though some one had given him a douche of cold water, he felt an agreeable chill in the pit of the stomach; tingling and terrible and sweet!

"Masha, 9,499 is there!" he said in a hollow voice.

His wife looked at his astonished and panicstricken face, and realized that he was not joking.

"9,499?" she asked, turning pale and dropping the folded tablecloth on the table.

"Yes, yes . . . it really is there!"

"And the number of the ticket?"

"Oh yes! There's the number of the ticket too. But stay . . . wait! No, I say! Anyway, the number of our series is there! Anyway, you understand...."

Looking at his wife, Ivan Dmitritch gave a broad, senseless smile, like a baby when a bright object is shown it. His wife smiled too; it was as pleasant to her as to him that he only mentioned the series, and did not try to find out the number of the winning ticket. To torment and tantalize oneself with hopes of possible fortune is so sweet, so thrilling!

"It is our series," said Ivan Dmitritch, after a long silence. "So there is a probability that we have won. It's only a probability, but there it is!"

"Well, now look!"

"Wait a little. We have plenty of time to be disappointed. It's on the second line from the top, so the prize is seventy-five thousand. That's not money, but power, capital! And in a minute I shall look at the list, and there--26! Eh? I say, what if we really have won?"

The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one another in silence. The possibility of winning bewildered them; they could not have said, could not have dreamed, what they both needed that seventy-five thousand for, what they would buy, where they would go. They thought only of the figures 9,499 and 75,000 and pictured them in their imagination, while somehow they could not think of the happiness itself which was so possible.

Ivan Dmitritch, holding the paper in his hand, walked several times from corner to corner, and only when he had recovered from the first impression began dreaming a little.

"And if we have won," he said--"why, it will be a new life, it will be a transformation! The ticket is yours, but if it were mine I should, first of all, of course, spend twenty-five thousand on real property in the shape of an estate; ten thousand on immediate expenses, new furnishing . . . travelling . . . paying debts, and so on. . . . The other forty thousand I would put in the bank and get interest on it."

"Yes, an estate, that would be nice," said his wife, sitting down and dropping her hands in her lap.

"Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces. . . . In the first place we shouldn't need a summer villa, and besides, it would always bring in an income."

And pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more gracious and poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himself well-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, after eating a summer soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand close to a stream or in the garden under a lime-tree. . . . It is hot. . . . His little boy and girl are crawling about near him, digging in the sand or catching ladybirds in the grass. He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing, and feeling all over that he need not go to the office today, tomorrow, or the day after. Or, tired of lying still, he goes to the hayfield, or to the forest for mushrooms, or watches the peasants catching fish with a net. When the sun sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to the bathing shed, where he undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his bare chest with his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water, near the opaque soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and green water-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with cream and milk rolls. . . . In the evening a walk or vint with the neighbors.

"Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate," said his wife, also dreaming, and from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by her thoughts.

Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its cold evenings, and its St. Martin's summer. At that season he would have to take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then--drink another. . . . The children would come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and a radish smelling of fresh earth. . . . And then, he would lie stretched full length on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some illustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning his waistcoat, give himself up to slumber.

The St. Martin's summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather. It rains day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and cold. The dogs, the horses, the fowls--all are wet, depressed, downcast. There is nowhere to walk; one can't go out for days together; one has to pace up and down the room, looking despondently at the grey window. It is dreary!

Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife.

"I should go abroad, you know, Masha," he said.

And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go abroad somewhere to the South of France . . . to Italy . . . to India!

"I should certainly go abroad too," his wife said. "But look at the number of the ticket!"

"Wait, wait! . . ."

He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurred to him: what if his wife really did go abroad? It is pleasant to travel alone, or in the society of light, careless women who live in the present, and not such as think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh, and tremble with dismay over every farthing. Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets, and bags; she would be sighing over something, complaining that the train made her head ache, that she had spent so much money. . . . At the stations he would continually be having to run for boiling water, bread and butter. . . . She wouldn't have dinner because of its being too dear. . . .

"She would begrudge me every farthing," he thought, with a glance at his wife. "The lottery ticket is hers, not mine! Besides, what is the use of her going abroad? What does she want there? She would shut herself up in the hotel, and not let me out of her sight. . . . I know!"

And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the fact that his wife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturated through and through with the smell of cooking, while he was still young, fresh, and healthy, and might well have got married again.

"Of course, all that is silly nonsense," he thought; "but . . . why should she go abroad? What would she make of it? And yet she would go, of course. . . . I can fancy. . . . In reality it is all one to her, whether it is Naples or Klin. She would only be in my way. I should be dependent upon her. I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the money up as soon as she gets it. . . . She will look after her relations and grudge me every farthing."

Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretched brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling about as soon as they heard of the winning ticket, would begin whining like beggars, and fawning upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles. Wretched, detestable people! If they were given anything, they would ask for more; while if they were refused, they would swear at them, slander them, and wish them every kind of misfortune.

Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations, and their faces, at which he had looked impartially in the past, struck him now as repulsive and hateful.

