Tell them this story: The Hitchhiker, by Roald Dahl

The Hitchhiker
by Roald Dahl
Read the story below and answer these questions:

1. List ten words from the story which are connected with cars and with driving cars
2 Why did the writer give a lift to the hitchhiker?
3 What sort of animal did the hitchhiker look like?
4 Which horse-race did they talk about?
5 What did the hitchhiker ask the driver of the car to ‘prove’?
6 What speed did the driver reach?

7 Do you have any memories of your time on the road? Either while driving
along with a friend or as a kind of hitchhiker? Perhaps you or your family have ever given somebody a lift? Perhaps somebody has given a lift to you?



I had a new car. It was an exciting toy, a big BMW 3.3 Li, which means 3.3 litre, long wheelbase, fuel injection. It had a top speed of 129 mph and terrific acceleration. The body was pale blue. The seats inside were darker blue and they were made of leather, genuine soft leather of the finest quality. The windows were electrically operated and so was the sunroof. The radio aerial popped up when I switched on the radio, and disappeared when I switched it off. The powerful engine growled and grunted impatiently at slow speeds, but at sixty miles an hour the growling stopped and the motor began to purr with pleasure.
I was driving up to London by myself. It was a lovely June day. They were haymaking in the fields and there were buttercups along both sides of the road. I was whispering along at 70 mph, leaning back comfortably in my seat, with no more than a couple of fingers resting lightly on the wheel to keep her steady. Ahead of me I saw a man thumbing a lift. I touched the brake and brought the car to a stop beside him. I always stopped for hitchhikers. I knew just how it used to feel to be standing on the side of a country road watching the cars go by, I hated the drivers for pretending they didn't see me, especially the ones in big cars with three empty seats. The large expensive cars seldom stopped.
It was always the smaller ones that offered you a lift, or the old rusty ones or the ones that were already crammed full of children and the driver would say, "I think we can squeeze in one more.” The hitchhiker poked his head through the open window and said, "Going to London, guv'nor?" "Yes," I said. "Jump in." He got in and I drove on.
He was a small ratty-faced man with grey teeth. His eyes were dark and quick and clever, like rat's eyes, and his ears were slightly pointed at the top. He had a cloth cap on his head and he was wearing a greyish-coloured jacket with enormous pockets. The grey jacket, together with the quick eyes and the pointed ears, made him look more than anything like some sort of a huge human rat.
"What part of London are you headed for?" I asked him.
"I'm goin' right through London and out the other side” he said. "I'm goin' to Epsom, for the races. It's Derby Day today." "So it is," I said. "I wish I were going with you. I love betting on horses." "I never bet on horses," he said. "I don't even watch 'em run. That's a stupid silly business.” "Then why do you go?" I asked.
He didn't seem to like that question. His little ratty face went absolutely blank and he sat there staring straight ahead at the road, saying nothing.
"I expect you help to work the betting machines or something like that, " I said.
"That's even sillier," he answered. "There's no fun working them lousy machines and selling tickets to mugs. Any fool could do that."
There was a long silence. I decided not to question him any more. I remembered how irritated I used to get in my hitchhiking years when drivers kept asking me questions. Where are you going? Why are you going there? What's your job? Are you married? Do you have a girl friend? What's her name? How old are you? And so forth and so forth. I used to hate it..
"I’m sorry," I said "It's none of my business what you do. The trouble is I’m a writer, and most writers are terribly nosy.” "You write books?" he asked "Yes." "Writing books is okay," he said. "It's what I call a skilled trade. I’m in a skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin' crummy old routine jobs with no skill in 'em at all. You see what I mean?" "Yes." "The secret of life," he said "is to become very very good at somethin' that's very very 'ard to do." "Like you, " I said "Exactly. You and me both".
"What makes you think that I’m any good at my job?" I asked. "There's an awful lot of bad writers around" "You wouldn't be drivin' about in a car like this if you weren't no good at it," he answered "It must've cost a tidy packet, this little job." "It wasn't cheap." "What can she do flat out?" he asked "One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour," I told him.
"I'll bet she won't do it." "I'll bet she will."
"All car-makers is liars," he said. "You can buy any car you like and it’ll never do what the makers say it will in the ads." "This one will." "Open 'er up then and prove it," he said. "Go on, guv'nor, open 'er right up and let's see what she'll do." There is a traffic circle at Chalfont St. Peter and immediately beyond it there's a long straight section of divided highway. We came out of the circle onto the highway and I pressed my foot hard down on the accelerator. The big car leaped forward as though she'd been stung. In ten seconds or so, we were doing ninety.
"Lovely!" he cried. "Beautiful! Keep goin’!" I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.
"One hundred!" he shouted. "A hundred and five! A hundred and ten! A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don't slack off!" I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still -a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroen, a white Land Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus. . . .
"A hundred and twenty!" my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. "Go on! Go on! Get 'er up to one-two-nine!" At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a cop on a motorcycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.
"Oh, my sainted aunt!" I said. "That's torn it!" The cop must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled to the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. "I didn't know police motorcycles could go as fast as that, "I said rather lamely.
"That one can," my passenger said. "It's the same make as yours. It's a BMW R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That's what they're usin' nowadays." The cop got off his motorcycle and leaned the machine sideways onto its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.
"This is real trouble," I said. "I don't like it one little bit." "Don't talk to 'im more than is necessary, you understand," my companion said. "Just sit tight and keep mum."

