Part 1
My favourite extract was the one from One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson. The reason I enjoyed and was engaged by this extract was because of the way Atkinson describes the character. She seems very empathetic with him and at same time delivers a subtle undertone of scrutiny. All in all, you get a pretty 3D view of Martin considering the minor size of the extract.
Part 2- The End of the Tunnel.
Jitters, quite small, quite abrupt, quite comical jitters. He smoked his toothpick like cigarette in one hand as his other hovered, filtering the steam from his peppermint tea. A mixture of quick and deep breaths misted the cold, brittle glass in front of him. He stubbed the remaining tobacco ponderingly into the gritty residue at the bottom of the mug below him. As each footstep resonated off the concrete, each gasp became more filled with excitement.
A silhouette blocked the light at the end of the subway. She didn’t worry. She pounded her streets comfortably, humming along with tinny sound coming from her jewel-like earphones. She saw the silhouette jerk, twice. She didn’t worry. A couple of gasps exceeded the volume of her music. She clutched her belt. As the silhouette came into focus, she saw its hands clench and unclench rapidly. She started to recognise the white contours of its coat and the shimmery plastic boots. She inhaled. Its expressionless face glanced at her as it passed. She exhaled. Hot breath misted her neck.
As he descended the steps for the last time, he smirked and grimaced consecutively. His jowls shook as his mood changed. Light from the party on the first floor gleamed off his head. He had nicked a couple of Iceland chicken satay skewers and a Stella from the party. It was his party anyway. His mind kept telling him that he needed one last time to prove himself. He hated himself for that. He thought that laying on cooked from frozen Chinese food and alcohol would help accompany a suitable send off. It wasn’t. A gasp echoed loudly towards him. His instincts took hold. He leapt into the arch at the front of the tunnel. It still buzzed. There was nothing there.
Showing posts with label Task 37. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Task 37. Show all posts
Saturday, 21 March 2009
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Englishguru Analysis 1: Lilmiz (Task 37)
Each fortnight, from now on, I will comment in detail on ONE attempt myself, as a separate blog post. Although it is my hope that ALL of you are reading and learning from the moderating comments on other people's work each fortnight as well as your own, I thought it would be useful for you all if I picked apart one piece publicly, for all to see and in particular detail. N.B. Thanks in advance to lilmiz, who has unknowingly become the first 'volunteer' for this analysis.
Here goes...
A pedantic (i.e. fussy) point about the following sentence: "the rest" of your family is singular, and so the verb would be "was", rather than "were". The next sentence just needs one syntactical change: put "Clinging on to my terrified younger sister," at the very start of the sentence. By the way, I love the paradox (i.e. situation that doesn't quite fit together) here: your parents (whose role is to protect) "clinging" on to their "terrified" daughter (rather than shielding her): this really emphasises the scope of the fear felt by the whole family. Finally, the last two sentences work very well indeed - in their simplicity and in their similarity: a good use of contrast, again, with the complexity directly beforehand.
I don't know if it is deliberate, but you have made excellent use of the "rule of three" (don't know if you have studied rhetorical devices like this in your English lessons?) in the next sentence; but I would change "without taking note of our belongings stretched out on the floor" slightly, to something like "apart from the sprawling pattern our strewn belongings etched on the floor". Again, I have taken a quite ordinary clause and enriched it with alliteration, metaphor and personification; important not to overuse these devices, but, equally, don't let them languish underused. Finally, I like the simple final sentence here - for the same reason I have liked your contrast of short and long sentences elsewhere so far: a very useful technique.
I don't like "It was a distressing catastrophe" at all, I am afraid. It is too 'in your face', too unsubtle, and leaves little to the imagination. Think about what you are actually trying to get across here: the fact that you were there! And think how you can get across that realisation, that 'dawning' that you were at the centre of a massive natural disaster, and that you were lucky to have survived. How about something really simple instead like: "How easily it could have been 24!" Do you see what I mean?
All in all, therefore, I think your account is full of excellent writing, and I especially like the way you speed up and slow down events through long and short sentences. There is sophistication to much of what you write, and don't let the detail of my comments make you feel it isn't any good, because it IS! Just make sure your writing is never 'ordinary', remembering how useful metaphor can be in avoiding such a fate; and keep working on those complex and compound sentences, ensuring the syntax is spot on.