"They are such reptiles!" he thought.

And his wife's face, too, struck him as repulsive and hateful. Anger surged up in his heart against her, and he thought malignantly:

"She knows nothing about money, and so she is stingy. If she won it she would give me a hundred roubles, and put the rest away under lock and key."

And he looked at his wife, not with a smile now, but with hatred. She glanced at him too, and also with hatred and anger. She had her own daydreams, her own plans, her own reflections; she understood perfectly well what her husband's dreams were. She knew who would be the first to try to grab her winnings.

"It's very nice making daydreams at other people's expense!" is what her eyes expressed. "No, don't you dare!"

Her husband understood her look; hatred began stirring again in his breast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly, to spite her at the fourth page on the newspaper and read out triumphantly:

"Series 9,499, number 46! Not 26!"

Hatred and hope both disappeared at once, and it began immediately to seem to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that their rooms were dark and small and low-pitched, that the supper they had been eating was not doing them good, but Lying heavy on their stomachs, that the evenings were long and wearisome. . . .

"What the devil's the meaning of it?" said Ivan Dmitritch, beginning to be ill-humored. 'Wherever one steps there are bits of paper under one's feet, crumbs, husks. The rooms are never swept! One is simply forced to go out. Damnation take my soul entirely! I shall go and hang myself on the first aspen-tree!"

by ANTON CHEKHOV

Novel 1 and 2 Jos

1. The Hobbit
2. Harry Potter and the philosofers stone

Deze boekverslagen heb ik niet op de computer staan en deze neem ik daarom ook wel mee naar het mondeling.

Short Story 2 Return to Paradise

Return to Paradise

Lisa gazed out over the Caribbean Sea, feeling the faint breeze against her face - eyes shut, the white sand warm between her bare toes. The place was beautiful beyond belief, but it was still unable to ease the grief she felt as she remembered the last time she had been here.
She had married James right here on this spot three years ago to the day. Dressed in a simple white shift dress, miniature white roses attempting to tame her long dark curls, Lisa had been happier than she had ever thought possible. James was even less formal but utterly irresistible in creased summer trousers and a loose white cotton shirt. His dark hair slightly ruffled and his eyes full of adoration as his looked at his bride to be. The justice of the peace had read their vows as they held hands and laughed at the sheer joy of being young, in love and staying in a five star resort on the Caribbean island of the Dominican Republic. They had seen the years blissfully stretching ahead of them, together forever. They planned their children, two she said, he said four so they compromised on three (two girls and a boy of course); where they would live, the travelling they would do together - it was all certain, so they had thought then.
But that seemed such a long time ago now. A lot can change in just a few years - a lot of heartache can change a person and drive a wedge through the strongest ties, break even the deepest love. Three years to the day and they had returned, though this time not for the beachside marriages the island was famous for but for one of its equally popular quickie divorces.
Lisa let out a sigh that was filled with pain and regret. What could she do but move on, find a new life and new dreams? - the old one was beyond repair. How could this beautiful place, with its lush green coastline, eternity of azure blue sea and endless sands be a place for the agony she felt now?
The man stood watching from the edge of the palm trees. He couldn't take his eyes of the dark-haired woman he saw standing at the water's edge, gazing out to sea as though she was waiting for something - or someone. She was beautiful, with her slim figure dressed in a loose flowing cotton dress, her crazy hair and bright blue eyes not far off the colour of the sea itself. It wasn't her looks that attracted him though; he came across many beautiful women in his work as a freelance photographer. It was her loneliness and intensity that lured him. Even at some distance he was aware that she was different from any other woman he could meet.

Lisa sensed the man approaching even before she turned around. She had been aware of him standing there staring at her and had felt strangely calm about being observed. She looked at him and felt the instant spark of connection she had only experienced once before. He walked slowly towards her and they held each other's gaze. It felt like meeting a long lost friend - not a stranger on a strange beach.
Later, sitting at one of the many bars on the resort, sipping the local cocktails they began to talk. First pleasantries, their hotels, the quality of the food and friendliness of the locals. Their conversation was strangely hesitant considering the naturalness and confidence of their earlier meeting. Onlookers, however, would have detected the subtle flirtation as they mirrored each other's actions and spoke directly into each other's eyes. Only later, after the alcohol had had its loosening effect, did the conversation deepen. They talked of why they were here and finally, against her judgement, Lisa opened up about her heartache of the past year and how events had led her back to the place where she had married the only man she believed she could ever love. She told him of things that had been locked deep inside her, able to tell no one. She told him how she had felt after she had lost her baby.
She was six months pregnant and the happiest she had ever been when the pains had started. She was staying with her mother as James was working out of town. He hadn't made it back in time. The doctor had said it was just one of those things, that they could try again. But how could she when she couldn't even look James in the eye. She hated him then, for not being there, for not hurting as much as her but most of all for looking so much like the tiny baby boy that she held for just three hours before the took him away. All through the following months she had withdrawn from her husband, family, friends. Not wanting to recover form the pain she felt - that would have been a betrayal of her son. At the funeral she had refused to stand next to her husband and the next day she had left him.