(Taken from Roald Dahl, “Ten short Stories”, Educational Edition, With Introduction, Extensive Exercises and Glossaries, Penguin Books, London, 1996

The Kite Runner (2003), by Khaled Hosseini

Read the following chapters from The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini (Cometas en el cielo, 2003, Letras de bolsillo) and answer the questions:


1.Reference to Nature and plants is made in the language, such as “poplar trees”, “mulberries”, “walnuts”. On the other side, the animal kingdom is also shown in the mentioning of that one-eyed German shepherd. Can you give any reason why the two boys first appear together surrounded by such a natural environment? What does this tell us about them?

2.The two boys were motherless and fed from the same breast. Can you think of things they both could share in their childhood? What about things they couldn't share at all? In the novel it appeared the first word each of both boys said, Can you remember which word was first said by any of them and could you guess why that word would be important for them both in the future?

3.This novel is about friendship, lost and recovered friendship; about guilt and redemption. And about the good old times and how the mounting ethnic, religious, and political tensions began to tear a country, Afghanistan apart in the same way as at the kids' sphere, an unspeakable assault on Hassan by a gang of local boys would also separate them. It is not in the passages below. It would be advisable to read the whole novel by Khaled Hosseini to be able to answer this question properly, but even if you would not, Could you make a guess, by just reading the following passages, as to how the novel would develop?

When we were children, Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father’s house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard of mirror. We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches, our naked feet dangling, our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts. We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries, pelted each other with them, giggling, laughing. I can still see Hassan up on that tree, sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood: his flat, broad nose and slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves, eyes that looked, depending on the light, gold, green, even sapphire. I can still see his tiny low-set ears and that pointed stub of a chin, a meaty appendage that looked like it was added as a mere afterthought. And the cleft lip, just left of midline, where the Chinese doll maker’s instrument may have slipped, or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless.

Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor’s one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, really asked, he wouldn’t deny me. Hassan never denied me anything. And he was deadly with his slingshot. Hassan’s father, Ali, used to catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree. He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. "And he laughs while he does it," he always added, scowling at his son.

"Yes, Father," Hassan would mumble, looking down at his feet. But he never told on me. Never told that the mirror, like shooting walnuts at the neighbor’s dog, was always my idea.

The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway, which led to a pair of wrought-iron gates. They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father’s estate. The house sat on the left side of the brick path, the backyard at the end of it.
(.../...
Everyone agreed that my father, my Baba, had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district,
(.../...)
On the south end of the garden, in the shadows of a loquat tree, was the servants’ home, a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father.

It was there, in that little shack, that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964, just one year after my mother died giving birth to me.
(.../...)
They called him "flat-nosed" because of Ali and Hassan’s characteristic Hazara Mongoloid features. For years, that was all I knew about the Hazaras, that they were Mogul descendants, and that they looked a little like Chinese people. School textbooks barely mentioned them and referred to their ancestry only in passing. Then one day, I was in Baba’s study, looking through his stuff, when I found one of my mother’s old history books. It was written by an Iranian named Khorami. I blew the dust off it, sneaked it into bed with me that night, and was stunned to find an entire chapter on Hazara history. An entire chapter dedicated to Hassan’s people! In it, I read that my people, the Pashtuns, had persecuted and oppressed the Hazaras. It said the Hazaras had tried to rise against the Pashtuns in the nineteenth century, but the Pashtuns had "quelled them with unspeakable violence." The book said that my people had killed the Hazaras, driven them from their lands, burned their homes, and sold their women. The book said part of the reason Pashtuns had oppressed the Hazaras was that Pashtuns were Sunni Muslims, while Hazaras were Shi’a. The book said a lot of things I didn’t know, things my teachers hadn’t mentioned.
(.../...)

Baba hired the same nursing woman who had fed me to nurse Hassan. Ali told us she was a blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan, the city of the giant Buddha statues. "What a sweet singing voice she had," he used to say to us.