I hope this analysis has been helpful - to you and, indeed, to the other workshoppers - and I am really grateful to you for, unwittingly, being the first 'victim' of one of my in-depth analyses. Each week, I shall pick apart ONE attempt in this way, so that you can ALL learn from a comprehensive dissection of an attempt at the task. If anyone particularly wants to go next, just let me know.
Here goes...
Strike!An intriguing title - suggesting any one of the following: people refusing to work; a football game; a military invasion; or some other sort of 'attack'. I like the dramatic ambiguity here.
My family and I were in Guatemala enjoying our holiday but something precarious occurred.This first sentence is a little disappointing: it just smacks of the ordinary, that's all. The one interesting word here - "precarious" - is even rather tame, suggestive of mild danger as opposed to anything more interesting than that. I think this first sentence demonstrates where many of this week's attempts floundered a little: the minute I asked you all for 'travel writing', too many of you slipped into Primary School, autobiography mode, forgetting that non-fiction can benefit from a creative use of language just as much as any piece of fiction.
On August 20th at 20:46 we experienced an earthquake. It was striking, astonishing and perilous with everything drastically moving and shaking, it felt like being on a miniature boat in a storm. It was something that’s been welded in to my memory, trapped in my mind.I like the directness of the first sentence here; the details of the specific date and time land us there ourselves as a reader. However, the group of three adjectives at the start of the next sentence seem a little forced and artificial - one would have done. Also, the syntax (sentence structure) of this sentence could be refined a little: try putting "and," after "perilous", thereby turning "with everything drastically moving and shaking" into a separate clause and reinforcing the simile at the end. On the subject of which, I was really pleased to see your first use of figurative language in this piece: however, I would have emphasised the smallness of your human experience amid giant nature by balancing out "miniature boat" with something like "gargantuan storm". I really like the metaphors in the final sentence - especially the idea of memories being "welded", so apt for an account of events linked to the earth's core.
Fear fiercely filched firm grip of me, my heart pulsating out of control. I took a well needed deep breath, and sprung in to apprehensive action. Firstly I rushed to my bed and got my pillow, this would protect my head from any falling rubble, I then scutled to the corner away from the window and the tall oak door this would protect me from shards of glass or wood. I was well protected. I was safe. I briefly looked to see if the rest of my family were out of harm's way. My parents clinging on to my terrified younger sister were taking shelter underneath the dining table. They were well sheltered. They were safe and sound.Your piece is definitely warming up now, and I love the energy of this first sentence, rich in alliteration and metaphor. Not sure the first phrase completely makes sense though: "filched" is a quite old-fashioned word meaning "thieved" or "stole", and I am not sure it fits here. How about something like "Fear fixed me in its fierce grip..."? There's nothing actually wrong with "apprehensive action", but I'm just not sure it completely works: springing "into action" does not sound like an "apprehensive" move to me, that's all. The next sentence has loads of potential, but, again, the syntax needs some work. Look at my redraft here, and see how I have managed to refine the syntax to create a highly effective, complex/compound sentence: "Firstly, I rushed to my bed and got my pillow, to protect my head from any falling rubble, and scuttled to the corner which, away from the window and the tall oak door, would shield me from shards of glass or wood." See also how I have found a synonym for "protect" to avoid unnecessary repetition. I love the simplicity and brevity of the next sentence, fantastic contrast with the sprawling danger of the long sentence before.
A pedantic (i.e. fussy) point about the following sentence: "the rest" of your family is singular, and so the verb would be "was", rather than "were". The next sentence just needs one syntactical change: put "Clinging on to my terrified younger sister," at the very start of the sentence. By the way, I love the paradox (i.e. situation that doesn't quite fit together) here: your parents (whose role is to protect) "clinging" on to their "terrified" daughter (rather than shielding her): this really emphasises the scope of the fear felt by the whole family. Finally, the last two sentences work very well indeed - in their simplicity and in their similarity: a good use of contrast, again, with the complexity directly beforehand.
The whole thing lasted for an extremely hazardous, prolonged hour. But it had passed and I was safe, my family were safe and there was no damage to our holiday home- without taking note of our belongings stretched out on the floor. What a relief!My issue with the first sentence here is, again, with the adjectives. Whilst it is true that adjectives can give essential depth to any writing, like extra shades on the writer's palette, sometimes they can seem a little extraneous (i.e. surplus to requirements), and sometimes a more figurative approach can work better. How about something like: "The next hour hung interminably, danger infusing the dusty air." See how I have made time metaphorical, and personified the danger you wanted to emphasise. I have said the same thing as "an extremely hazardous, prolonged hour", but to richer, more creative (and, therefore, more successful) effect.