Looking up, Lisa could see her pain reflected in the man's eyes. For the first time in months she didn't feel alone, she felt the unbearable burden begin to lift from her, only a bit but it was a start. She began to believe that maybe she had a future after all and maybe it could be with this man, with his kind hazel eyes, wet with their shared tears.
They had come here to dissolve their marriage but maybe there was hope. Lisa stood up and took James by the hand and led him away from the bar towards the beech where they had made their vows to each other three years ago. Tomorrow she would cancel the divorce; tonight they would work on renewing their promises.

by Eliza Riley

Short Story 1 Madeleine Rain

Madeleine Rain

It happened because she was edgy and bursting. It was the first day you could really feel Spring approaching. It was that brief time in between seasons that she could feel something new happening, and it made her anxious and excited. It was like new air, or sweeping cobwebs. There was a light rain outside and Madeleine wanted to throw open her two little windows to her small apartment space and let the warm mist fill the room. But the noise from the traffic would've been too much, and she was worried for the bird. As it was, the hiss of the scratchy needle was barely audible. She crouched down beside the heating vent to listen. The music was low and tired. Something like Billie Holiday. It was Billie Holiday, but for the two weeks she had looked, she hadn't been able to find it in any of the record shops. She leaned against her raggedy old reading chair and stared at the stack of books and odd art supplies next to her. Too much time spent inside reading and dreaming, she worried.
She looked up at the small, blue-green bird in the cage next to her bed, and then picked up a blue crayon. The bird was quiet. Quite still and beautiful. Every once in a while she would turn her head slightly to observe her new surroundings. She was calm. Even when Madeleine had brought her home a week ago and taken a polaroid of her, she had fluttered her wings, but in a gentle way. The softly blurred movement was a moment of perfect grace, Madeleine thought, as she ran her fingers along the edge of the picture which now hung on the wall beside the chair. She looked like the sea. As she put down the crayon for another, it started. She wondered how long Maggie had lived down there. How long she had been there. She rested her head against the wall and began to slowly peel away the old crayon's paper label. She reached for a jar of rubber cement and twisted off the top. The music mixed with the sound of Maggie, as if the sobs were a part of the song. Not like an instrument - not an accompanying sound - but interior, as if growing from within the music. A ghost. Madeleine brushed a streak of glue next to the polaroid and stuck the green paper to the wall. "Seafoam," she whispered.

Typically, she had only gone on Wednesday afternoons. It was the one day that they ran a bargain matinee and it only cost her $3. Besides the price, she liked the fact that the theatre was empty then. It was an old movie house where they played revivals and art films. Madeleine liked the musty smell inside, and the worn crushed burgundy of the seats. She liked the warm glow of colors that were muted by the darkness, like the old Hopper painting that hung above her chair. Occasionally, she would bring her little reading light and a sketch pad and work on a face from the film.
It was on a Sunday night that she had met her. One of those odd times when she had to pay full price, because the film she wanted to see was only a weekend run. It was Stardust Memories, by Woody Allen. He had been one of her favorites before the awful thing with his wife's daughter. Before the fear of age and death had become too overwhelming for him. She had seen one or two of his newer movies, and it made her feel embarrassed. Like finding out a close friend has been lying to you.
"Do you ever draw birds?"
Madeleine looked up from her wallet. "I'm sorry..."
"The drawing pad. You're a painter?"
"Um, I sketch."
Madeleine was startled to realize it was the woman from her building. She had seen her in the basement laundry room that first day she had been down there. One of the woman's laundry baskets was overturned and used as a step, so that she could climb up onto the washing machine and then again to nestled herself in a window above the machines. She had pried open the dingy window frame and was quietly feeding a few small birds through the security bars. Madeleine watched as they hoped in and out, pecking crackers straight from her hands. It was three days later that she first heard her through the vent and realized she lived in 3c, directly below her. She had seen her one other time out her window one evening. She had been exiting the building, alone. Madeleine remembered the way that her hair had lifted softly, caught by the wind as she walked off out of view.