What did she sing, Hassan and I always asked, though we already knew—Ali had told us countless times. We just wanted to hear Ali sing.
 
He’d clear his throat and begin:
On a high mountain I stood,
And cried the name of Ali, Lion of God.
O Ali, Lion of God, King of Men,
Bring joy to our sorrowful hearts.
Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break.

Hassan and I fed from the same breasts. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. And, under the same roof, we spoke our first words.

Mine was Baba.

His was Amir. My name.

Looking back on it now, I think the foundation for what happened in the winter of 1975—and all that followed—was already laid in those first words.

(picked out from chapter two)

Squeeze (The X-Files) (1996), novel by Ellen Steiber

Read two of the last scenes from SQUEEZE (The X-Files), television series script that follows, created by Christ Carter, based on the teleplay written by Glen Morgan and James Wong, novel by Ellen Steiber and focuse on comprehension and vocabulary:


SCENE 14
(Scully is siiting in a room at the bureau. Tom comes in)
TOM COLTON: We have to talk.
SCULLY: I have to meet Mulder..
TOM COLTON: That's what we have to talk about. You're using two of my men to sit in front of a building that's been condemned for ten years?
SCULLY: It isn't in any way interferring with your investigation.
TOM COLTON: When we first had lunch, I really looked forward to working with you, you were a good agent, but now after Mulder, I couldn't have you far enough away. Don't bother going down there, I had the stakeout called off.
SCULLY: You can't do that.
TOM COLTON: No, I can't but my regional asat can, especially after I told them about the irresponsible waste in man hours.
(Scully picks up the phone but before she can phone Mulder, Tom takes the phone off her)
Auh-uh! Let me call Mulder, let me tell him the news.
SCULLY: Is this what it takes to climb the ladder Colton?
TOM COLTON: All the way to the top.
SCULLY: Then I can't wait `til you fall off and land on your ass.
(Tom phones Mulder)
[ MULDER'S ANSWER MACHINE ]
This is Fox Mulder, I'm not here, leave a message.
(Scully pulls up outside her apartment. From the darkness we can see the eyes of Tooms, watching. Scully walks from her car to her apartment block and Tooms sees it all in black and white)



SCENE 15
66 EXETER ST., 7:25 P.M.
(Mulder pulls up in his car)
MULDER: Where is everyone? Scully?
(Mulder has a quick look around and then runs and enters the building)
(Back at Scully's apartment)
[ MULDER'S ANSWER MACHINE ]
This is Fox Mulder, I'm not here, leave a message.
SCULLY: Mulder, you must've gone out since Colton gave us the night off, I say we file a complaint against him, I am furious. Call me when you get in, ok, bye.
(Scully is in her bathroom, after hanging up, she runs a bath. Scully walks out of the bathroom and outside the window we see Tooms reach up and feel the window)
(Meanwhile, Mulder is in the cellar below Tooms' apartment. As he looks at the table with the trophies, from the murders, he sees and recognises Scully's necklace)
MULDER: Dammit.
(Scully is back in her bathroom, she lifts a towel of the rack and goes over to the bath and turns off the taps. She lifts a small bottle from a shelf, she moves to the side of the bath to open it. As she opens it, a lump of bile falls from the ceiling and splashes on her hand. She breaths deeply, in shock, and then looks up at the vent in the ceiling, there is bile around one corner of it. Scully rushes out of the bathroom and looks for her gun in the apartment)
(Mulder is driving his car and using his phone)
MULDER: Dammit, ANSWER.
(We see that the phone line to Scully's apartment have been cut)
(Scully is moving about her apartment, with her gun, searching for Tooms. She enters a room and turns, pointing her gun at a small vent near the floor. As Scully turns away from the vent, a hand comes crashing through and grabs Scully's leg causing her to fall. We see the face of Tooms in the vent as well. Scully manages to grab hold of a door frame and pull herself from Tooms' grasp)
(Mulder pulls up outside Scully's apartment block)
(Tooms forces himself out through the vent and Scully, on the floor, backs off into the bathroom. Tooms gets up and follows her in and sits on her. Scully tries to hit Tooms but he blocks it, but she punches him with her other hand)
(Mulder races into the building)
(Scully pushes her thumbs into the eyes of Tooms, but he grabs her arms and pushes them to the floor above her head, exposing her stomach)
(Mulder breaks open Scully's door, and rushes in)
MULDER: SCULLY!
(Tooms, hearing Mulder, gets off Scully and breaks the bathroom window. Mulder comes into the bathroom and points his gun at Tooms. Scully gets up and grabs Tooms before he can get out the window, but Tooms grabs Scully by the throat and tries to choke her. As he does this, Mulder puts handcuffs on one of Tooms' wrists. Tooms elbows Mulder, knocking him to the ground, and turns to advance on him. Scully grabs the handcuffs, stopping him from getting closer to Mulder and then pulls the handcuffs to the bath taps. Scully feeds the handcuffs through the taps, Tooms tries to stop her, but Scully grabs his other hand and fastens it in the other handcuff. Mulder gets up and points his gun at Tooms, who is tugging at the handcuffs)
You alright?
(Scully is leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. She manages a nod of the head)
He's not gonna get his quota this year.
(Tooms stops pulling at the handcuffs and accepts defeat)
http://www.insidethex.co.uk/transcrp/scrp102.htm
1. Use your English and finish these expressions from the text
1.Interferring ….....
2.looking forward to ….........
3.don't bother.........................
2. Answer these questions in your own words:
4.If he had the stakeout called off, what had he done? …......................
5.As a result of calling the stakeout off, is Skully in any danger? Why? …..................
6.What does Mulder recognise among Toom's tropies? Why is he alarmed?........
7.Why is she in shock? ….........................
8.She manages to grab hold of a door frame, what does this move allows her? …......
9.Who does what?
Forces out through the vent:....... hits and punches:....................
blocks it:........................ pushes her thumbs into his eyes:......
rushes in:........................ tries to choke her...................
puts handcuffs on one of his wrists........ knocks him to the ground.............
pulls the handcuffs to the bath taps....... fastens it in the other handcuff.....