I don't know if it is deliberate, but you have made excellent use of the "rule of three" (don't know if you have studied rhetorical devices like this in your English lessons?) in the next sentence; but I would change "without taking note of our belongings stretched out on the floor" slightly, to something like "apart from the sprawling pattern our strewn belongings etched on the floor". Again, I have taken a quite ordinary clause and enriched it with alliteration, metaphor and personification; important not to overuse these devices, but, equally, don't let them languish underused. Finally, I like the simple final sentence here - for the same reason I have liked your contrast of short and long sentences elsewhere so far: a very useful technique.
Several days later we were all sitting on the couch, around the T.V watching the news and we came to know that Mexico was hit by an earthquake of 7.6 on the Richter scale and more than 20 people died! It was a distressing catastrophe.You will not be surprised to learn that the first sentence here is let down by its syntax, but could be saved so easily as follows: "Several days later, sitting on the couch around the TV news, we came to know that Mexico had been hit by an earthquake of 7.6 on the Richter scale and more than 20 people had died." Apart from my use of the 'pluperfect' tense (i.e. "had"), the only other change I have made is to turn the details of the TV news into a sub-clause, thereby firming up the structure of the whole sentence.
I don't like "It was a distressing catastrophe" at all, I am afraid. It is too 'in your face', too unsubtle, and leaves little to the imagination. Think about what you are actually trying to get across here: the fact that you were there! And think how you can get across that realisation, that 'dawning' that you were at the centre of a massive natural disaster, and that you were lucky to have survived. How about something really simple instead like: "How easily it could have been 24!" Do you see what I mean?
There are two major fault lines that go through Guatemala, so the country has a lot of seismic activity.I don't think the rest of your piece is necessary here, personally. Whilst I see what you are doing - giving us factual detail about your destination AND finishing with an echo of your phrase from the start of your account - I think the whole piece would be SO much better were you to finish at the end of the "Several days later" paragraph. Sometimes, detail is necessary; but, sometimes, less can truly be more. And if that were to leave the overall piece below the expected word count, then maybe return to the quake itself, and see what extra detail you could have added there?
The volcano Fuego erupts several times per day, it sends immense clouds of smoke abating high into the sky. It is the only active volcano of the three that surround Guatemala and it is especially impressive. The first time I saw it, I stopped in ore and took some photographs, but the locals continued with their business as if nothing was happening! But we’d gotten used to it as well and only stopped to watch on occasion. At night, it was possible to see red hot lava erupt from the volcano, the best place to see this, is from café Sky. A cafe that is located on a roof of a building near a school, from where you have a magnificent, picturesque view over the town and the surrounding volcanoes.
Antigua Guatemala, as the full name of this town goes, was the capital of Guatemala (actually the entire Spanish colony covering what is now Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Honduras and parts of Mexico) until it was hit by an earthquake in 1773. The entire town was destroyed and in 1776 the capital was moved to Guatemala City, hence the name Antigua Guatemala, which means ancient Guatemala.
On August 20th at 20:46 we experienced an earthquake. It was striking, astonishing and perilous. It was something that’s been welded in to my memory, trapped in my mind.
All in all, therefore, I think your account is full of excellent writing, and I especially like the way you speed up and slow down events through long and short sentences. There is sophistication to much of what you write, and don't let the detail of my comments make you feel it isn't any good, because it IS! Just make sure your writing is never 'ordinary', remembering how useful metaphor can be in avoiding such a fate; and keep working on those complex and compound sentences, ensuring the syntax is spot on.
I hope this analysis has been helpful - to you and, indeed, to the other workshoppers - and I am really grateful to you for, unwittingly, being the first 'victim' of one of my in-depth analyses. Each week, I shall pick apart ONE attempt in this way, so that you can ALL learn from a comprehensive dissection of an attempt at the task. If anyone particularly wants to go next, just let me know.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
part 1&2 task travel literature the crulest journey
WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE EXTRACT
I choose this extract because I thought it was interesting and i liked the way it used the English tools such as,figurative language e.g, The journey to Timbuktu binds me, it kidnaps and drugs me. It deceives me” this makes it more interesting because it makes you want to read on an because even though metaphor's were used it still gets its point across in it original form. I also like the way it used personification and similes e.g a river of smoothest glass, a placidity unbroken by wave or eddy, with islands of lush greenery awaiting me like distant Xanadus. Because it makes the sentence more interesting to read.