"I like this one," the woman said, tearing an orange ticket from her ticket spool. Madeleine struggled with the loose bills in her wallet.
"Although, he's kind of a creep, now."
Madeleine put her $6.50 on the booth counter and looked up again. She noticed the woman was smiling at her. She had a beautiful, quiet smile, that was enhanced by deep pensive brown eyes. Madeleine wanted to tell her that she didn't really like Woody Allen anymore either, and that she was only coming to draw the sad woman who had played Woody Allen's first girlfriend in the film. That she hadn't seen the woman in anything else, as if she had disappeared. And that there was one particular scene that she adored. Just simple shots of the woman - jumpcuts of different expressions: manic anxiety, whimsical laughter, pain, sorrow. She wanted to tell her that this was all she had come for. Just to sketch her in her book, to take her from the film and close the door on Woody forever.
"Yeah, I know what you mean," she eeked out in an apologetic manner. Lame, she thought.
"Here you go." The woman nonchalantly slid Madeleine's money back at her, with her ticket.
"But won't you --"
The woman smiled softly and nodded. "Go ahead, I'll see you around. You can get me another time."
"Oh. Thanks ..." Madeleine smiled. She gathered her things.
"Maggie."
"Thank you, Maggie."
The lines were simple, as Madeleine let her hand go. She was half-conscious of what she was doing, caught somewhere between the last sounds of Maggie and her fading song, and the tapping of the rain which had started to fall hard on her window. It was the bird who brought her out of it. She had pecked the tiny silver bell, hanging from the top of her cage. The bird tilted her head to look down at Madeleine on the floor. Madeleine stared for a moment, smiling, and then turned back to the wall to finish her sketch: a ribbon around the bird's neck drifted across the wall into words: HELLO, SAD MAGGIE.
She didn't take the elevator, because she wasn't sure if it would bother the bird. By the second set of stairs her hands were beginning to tremble. The rain clattered off of the metal dumpsters outside, and filled the stairwell with echoes. "You okay, honey?" The bird hopped from one perch to the next, calmly inspecting the passing walls and handrails. As she entered the hallway and stepped up to the door, a horrific thought occurred to her: "Hello, Maggie? I know i've only seen you around a couple of times, and well, there's this vent in my place, you see...anyways, I hear you crying and I...I just wanted to give you this bird?" Yeah, right. Shit. She began to freeze up. "Don't. Don't freeze up," she thought. She looked down at the bird. She turned back to the stairs, and just as she was about to retreat, it happened. The bird cheeped. A little one. She froze. She looked back down at the bird. The bird was staring up at her. Another. Madeleine couldn't move.

The apartment door opened. Maggie peered out. "Bird?"
The bird began to sing. Maggie stepped out into the hall.
"Oh, sweetheart. You're lovely. Yes." she said, as the bird continued. She turned to Madeleine. "Hi."
Madeleine smiled. Her face was red. She wasn't sure if she could move. She raised her arm tentatively to present Maggie with the cage. The bird sprung up against the front of the cage door to greet Maggie. Maggie leaned in an ran her finger against the bars near the bird.
"Um. I bought her for you."
Maggie looked up at Madeleine. She was quiet. "Oh," she said. She smiled softly, looked serious for a moment and then her eyes started to become wet.
She took the cage from Madeleine's slightly trembling hands. She continue to stare at Madeleine. "Can you come in?"
Madeleine tried to relax into a smile.
"Yeah. Sure."
The first thing Madeleine noticed, once inside, were all of the plants. Not the amount of them - although there were a few - but how green they were. She had never seen such lush house plants in the city before. Or, anywhere for that matter. They surrounded the two small window spaces.
"How do you keep your plants so green?"
Before she could get an answer, she felt a soft hand touch her neck. She turned and Maggie leaned in and kissed her.
"Thank you." Maggie whispered.
Madeleine looked into her eyes, as Maggie reached up and brushed Madeleine's hair lovingly from her forehead. She kissed her again.
"I talk to them," Maggie said. Madeleine smiled.
"There was something I've been wanting to tell you," Madeleine said, feeling Maggie's hands still brushing against her waist. She looked over at the bird, who was still leaning tight against the cage door, staring up at the two women.
"Well. This is kind of stupid but ... the first time when I ... well ...," She paused, serious. "When I came to the theatre I wanted to tell you ... I really don't like Woody Allen anymore, I think he's gross. I just really liked that film. Yeah. There." She exhaled and laughed awkwardly.
Maggie laughed. She kissed Madeleine's forhead.
"I sketched the woman in it." Madeleine continued shyly.
Maggie nodded, smiling.
Madeleine looked around the apartment and then back at Maggie.
"The first girlfriend," Madeleine added.

Maggie nodded, knowingly. "Jumpcuts," she said quietly.
Madeleine smiled. "I used to think you were a ghost."
"How do you know I'm not," Maggie grinned.
"Well. I guess I don't." She paused and looked over at the bird. "But, the bird sees you, too."
"That lovely bird's probably seen lots of ghosts."
Madeleine was quiet. She looked down at the ground. She looked back up at Maggie, her head tilted slightly like the bird. "Are you?"
Maggie paused. She sighed. "I'm not sure," she said softly. Her look became distant. Madeleine took a deep breath and step towards Maggie, squeezing her hand lightly. Closing her eyes, she leaned in and kissed Maggie just below her ear.
"I don't mind," she said.