A story of a Mobile Phone (April, 2009)

1. Read the piece of writing closely and try to learn the terms in bold

2. Can you describe the young teenager who tells the story?
Analyse his language and point of view.
3. There is another point of view in the story, belonging to an adult this time.
Are you able to distinguish between this point of view and the teen's one?
The day my parents got me a mobile/cell phone I went mad with excitement. I was big enough to keep my own communication system going on: have my friends contacted every single minute of the day; receive surprise rings any moment; avoiding feeling alone ever; being able to disconnect from study any time… that was good. And what sounded even better, being told the answers at exams, taking photos of whoever I felt like photographing …It was as if I could grasp the whole world in my single hand.
I walked on down the street and on either side there were phone shops entreating me to buy the latest camera/mp3 player/mobile phone with more minutes per month than I could possible use. I was like everyone else now. Everywhere, people were sitting in parks, cafes, walking down the street, all with phones pressed against their ears. Eventually, I was exactly the same as them. I could talk non-stop. It was unnecessary envying all those who had the invisible headsets that make it impossible to distinguish them from the insane who argue with themselves in public. I also could look as if I were arguing with myself in public and that was also good.
I felt so sociable and secure that I needed my phone to ring twenty, thirty times a day -confirmation that there was someone on this planet who valued out existence, at least enough to press a few buttons and use up some of their monthly phone plan?
People thought beepers were the cool thing, the communication buzzers that added bulge to your jeans pockets. I didn’t mind comments on how they soon switched from risking testicular cancer to the more fashionable perils of brain tumours and there was no looking back, they said, which I did not mind at all, being young enough to watch health problems at a distance.
At times, I loved them with a passion. I’ve lost count of how many nonsense conversations have been interrupted by an insistent Nokia. The moment of seduction, offering condolences to the bereaved, an incredible sunset. That seemed funny to me. The best one I heard though was from an English woman who still shivered at the memory; she had been in church at the funeral of her husband’s aunt when she heard a phone ringing somewhere. Naturally, she assumed an indignant pout and started shooting silent glares around the pews. Who could be so gauche as not to turn off their phone before entering a funeral? The ringing stopped and then started again – clearly this was not a caller to be put off by an answering service.
By now even the vicar had halted his speech and hushed whispers were growing in volume within the acoustics of the old stone church. Suddenly she was seized by a growing panic as she realized that her handbag was shaking. She opened the flap and perceived in the same moment as the entire congregation that she was the culprit. She snatched the phone with shaking hands but as she had only bought it the week before she had no idea how to turn it off. With 500 pairs of eyes fixed menacingly upon her she fumbled with the buttons in vain. With each second her husband grew violently tense at her side.
Finally he did the decent thing and grabbed the phone from her now paralyzed hands, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it. That didn’t quite do the trick though and he was obliged to stand up and jump on the thing before silence was restored to the ceremony. Apparently no one saw the funny side and the vicar even rubbed it in with some stern words about propriety in the House of the Lord.
The experience hadn’t been so shocking to me… the moment when I was at my eldest brother’s violin concert, playing on a Mozart piece when it was heard the same Mozart piece ringing tone coming from my personal mobile phone. People stared at me contemptuously. My brother would hate me deeply, but I was so caught by the idea of pure chance in the coincidence of a Mozart performance being echoed by a Mozart ringing tone that couldn’t feel much upset.
Mobile phones are probably one of the best examples of how technology can change the nature of social interaction, even how we see the world. Try watching movies made before 1998 and you’ll see a hundred different plot twists that would never have arisen had one of the protagonists been carrying a phone. A killer white shark is stalking you on your broken down boat? Call the coast guard and he’ll have you air-lifted out of there in minutes.
Another example: Call round to see a friend by chance and watch the expression of shock on their face as they open the door – ‘but, but you didn’t call first to check I was in!’ Did we really used to spend that much time locked out or lost or just plain hanging around place in silence and – god forbid – thinking about things? I mean, I don’t remember kicking my heels every day and wishing for the invention of portable communication. But now that it was there…
Mobile phones are obviously excellent inventions that save lives and boost your social life if you don’t spend much time at home anyway. In theory you can turn them off before you go into the cinema or be like the Japanese who have them set only on vibrate so that they won’t offend anyone. Like any technology, if used responsibly there’s no problem, so they say. Why it is that I enjoy using it as irresponsibly as possible?
Possibly, because hello? Take a look around the planet – this is not a responsible species we’re talking about. It reminds me of the Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin says something along the lines of ‘Call this the 21st century? Where are the ray guns? The invisibility devices? Teleportation? I mean I still have to press the buttons on the remote control!’ That is sort of a limitation to me. Hobbes then observes that perhaps we could do with learning how to handle the technology that we already have. And this is interesting enough, isn’t it?
Often it seems to me that our techy devices just amplify the human condition rather than change anything in particular. We were always a feckless, dissatisfied people but channel surfing made it visible. The neighbourhood teenager was always angry and troubled but now his ghetto blaster let everyone know about it. I am being watched and observed most carefully, and this is a fact I couldn’t quite rate as positive, negative or just neutral. It doesn’t affect to me any more. While we’re on the subject nervous, whiny people shouldn’t be allowed to have dogs because that’s exactly the same thing.
The point being that the way we use mobile phones just makes visible our neurotic tendencies like scratching a pencil over a drawing in wax.. We were always this nervous and insecure. Only now we have the device to play with in public and stroke when no one is looking. Or so they say, because I've never been aware of being nervous or insecure myself.
The best thing about mobile phones though was observed by a friend of mine the other day. We were talking about getting phone numbers from girls and the whole drama of then calling them up. He remarked philosophically:
“The advent of mobile phones meant you never had to speak to a girl’s parents ever again. You always get through directly to her.”
Then again with caller ID, getting her to answer the damn thing is another story.
And I do like stories to be told.
This is a piece of writing coming from two sources: www.tomthumb.org/essays/phones.shtml -
And my own personal writing, Mari Carmen López Sanjuán