HOW I NEARLY DIED AT 11 yrs old
I nearly died at 11 yrs old and I'm going to tell you how it arose..................
Its was 3rd of June 2006 I had got up at 7.30 looked outside the window I knew it was going to be a hot summers day because the sun was already beaming down at all the houses on cockerel Rd. So from then I started to get ready for school, I already knew my mum was up because I could smell the sent of sizzling Bacon on the frying pan. As I went into the bathroom to wash my face my mother shouted up the stairs ''Hun breakfast is ready''. In a haste to eat my food i ran down the stairs like a flash of light and into the kitchen I went, to enjoy my delious breakfast. After I had finished I got my bag and set out for school.
As soon as I arrived at school the bell was just about to go so I went to my class 6b. As I got into the class I sat down in my chair and waited for the teacher, when the teacher Mr Backston entered the room everyone stood behind their chairs and welcomed him, after that everyone sat down and waited for their names to be called out in the register. when the morning commotion 'as i called it' finished, the teacher started to read out the names of those who was definitely going to Sicily in the summer holidays with the school. You wouldn't have to be a rocket scientist to work that I was going to be one of the lucky ones that would be picked to go to Sicily. Its was quite obvious I was going to get picked because i was the first to bring in my slip. When I was told that I was going to Sicily my heart lit up like a candle flame in a pitch black cave. I was so happy and I was certain that i would not let anything stop me from going.
It was coming to the end of school and Mr Backston had pulled me to one side to tell me that I was to be at school at 7.30 in the morning on the day that we would be leaving to go to Sicily.
when I got home I had told my mother that I was one of the lucky ones and straight away she knew what that meant. It was like she had read my mind like a physic person.
It was the night before we would leave to go to Sicily and I was so excited and had so much energy like a bag of jumping jelly beans.
As I turned on the hot tap it roared at me like a tiger in a circus but it didn't bother me because I wasn't thinking about that I was just thinking about setting off in the enormous plane.
When I got into my bed I slowly started to drift off to sleep as I was exhausted from jumping about.
It wasn't even fifteen minutes I had been sleeping for before I woke up. I looked at the time and it read 10.15pm, and I thought to myself this could only mean one thing I was wheezy so I asked my mum for my blue asthma pump took two puffs of it and then went back to my bed. Five minutes later I woke up but this time I could hardly breath so I went back down stairs took two puffs of my blue inhaler and then went back to bed.
I woke up again but this this time I was having an asthma attack but it wasn't like one of my ordinary ones it was worst .I couldn't breath. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I was terrified. My chest felt like a vice winding around and around but each time it turned it got tighter. I couldn't even call for help. I didn't have the strength and I couldn't take the pain. Why did this have to happen now ?. My mum was coming up the stairs to say goodnight to me but when she came into my room she got a shock, it had looked like I was dead because I had no colour in my cheeks and tears where just rolling down my face like a water fountain. As soon as my mum saw me like this she called the ambulance straight away.
When the ambulance came they put me in the van and started to medicate on me but before I knew it I passed out from the excruciating pain........................
I choose this extract because I thought it was interesting and i liked the way it used the English tools such as,figurative language e.g, The journey to Timbuktu binds me, it kidnaps and drugs me. It deceives me” this makes it more interesting because it makes you want to read on an because even though metaphor's were used it still gets its point across in it original form. I also like the way it used personification and similes e.g a river of smoothest glass, a placidity unbroken by wave or eddy, with islands of lush greenery awaiting me like distant Xanadus. Because it makes the sentence more interesting to read.
HOW I NEARLY DIED AT 11 yrs old
I nearly died at 11 yrs old and I'm going to tell you how it arose..................
Its was 3rd of June 2006 I had got up at 7.30 looked outside the window I knew it was going to be a hot summers day because the sun was already beaming down at all the houses on cockerel Rd. So from then I started to get ready for school, I already knew my mum was up because I could smell the sent of sizzling Bacon on the frying pan. As I went into the bathroom to wash my face my mother shouted up the stairs ''Hun breakfast is ready''. In a haste to eat my food i ran down the stairs like a flash of light and into the kitchen I went, to enjoy my delious breakfast. After I had finished I got my bag and set out for school.