by Jesse Miller

Novel 2 Thomas, Pied Piper

Pied Piper

by Nevil Shute

1. Beschrijvingsopdracht.
a. Complete titelbeschrijving.
Nevil Shute, Pied Piper, Heinemann Educational Books, London 1942 (16e druk)
b. Korte motivatie van de boekkeuze.
Ik heb dit boek gekozen omdat ik geboeid werd door het inleidende stukje. Dit sprak mij erg aan omdat het over de Tweede Wereldoorlog ging. Vaak zijn dit soort boeken wel mooi om te lezen en daarbij ook nog eens goed leesbaar.
c. Korte weergave van de inhoud.
Het verhaal is opgebouwd uit twee verhaallijnen. De eerste verhaallijn gaat over een gesprek tussen de ikpersoon en John Sidney Howard. De tweede verhaallijn is de reis/overlevingstocht van Howard in Frankrijk. De belangrijkste persoon in het boek is Howard. Howard is een oude man die op vakantie gaat naar Frankrijk, omdat hij daar de omgeving zo mooi vindt. Hij heeft toch niets te doen in Engeland, want zijn dochter woont in Amerika en zijn zoon is omgekomen in de oorlog. En hij is zelf te oud om mee te vechten in de oorlog. Waar Howard logeert, logeren ook een vrouw met haar kinderen. Omdat de oorlog ook in Frankrijk uit breekt, neemt Howard de kinderen mee naar Engeland. Hun reis verloopt niet zonder problemen. Onderweg komen er ook nog een paar kinderen bij, omdat ze wezen zijn of omdat ze ook iemand in Engeland hebben wonen waar ze naar toe kunnen gaan. Nicole reist ook een stuk met hun mee, omdat ze mensen kent die hun naar Engeland kunnen brengen. Ze kan dan ook op de kinderen letten, zodat het voor Howard minder zwaar wordt. Ze kan dan tijdens de reis ook met Howard praten over zijn overleden zoon John, want Nicole zou na de oorlog met John gaan trouwen. De belangrijkste gebeurtenissen zijn dan als volgt. Howard is dus op vakantie in Frankrijk. Omdat de oorlog dreigt uit te breken wil Howard terug naar Engeland. Er wordt aan hem gevraagd of hij 2 kinderen mee naar Engeland wil nemen, omdat het daar waarschijnlijk veiliger is voor hun. Hij doet dit en onderweg komt hij nog 3 kinderen tegen die hij meeneemt. Hun reis verloopt niet zonder problemen. Ze moeten verschillende keren door steden die zijn bezet door de Duitsers. Ze moeten dus de gehele reis zorgen dat ze niet ontdekt worden. Nicole helpt hun ook nog op hun reis naar Engeland. Uiteindelijk bereiken ze Engeland veilig en wel mede mogelijk gemaakt door de hulp van een Duitse officier. Het verhaal speelt zich af in Frankrijk en een paar kleine stukjes in Engeland.

2. Verdiepingsopdracht.
a. Welke verwachtingen had je voor je het boek ging lezen?
Voordat ik het boek ging lezen dat ik wel dat het een aardig boek zou zijn. Dit gevoel kreeg ik omdat ik wist dat het over de Tweede Wereldoorlog zou gaan. Dit onderwerp interesseert mij wel en daarom heb ik het boek ook gekozen. Deze verwachtingen kreeg ik door het inleidende stukje en het landkaartje in het begin van het boek. Ook dacht ik dat het boek veel over de oorlog zelf zou gaan.
b. Welke verwachtingen zijn uitgekomen en welke niet?
Mijn verwachtingen dat het boek over de Tweede Wereldoorlog zou gaan klopten helemaal. Het ging over de problemen die zo’n oorlog met zich mee brengt. Alleen mijn verwachting dat het veel over de oorlog zelf zou gaan en alle historie erbij is niet uitgekomen. Het ging eigenlijk alleen over de problemen van Howard en de kinderen en de rest van de oorlog werd bijna niet belicht.
c. Waar speelt het verhaal en wat is functie van de ruimte?
Het verhaal speelt zich af in Frankrijk. Eerst in de Alpen en daarna gewoon op het platteland en de stad. In de Alpen heb je echt het gevoel dat alles goed is en dat er niks kan gebeuren. Het is een heel relaxte sfeer. Op het platteland en vooral in de steden heb toch al het gevoel dat er iets niet goed is. Iedereen doet heel gehaast en hoe verder ze komen hoe meer Duitsers er zijn. Dit is niet echt bevorderlijk voor een ontspannen sfeer.
d. Geef aan wat volgens jou de thematiek van het verhaal is.
Naar mijn interpretatie is de thematiek van dit boek het in veiligheid brengen van kinderen tijdens een oorlog. Ik ben tot deze conclusie gekomen omdat Howard op zijn reis veel kinderen meeneemt en hun dan een veilig thuis wil geven in Engeland of Amerika. In het begin van het verhaal neemt hij de kinderen mee die samen met hem in de Alpen waren. Daarna neemt hij onderweg enkele andere kinderen mee die ze tegen komen. Deze kinderen hebben hun ouders verloren en zijn dus vanaf dat moment op Howard aangewezen. Hij zorgt ervoor dat ze in veiligheid komen.
e. Beschrijf de twee fasen van betekenistoekenning en geef aan wat de verhaallaag en wat de betekenislaag van het verhaal is.
Het thema van het boek is het in veiligheid brengen van kinderen tijdens de oorlog. Dit vond ik de beste omschrijving van het boek met zijn onderwerp. Met de betekenislaag bedoelen we de laag die verwijst naar de betekenis van een tekst. Deze laag wordt afgeleid van de gebeurtenissen, passages en relevante tekstelementen uit de verhaallaag. Ik heb dit allemaal al verteld in het antwoord op vraag 2d.