WOMEN POETS to celebrate March 8th, an International Women's Day

Women's Day is an important celebration for the achievements and gains made by women around the world. A major day of global celebration for the economic, political and social achievements of women. Let us remember two poet women for us to read today

Emily Dickinson Poems

I'm Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog --
To tell one's name -- the livelong June --
To an admiring Bog!

Sample of Rosalía de Castro's Poetry

I was born with plants in blossom,
In a month when gardens grew,
In a dawn so very gentle,
In a dawn of April dew.
That’s the reason why I’m Rosa,
With a grin gone red with rue,
Bristling thorns for everybody
(Never, though, a thorn for you).
Since I fell in love (a thankless
Thing I did) life’s gone askew
And I let it go, believing
You my life and glory too.
Why then this complaining, Mauro?
Why the rage? You know it’s true—
If my dying made you happy,
Happily I’d die for you.
Still you stab me with a dagger
Spiked with curses. Not a clue
What it was you really wanted,
Crazy deeds you made me do!
All I had to give I gave you
In my hungering for you.
Now my shuttered heart I send you
With the only master key.
I’ve got nothing left to give you,
You’ve no more to ask of me.
From the original Galician "Nasín cand' as prantas nasen"




















NASÍN CAND' AS PRANTAS
NASEN ... I WAS BORN AT BIRTH OF
BLOSSOMS ...
Nasín cand' as prantas nasen,
No mes das froles nasín,
Nunha alborada mainiña,
Nunha alborada d'abril.
Por eso me chaman Rosa,
Mais á do triste sorrir,
Con espiñas para todos,
Sin ningunha para ti.
Dés que te quixen, ingrato,
Todo acabou para min,
Que eras ti para mín todo,
Miña groria e meu vivir.
¿De qué, pois, te queixas, Mauro?
¿De qué, pois, te queixas, di,
Cando sabes que morrera
Por te contemplar felís?
Duro cravo me encravaches
Con ese teu maldesir,
Con ese teu pedir tolo
Que non sei qué quer de min,
Pois dinche canto dar puden
Avariciosa de ti,

O meu coraçón che mando
C'unha chave para ó abrir;
Nin eu teño máis que darche,
Nin ti máis que me pedir.