As soon as I arrived at school the bell was just about to go so I went to my class 6b. As I got into the class I sat down in my chair and waited for the teacher, when the teacher Mr Backston entered the room everyone stood behind their chairs and welcomed him, after that everyone sat down and waited for their names to be called out in the register. when the morning commotion 'as i called it' finished, the teacher started to read out the names of those who was definitely going to Sicily in the summer holidays with the school. You wouldn't have to be a rocket scientist to work that I was going to be one of the lucky ones that would be picked to go to Sicily. Its was quite obvious I was going to get picked because i was the first to bring in my slip. When I was told that I was going to Sicily my heart lit up like a candle flame in a pitch black cave. I was so happy and I was certain that i would not let anything stop me from going.
It was coming to the end of school and Mr Backston had pulled me to one side to tell me that I was to be at school at 7.30 in the morning on the day that we would be leaving to go to Sicily.
when I got home I had told my mother that I was one of the lucky ones and straight away she knew what that meant. It was like she had read my mind like a physic person.
It was the night before we would leave to go to Sicily and I was so excited and had so much energy like a bag of jumping jelly beans.
As I turned on the hot tap it roared at me like a tiger in a circus but it didn't bother me because I wasn't thinking about that I was just thinking about setting off in the enormous plane.
When I got into my bed I slowly started to drift off to sleep as I was exhausted from jumping about.
It wasn't even fifteen minutes I had been sleeping for before I woke up. I looked at the time and it read 10.15pm, and I thought to myself this could only mean one thing I was wheezy so I asked my mum for my blue asthma pump took two puffs of it and then went back to my bed. Five minutes later I woke up but this time I could hardly breath so I went back down stairs took two puffs of my blue inhaler and then went back to bed.
I woke up again but this this time I was having an asthma attack but it wasn't like one of my ordinary ones it was worst .I couldn't breath. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I was terrified. My chest felt like a vice winding around and around but each time it turned it got tighter. I couldn't even call for help. I didn't have the strength and I couldn't take the pain. Why did this have to happen now ?. My mum was coming up the stairs to say goodnight to me but when she came into my room she got a shock, it had looked like I was dead because I had no colour in my cheeks and tears where just rolling down my face like a water fountain. As soon as my mum saw me like this she called the ambulance straight away.
When the ambulance came they put me in the van and started to medicate on me but before I knew it I passed out from the excruciating pain........................
My Trip To The Middle East!
Part 1- The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard (1922)
I picked this extract because as soon as I began reading It just got me In to It and kept me reading. When I started the second paragraph it was really interesting, and it made me feel as If I was there, for example "The cracks went off all round us, and some of them ran along for hundreds of yards." This was great: it made me feel the tension and it also put me in the mood where I would just carry on reading that I would just never be willing to stop. I think this extract is a great piece of travel literature.
Part 2 - My Trip To The Middle East
The first evening of the summer holidays was around, as I was enjoying my lovely dinner. I was really delighted about the holidays as I was wishing to be going on my first "hopeful" luxurious vacation. But instead my mother came trotting along telling me I was on my way to the MIDDLE EAST.
I was In despair, I thought I would have been on my way to the likes of Spain and Italy. I have never experienced the Middle East, well In fact I have never heard of the Middle East. Well The only thing that I heard from my mates was that there was some high developed nations and many low developed nations. I was likely to be flying to the low developed. The news was I would be at the U.A.E United Arab Emirates.
Two days later, In Heathrow Airport, me and my mother, we had our luggage, passports and boarding tickets ready as we were on our way to the U.A.E, We were ready to fly, I was really excited about this new experience.
We arrived at U.A.E as my whole body was aching after that eight hours flight.
As soon as I got out the airport the first thing that I felt was the high humidity level and the Sun glaring at me with force. I could not last here with this boiling weather, but other than that it was a wonderful place to be with enormous skyscrapers, great five star hotels and exotic beaches at every coast. I could live my life here, but an issue was adapting to the weather and also understanding the language.
My first and only week was fascinating,
I always enjoyed going to the South end beach, but this was more than the British sea sides , It had everything you could think of, The greatest theme park I have ever seen it was almost the size of my hometown. I always wanted a life like this and my Mother showed me how wonderful it felt, I went to the shopping centre in the capital city Abu Dhabi. It was the size of the greater London, I was shell shocked I never knew I was going to be expecting this.
The people were scattering every where like a herd of sheep being chased by a shepherd dog. I made the most of my time at the centre, I was buying a lot of gifts for family and friends at home as I was also buying some traditional things such as a Thobe which I was really interested in.