3. Evaluatie.
a. Geef in het kort je beargumenteerde eindoordeel over het boek.
Ik vond het boek op sommige momenten toch wel erg spannend, omdat je dan niet weet hoe het met ze gaat aflopen. Dit was bijvoorbeeld op het moment dat ze gebombardeerd werden en toen ze bij de Duitse officier waren. Op dit soort momenten weet je niet waar ze aan toe zijn. Ook vond ik het boek niet al te moeilijk. Ik kon het redelijk gemakkelijk lezen en er stonden geen moeilijke woorden in waarover ik me kon struikelen. Af en toe waren er dingen in het Duits of Frans gezegd maar daarvoor stond achterin een woordenlijst. Ik vond het boek ook leerzaam omdat ik door kreeg dat als je zo oud bent als Howard kun je nog veel dingen doen voor de maatschappij. Dit zou ik dan later ook nog wel willen doen.
b. Geef in het kort je oordeel over het uitvoeren van de verdiepingsopdracht.
Ik vond het maken van de verdiepingsopdracht wel mee vallen qua moeilijkheid. De enigste problemen had ik bij de laatste vraag. Ik moest daar eerst heel goed nadenken wat ze nou bedoelden en daarna is het wel gelukt om deze vraag te maken.
c. Beschrijf wat je moeilijk, verwarrend of onduidelijk vond aan de verdieping.
Ik vond dus de laatste vraag van de verdiepingsopdracht wel wat lastiger. Dit kwam doordat de vraag een beetje moeilijk gesteld was. Uiteindelijk ben ik er toch uitgekomen door hulp van medeleerlingen.
d. Recensie.
Ik nomineer dit boek voor de literatuurprijs op school omdat het een heel spannend boek is, en je toch moeilijk kunt stoppen met lezen omdat je gewoon wilt weten hoe het afloopt. Het boek is ook voor de meeste mensen wel te lezen, want er staan niet echt moeilijke woorden in en het verhaal is goed te begrijpen. Het boek spreekt mij ook erg aan omdat je er echt ingezogen wordt en omdat ik boeken over de oorlog sowieso erg interessant vind. Het boek brengt ook wel iets belangrijks naar voren: het in veiligheid brengen van je kinderen, en dus je toekomst.
Ik ben daarom ook van mening dat dit boek voor iedereen wel interessant is om te lezen. Het is sowieso ook knap van schrijver hoe hij de drama en de spanning heeft kunnen combineren. Het heeft een heel algemeen onderwerp en het gaat ook vooral om het overleven, en daar gaat het leven uiteindelijk ook om. Het boek leest ook heel erg comfortabel en het natuurlijk ook wel mooi dat het verhaal goed afloopt. Om deze redenen vind ik dat dit boek de literatuurprijs van onze school verdient.