Method on 1st Bachillerato Class

Picture from Wikipedia

Read the following text, by Descartes, and find

1. What is a method? How are its rules?
2. How different is following a method in learning, to follow
no method at all or to proceed just 'by chance' or 'at random'?
3. Synonyms of ‘by chance’ , and ‘at random’. Translate them into Spanish.
4. How could the activity of the mind 'be wasted' or 'thrown
away', according to the text?
5. Think of your own mental activity in the class. What does it
usually happen when you stop paying attention and start trying
something else, such as thinking about what you will be doing
after the class, about what you were doing before the class
or just about how you are looking out of the window
absentmindedly at that moment?


By Method (he says), I understand rules certain and easy, such as to prevent anyone, who shall have accurately observed them, from ever assuming what is false from what is true, and by which, with no effort of mind uselessly consumed, but always by degrees, increasing science, a person will arrive at a true knowledge of all those things which he will be capable of knowing.
In accordance with this declaration, it is manifest that procedure by a Method is a fixed procedure, for it is a procedure according to rule. It is thus opposed to procedure by chance or at random.
…/…
The cognitive power, by being thus limited to a determinate channel, is prevented from being wasted or thrown away in irregular exercise. The activity of the mind is subordinate to the realization of a given end; the mind itself has another rule that its own impetuosity. Descartes, therefore, to reach truth, and for the right conduct of the mind, that is, to prevent it from wasting its powers in capricious activity, instituted a Method.

Renée Descartes, “Introduction” in Discourse on Method, p XIV

From the above it follows that it would be recommendable to take some methodological steps in your daily thinking activity in the class :

1 Trust your own self-control ability
2 Be patient and constant
3 Focus on the activity you are doing (the opposite would be getting astray, which could be done as follows: By doing a bit of work on one subject different from the one you are attending at one given class period; by not paying attention; by talking to your classmates instead of drawing attention to the teacher or asking him about any doubts.
4 Do not look for immediate success, but listen attentively, since understanding will come over by means of close listening in the middle or long run. Comprehension seems only to arrive after listening, viewing and thinking a lot.
5 Be aware that time invested in study is a very good invested time.
6 Trying and applying what you already know to new fields will lead to the awakening of your love for knowledge.
Six ideas based on the 1st Course of Bachillerato Mathematics(2008), ANAYA

Two trends in Shakespeare's Love Poems (Sonnets, 1609)

In one of them, Shakespeare seems to understand love as a kind of psychological link or attachment between two minds. In the second interpretation of love, he's chosen to look down on 'his mistress'.
If in the first case, his love's neither Time's fool, nor alterable by circumstances, in the second, he finds no nice metaphors he could use to compare her to. Love in Sonnet 116 does not alter, nor bend, like a fixed mark which guided on tempests and carried to the one who loved even to the end of doom. Conversely, in Sonnet 130, he finds his love as rare as any other possible love she would have compared it to.

1.Read both Sheakspeare's sonnets and try to compare them in your own words
2.Explain the special vocabulary that is applied to love and you consider interesting enough.

Love Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Love Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
http://users.telenet.be/gaston.d.haese/shakespeare.html

Exercises on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (1964,2005)

(1964, a novel by Roald Dahl, and 2005,a film directed by Tim Burton)

Picture from the film by the Warner Bros


STORY:

After watching the film, perhaps you can remember some words from the beginning of the story:

1 Fill the gaps with the words in the box

LUCKIEST CLEVER ENOUGH ORDINARY POWERFUL

This is a story of an (1).......................................little boy, named Charlie Bucket. He was not faster or stranger or more(2)....................... than other children. His family was not rich or (3)…................or well-connected. In fact, they barely had (4)................................to eat. But Charlie Bucket was the (5)…...............................boy in the entire world


2 And the story goes on:

LATER CHOCOLATE TOOTHPASTE CABBAGE

CARROTS SINGLE SHOP


His mother was cooking (a)…............................and (b)…....................................for dinner. His father
worked at the local (c)…......................................factory.
His grandfather had worked for Willy Wonka at the (d)….....................
factory.

W Wonka began with a (e)…........................at Cherry Street. The man was a genius. He invented a new way of making chocolate ice-cream. Fifteen years (f)........... he decided to build the largest chocolate factory in history..