Thomas van der Sanden, 5va

Novel 1 Thomas, The Power and the Glory

The Power and the Glory

by Graham Greene

1. Beschrijvingsopdracht.
A. Titelbeschrijving:
The Power, dat staat voor de luitenant en z'n troepen, want de luitenant heeft samen met z'n troepen veel macht(power). Terwijl ‘The Glory, voor de priester staat, die de naam van God, door middel van het altijd uitoefenen van zijn ambt, overal wil uitdragen.
B. Motivatie boekkeuze:
Ik heb het boek gekozen, omdat het me wel een boeiend onderwerp leek, waar ik nog niet zoveel van had gehoord. Ik houd altijd wel van een spannend boek en dit boek leek me er wel zo eentje.
C. Korte inhoud:
Het verhaal speelt zich af in Mexico rond circa 1930. Mr Tench, een Engelsman en een van de weinige tandartsen in Mexico, woont in een stadje aan de monding van een rivier. In de haven ontmoet hij de hoofdpersoon, een priester.In Mexico is de communistische regering in de jaren 30 bezig alle priesters te elimineren en zo het katholieke geloof uit te roeien. De hoofdpersoon van dit verhaal is de laatst overgebleven priester en is al jarenlang op de vlucht voor de regering.Een fanatieke luitenant kreeg de opdracht om deze priester te vangen. De prijs die op het hoofd van de priester staat is niet gering; 700 pesos, nog meer dan er op het hoofd staat van een andere gezochte misdadiger (600 pesos). Nu wil de priester met de boot naar Engeland vluchten maar omdat het nog lang duurt voordat de boot vertrekt gaat hij wat met Mr Tench drinken. Mr Tench is een van de weinige tandartsen in Mexico. Als de priester daar is, komt er een kind dat vraagt om een priester omdat er iemand op sterven ligt. Na enig geaarzel gaat de priester mee, hierdoor mist hij echter de boot en die gaat slechts eens in de paar weken. Nu moet de priester dus op een andere manier Mexico uit proberen te komen en hij mag zich natuurlijk niet laten pakken door de politie. Daarom besluit hij door de bergen bij de Mexicaanse grens te komen.Een kapitein, Mr Fellows, heeft een eigen bananenplantage. Hij is niet vaak thuis maar als hij op een dag thuis komt neemt zijn dochter hem in vertrouwen en vertelt hem dat zij de priester verborgen houdt in de opslagschuur. De kapitein verraadt hem niet op voorwaarde dat hij de volgende dag vertrekt. De dochter geeft hem stiekem nog een fles drank mee. De luitenant heeft inmiddels maatregelen genomen. Zo moet elk dorp in de buurt van het dorp waar de priester vandaan komt een gijzelaar afstaan die gedood wordt als de dorpsbewoners informatie achterhouden.De priester heeft echter zonden: hij is niet alleen verslaafd aan drank maar hij heeft ook nog eens een kind! De priester vlucht naar het dorp waar zijn kind en de moeder zijn. Hij vraagt onderdak in het dorp maar dat wordt geweigerd, hij moet de volgende dag vertrekken. Echter nog voordat hij weg is houdt de politie een zoektocht in het dorp, ze herkennen hem niet mede doordat hij eerst in een ui had gebeten om de dranklucht te verdrijven.Nadat de politie is weggegaan vertrekt de priester ook. Hij vlucht richting de stad Concepcion omdat de politie de andere wegen heeft afgesloten. Onderweg komt hij een reiziger tegen, deze reiziger is te voet (de priester reist op een ezel). Ze reizen gezamenlijk verder maar de reiziger komt te weten dat hij de gezochte priester is. Omdat de priester zijn medereiziger niet vertrouwt besluit hij voordat ze de stad bereiken een andere route te nemen. Hij gaat toch naar de stad om van zijn laatste geld drank te kopen. Dit is echter illegaal. Hij koopt de drank bij een hoge ‘piet’, deze begint een gesprek met de priester en een ander, de chef van de politie die toevallig langs komt. Deze laatste laat zich ontvallen dat de gezochte priester zich in de stad bevindt, iemand heeft hem gezien! (Dit moest dus de reiziger zijn).Als de priester weggaat, wordt hij door de politie betrapt op illegaal drankbezit. Hij weet te ontsnappen en vlucht naar padre Jose, een vroegere collega-priester. Deze weigert echter om de priester te helpen waardoor de priester gepakt wordt. Hij komt in een cel maar ze herkennen hem niet, de volgende dag mag hij al weer weg. De nacht heeft hij doorgebracht in een volgepropte cel. Het scheelde echter niks of hij werd alsnog gepakt, hij werd in de gevangenis namelijk aangesproken door iemand die te gast was in de gevangenis en die hem herkende als zijnde de gezochte priester. Deze gast gaf hem echter niet aan omdat de beloning dan naar een ‘Red Shirt’ (= politieagent) zou gaan. De priester gaat op de vlucht terug naar het huis van Mr Fellows, daar aangekomen ligt het huis in puin. Wat er gebeurd is weet hij niet. Hij vlucht verder, alleen over de grens is hij veilig. Eenmaal over de grens wordt hij opgevangen door Mr and Ms Lehr (broer en zus). Hij rust goed uit en doopt alle kinderen uit het dorp die de afgelopen jaren geboren zijn, om wat geld te verdienen. Als de priester op het punt staat om te vertrekken komt hij de reiziger (‘half caste’) tegen. Hij weet de priester zover te krijgen dat hij met hem meegaat naar de gezochte misdadiger die op sterven ligt. Deze had namelijk om een priester verzocht. Hoewel de priester het niet vertrouwt gaat hij toch mee. Van het geld dat hij verdiend heeft koopt hij drank en ezels en betaalt hij de gids die hij gehuurd had, de rest geeft hij weg aan het schoolhoofd. Als ze aankomen in het dorp dat in de richting ligt waarvandaan de priester is gekomen weigert de misdadiger echter te biechten. De priester is niet eens verbaasd als de luitenant van de politie binnenkomt en hem arresteert (hij was dus over de grens gelokt door de reiziger die de vette premie opstrijkt). Hij kan niet meer ontsnappen aan de straf die hem wacht: de dood.