3 and on and on:

BLEW UP MELTED MADE WERE MADE DECIDED


3 He built a chocolate palace to an Indian Prince. True to his word, the bricks (1)
...........................out of chocolate. That's why one day with a boiling sun, the chocolate (2)............................ That's when Willy Wonka (3) ….......
to invent an ice-cream that would never melt. He had also (4)....................... chewing gum which (5)....................into incredible sizes.


4 Cross out the unnecessary word. There are two sentences that are correct:

a I'm closing my chocolate factory always for ever.

b We saw smoke rise from the chimneys.

c The factory was to back in business.

d Who's running the machines?

e He never comes out off.

f. The candy comes out already packed and addressed. It's a tinier mystery.

AUTUMN POEMS

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness (John Keats)
Autumn was described by the famous poet John Keats (1795-1821) as the season of mists, when the plants are completing their year's life cycle. The trees are full of nuts which squirrels bury for the hungry winer months (but in fact, they actually bury them and then forget where they put them!) and the leaves on the trees are turning to lovely shades of red and gold.
Write either a poem or a description of what autumn is like wher eyou live. Write a draft to start with and then write out the neat version. Illustrate your work if you like drawing.(1)



(2)
A Child’s Calendar
November by John Updike
The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness.

Nature XXVII, Autumn by Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were.
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.

Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Robert Frost
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold,
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Pumpkin poem, Anonymous
When all the cows were sleeping
And the sun had gone to bed,
Up jumped the pumpkin,
And this is what he said:
I’m a dingle dangle pumpkin
With a flippy floppy hat.
I can shake my stem like this,
And shake my vine like that.

(1) From Writing Worksheet U 2, New Citizens 1, Longman,
by Jim Lawley and Rodrigo Fernández Carmona
(2) Picture from BBC October, 2008 Autumn Watching

1st Wish in The monkey's paw, by W.W.Jakobs (1902)

"The Monkey's Paw" is a horror short story by author W. W. Jacobs. It was published in England in 1902.

The story is based on the famous "setup" in which three wishes are granted. In the story, the paw of a dead monkey is a talisman that grants its possessor three wishes, but the wishes come with an enormous price.
The moral of the story is contained in this description of the paw: "It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant-major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow." (from Wilkipedia)
.../...
Sargeat Major Morris said,
“The first man had his three wishes, yes,” was the reply. “I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”
.../...

Mr White's first wish was.
“I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.
“It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. “As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”
“Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son, as he picked it up and placed it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”
“It must have been your fancy, Father,” said his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same.”
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.
“I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good night, “and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.”
IN THE BRIGHTNESS of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table, Herbert laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.
“I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, Father?”
“Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.
“Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said his father, “that you might, if you so wished, attribute it to coincidence.”
“Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert, as he rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”


.../...


“I–was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. “I come from Maw and Meggins.”
The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?”
Her husband interposed. “There, there, Mother,” he said hastily. “Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure, sir,” and he eyed the other wistfully.
“I’m sorry–” began the visitor.
“Is he hurt?” demanded the mother.
The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said quietly, “but he is not in any pain.”
“Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for that! Thank–”
She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’s averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.
“He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length, in a low voice.
“Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, “yes.”
He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting days nearly forty years before.
“He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor. “It is hard.”
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,” he said, without looking around. “I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.”
There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action.
“I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,” continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son’s services they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation.”
Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, “How much?”
“Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.

THE MONKEY'S PAW (1902)

THE MONKEY'S PAW (1902)
from The lady of the barge (1906, 6th ed.)
London and New York
Harper & Brothers, Publishers

by W.W. Jacobs

"Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it." Anonymous


I.

WITHOUT, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check."
"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
"Mate," replied the son.
"That's the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; "of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn't matter."
"Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the next one."
Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
"There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.
"Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, introducing him.
The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whisky and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of strange scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.
"Twenty-one years of it," said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. "When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him."
"He don't look to have taken much harm," said Mrs. White, politely.
"I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, "just to look round a bit, you know."
"Better where you are," said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.
"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers," said the old man. "What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris?"
"Nothing," said the soldier hastily. "Leastways, nothing worth hearing."
"Monkey's paw?" said Mrs. White curiously.
"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps," said the sergeant-major off-handedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.
"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, "it's just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy."
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. White, as he took it from his son and, having examined it, placed it upon the table.
"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant-major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it."
His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.
"Well, why don't you have three, sir?" said Herbert White cleverly.
The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. "I have," he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.
"And did you really have the three wishes granted?" asked Mrs. White.
"I did," said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.
"And has anybody else wished?" inquired the old lady.
"The first man had his three wishes, yes," was the reply. "I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got the paw."
His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.
"If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now, then, Morris," said the old man at last. "What do you keep it for?"
The soldier shook his head. "Fancy, I suppose," he said slowly.
"If you could have another three wishes," said the old man, eyeing him keenly, "would you have them?"
"I don't know," said the other. "I don't know."
He took the paw, and dangling it between his front finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.
"Better let it burn," said the soldier solemnly.
"If you don't want it, Morris," said the old man, "give it to me."
"I won't," said his friend doggedly. "I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man."
The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. "How do you do it?" he inquired.
"Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,' said the sergeant-major, "but I warn you of the consequences."
"Sounds like the Arabian Nights," said Mrs White, as she rose and began to set the supper. "Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?"
Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.
"If you must wish," he said gruffly, "wish for something sensible."
Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second instalment of the soldier's adventures in India.
"If the tale about the monkey paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us," said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, "we shan't make much out of it."
"Did you give him anything for it, father?" inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.
"A trifle," said he, colouring slightly. "He didn't want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away."
"Likely," said Herbert, with pretended horror. "Why, we're going to be rich, and famous, and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can't be henpecked."
He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.
Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. "I don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact," he said slowly. "It seems to me I've got all I want."
"If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you?" said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. "Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that'll just do it."
His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.
"I wish for two hundred pounds," said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.
"It moved, he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. "As I wished it twisted in my hands like a snake."
"Well, I don't see the money," said his son, as he picked it up and placed it on the table, "and I bet I never shall."
"It must have been your fancy, father," said his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head. "Never mind, though; there's no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same."
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.
"I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed," said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, "and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains."
He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey's paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.

One World, one Dream

"#9 Dream" (John Lennon) So long ago Was it in a dream, was it just a dream? I know, yes I know Seemed so very real, it seemed so real to me Took a walk down the street Thru the heat whispered trees I thought I could hear (hear, hear, hear) Somebody call out my name as it started to rain Two spirits dancing so strange Ah! b'wakawa pouss?, pouss? Ah! b'wakawa pouss?, pouss? Ah! b'wakawa pouss?, pouss? Dream, dream away Magic in the air, was magic in the air? I believe, yes I believe More I cannot say, what more can I say? On a river of sound Thru the mirror go round, round I thought I could feel (feel, feel, feel) Music touching my soul, something warm, sudden cold The spirit dance was unfolding Ah! b'wakawa pouss?, pouss? Ah! b'wakawa pouss?, pouss? Ah! b'wakawa pouss?, pouss? The following are the sports played at these Games. Aquatics: Diving Swimming Synchronized swimming Water polo Archery Athletics Badminton Baseball Basketball Boxing Canoeing Cycling Equestrian Fencing Field hockey Football Gymnastics Handball Judo Modern pentathlon Rowing Sailing Shooting Softball Table tennis Taekwondo Tennis Triathlon Volleyball Weightlifting Wrestling Please, select your favourite sport and dream about it as you please. Note down your ideas down here:

El verano en la ciudad / Summertime in the city

Summertime / El verano

Here comes summer
Here comes summer
Chirping Robins, budding roses
Here comes summer
Here comes summer
Gentle showers, summer clothes
Here comes summer
Here comes summer
Whoosh-shiver there it goes

Faith Long

El verano que empieza…

El solsticio de verano,
las hogueras de San Juan
Eran días de verano,
dice la canción de Amaral…
Y soñamos con el verde
de los bosques, la espesura;
de los robles, la verdura
de la montaña.

Con los duendes
Como Puck,
Del Sueño de
una noche de verano,
Con las amapolas
silvestres
de los campos;
de trigo

Con la apacible
sonrisa del amigo;
con la dulce canción
del agua; con
las golondrinas,
Que planean
Sobre nuestras
más que ajetreadas
Existencias.

El verano que empieza
es como un sueño,
una promesa,
Un manantial
Transparente,
Para mí,
para ti,
y querría que lo fuera
para los seres humanos
todos, sin otro color
que el verde
de la naturaleza.
Mari Carmen López

Summer time!

Summer Poem

Summer brings us nice warm sun
For swimming, fishing, and lots of fun
For finding seashells in the sand
For sunbathing to get a tan
To do all these things and more
At the beach and seashore

Summer Comes Poem

The Little darling Spring has run away
The sunshine grew too hot for her to stay
She kissed her sister, Summer,and she said
"When I am gone, you must be queen instead"
Now reigns the Lady Summer, round whose feet
A thousand fairies flock with blossoms sweet.

Bed In Summer Poem

In winter I get up at night,
And dress by yellow candle light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day,

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown up people's feet
Still going past me in the street,

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

by Robert Louis Stevenson