D. Uitgewerkte persoonlijke reactie:
1. Onderwerp.
- Het boek gaat over de laatste priester in Mexico. Hij probeert te overleven in het land dat wordt geregeerd door een persoon die niks met het christendom te maken wil hebben.
- Ik vind het boek saai om te lezen. Het zijn allemaal treurige gebeurtenissen die worden vertelt en
2. Gebeurtenissen.
- Ik vind de gedachten de belangrijkste rol hebben in het boek. Het boek is toch meer gebaseerd op een levensverhaal en daarin spelen gedachten toch de belangrijkste rol.
- Voor mij een van de meest ontroerende gebeurtenissen was, dat de priester naar zijn geboorte dorp terug gaat en zijn onwettige dochter Brigitta ontmoet. En de priester verschrikkelijk verdrietig wordt door de manier dat ze hem aankijkt. Ze is een kind met de met de ogen van een volwassen vrouw. En als hij haar vraagt “My dear, tell me what games you play” steekt ze haar tong naar hem uit en kijkt hem bespottelijk aan. En als haar moeder ze een klap wil geven zegt de priester om het niet te doen.
3. Personages.
- De hoofdpersoon is volgens mij geen held. Ik denk dat een held een voorbeeld voor anderen moet zijn en niet iemand die alle regels van de staat heeft overtreden. De priester doet natuurlijk ook veel goede daden, maar dat laat zijn schulden niet vergeten.
- Ik vind de priester een hele sympathieke man. Hij is vaak dronken, maar hij blijft altijd erg beleefd en vriendelijk. Hij gedraagt zich niet grof en hij doet niemand kwaad.
4. Opbouw.
- Ik vind het verhaal moeilijk van opbouw. Het verhaal begint bij de dag dat de priester wil vluchten met de boot. Door de vele sprongen in het verhaal is het boek wel moeilijk te volgen.
- Er zijn heel weinig terugblikken in het boek. Het hele verhaal wordt in chronologische volgorde vertelt en hierdoor is het boek ook makkelijk te begrijpen.
5. Taalgebruik.
- Ik vind het taalgebruik in dit boek niet moeilijk, omdat ik bijna alles wel kon begrijpen. Wanneer ik een woord niet wist viel de betekenis wel op te maken uit de tekst die eromheen stond. Verder werden er weinig moeilijke woorden gebruikt en was het lezen best prettig.
- Ik vind wel dat er te veel dialogen in voor komen. Er wordt steeds beschreven hoe de priester van stad naar stad reist, maar wanneer hij in een stad aankomt komen er veel dialogen in voor.

2. Verdiepingsopdracht.
- Het boek dat ik heb gelezen heeft een gesloten einde. Je hebt op de belangrijkste vragen antwoord gekregen en de hoofdpersoon sterft aan het einde, zodat je te weten krijgt wat er met hem zou gaan gebeuren. Ik ben zeer tevreden over het slot van het boek. De belangrijkste punten zijn afgesloten en je blijft niet met vragen over het boek zitten. Het boek is een beschrijving over een deel van het leven van een priester en hier draait het hele verhaal dus ook om. Dus wanneer het leven van de priester wordt beëindigd eindigt het verhaal dus ook.
- Ik vind dat er weinig spanning in het boek dat ik gelezen heb zit. Het verhaal draait vooral om een levensbeschrijving van een priester en dat is niet echt spannend om te lezen. Er komen in het verhaal ook veel dialogen voor, waardoor er meer wordt gesproken dan dat er iets gebeurt. Dit maakt het verhaal niet spannend en zelfs best saai, zodat je het boek liever weg zou willen leggen.

3. Evaluatie.
A. Eindoordeel:
Een groot gedeelte wordt beleefd door de priester, en het verhaal wordt verteld door de ogen van de priester, en in mindere maten door andere personen, zodat het boek saai wordt om te lezen. De luitenant, die net als de priester ook fanatiek zijn werk doet is in principe ook een hoofdpersoon, maar hier gebeurt eigenlijk ook weinig spannends mee. Er valt weinig te lachen in dit boek en tijdens het lezen krijg je de neiging om er mee te stoppen. Er komen veel aangrijpende stukken in voor waar je alleen maar depressief van wordt.
B. Oordeel over het uitvoeren van de verdiepingsopdracht:
Het uitvoeren van de verdiepingsopdracht ging ook goed, want we hadden het vorig jaar al in de les behandeld, hoe je het moest aanpakken. Dus viel het wel mee, en was het dus ook niet zo moeilijk, verwarrend of onduidelijk.
C. Wat verwarrend of onduidelijk was aan de verdieping:
Ik vond niks verwarrend of onduidelijk aan de verdieping, omdat we dit vorig jaar al bij literatuur behandeld hadden.

Boekverslag gemaakt door: Thomas van der Sanden, 4vC

Poem 5 Boots

We're foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa -
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Africa -
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before -
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Don't-don't-don't-don't-look at what's in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again)
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

Try-try-try-try-to think o' something different -
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o' you!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again) -
There's no discharge in the war!

We-can-stick-out-'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of 'em -
Boot-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

'Taint-so-bad-by-day because o' company,
But night-brings-long-strings-o' forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!

I-'ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It-is-not-fire-devils, dark, or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

By Rudyard Kipling

Poem 4 Upon Westminster Bridge

Sept. 3 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Poem 3 Does It Matter?

Does it Matter?

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

By Siegfried Sassoon

Poem 2 A poison tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree

by William Blake

Poem 1 The Soldier

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

By Rupert Brooke