But that was it for my time at the U.A.E, and that memory will never be forgotten.
I picked this extract because as soon as I began reading It just got me In to It and kept me reading. When I started the second paragraph it was really interesting, and it made me feel as If I was there, for example "The cracks went off all round us, and some of them ran along for hundreds of yards." This was great: it made me feel the tension and it also put me in the mood where I would just carry on reading that I would just never be willing to stop. I think this extract is a great piece of travel literature.
Part 2 - My Trip To The Middle East
The first evening of the summer holidays was around, as I was enjoying my lovely dinner. I was really delighted about the holidays as I was wishing to be going on my first "hopeful" luxurious vacation. But instead my mother came trotting along telling me I was on my way to the MIDDLE EAST.
I was In despair, I thought I would have been on my way to the likes of Spain and Italy. I have never experienced the Middle East, well In fact I have never heard of the Middle East. Well The only thing that I heard from my mates was that there was some high developed nations and many low developed nations. I was likely to be flying to the low developed. The news was I would be at the U.A.E United Arab Emirates.
Two days later, In Heathrow Airport, me and my mother, we had our luggage, passports and boarding tickets ready as we were on our way to the U.A.E, We were ready to fly, I was really excited about this new experience.
We arrived at U.A.E as my whole body was aching after that eight hours flight.
As soon as I got out the airport the first thing that I felt was the high humidity level and the Sun glaring at me with force. I could not last here with this boiling weather, but other than that it was a wonderful place to be with enormous skyscrapers, great five star hotels and exotic beaches at every coast. I could live my life here, but an issue was adapting to the weather and also understanding the language.
My first and only week was fascinating,
I always enjoyed going to the South end beach, but this was more than the British sea sides , It had everything you could think of, The greatest theme park I have ever seen it was almost the size of my hometown. I always wanted a life like this and my Mother showed me how wonderful it felt, I went to the shopping centre in the capital city Abu Dhabi. It was the size of the greater London, I was shell shocked I never knew I was going to be expecting this.
The people were scattering every where like a herd of sheep being chased by a shepherd dog. I made the most of my time at the centre, I was buying a lot of gifts for family and friends at home as I was also buying some traditional things such as a Thobe which I was really interested in.
But that was it for my time at the U.A.E, and that memory will never be forgotten.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
From Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson (1995)
From Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson (1995)
I love this extract as Bryson's attention to detail is original, comical yet true and therfore makes the reader think about what they have just read. The little facts such as "father ejaculated (and frankly he did it quite a lot) he produced roughly 25 million spermatozoa" are rather comical but also true so it is a very effective way of telling the story. I also like the way it is broken into stages rather than just listed as it gives a structure to the story and works well as it means the author doesnt waffle as much.
Part 2
The sky resembled a giant whale, it was brilliantly blue with endless lines mapping its back. It was the most amazing place, untouched and unseen by most humans yet they had still managed to harm it, although thankfully, this was not visible. The world looked perfect and this was only the begining of my holiday.
The rain still poured, dampening my optimism as I gazed out of the window. It was empty. From here, London was empty, all that remained were those buildings tall enough to stand out from the crowd. The funnels, chimneys and buildings seemed so small in comparison to me. At 5'11 im no giant but I felt like God; like I could flick canary wharf and it would crush the Gherkin as though some giant trail of falling dominoes. Journeying further north, I came across my uncles work place, my school and the Eifel tower...huh? The Eifel tower is in Paris unless it was moved overnight. I am pretty sure it was not outside my school when I left yesterday . However mum is quick to clear up my confusion by reminding me we left the airport 20 minutes ago and were now flying over France.
The journey from London to Barcelona is short, so short that if you fall asleep and happen to gaze out the window having just left england, the masses of buildings, rivers and people all look the same. It is hard to distinguish the accents let alone the country. The sky is a blinker, a filter to my eyes, and from here everything seems the same. In this moment, I was reminded that despite the different nations, different eye colours and different shoe sizes, under the sky; we are all one. And barcelona was great by the way.
I love this extract as Bryson's attention to detail is original, comical yet true and therfore makes the reader think about what they have just read. The little facts such as "father ejaculated (and frankly he did it quite a lot) he produced roughly 25 million spermatozoa" are rather comical but also true so it is a very effective way of telling the story. I also like the way it is broken into stages rather than just listed as it gives a structure to the story and works well as it means the author doesnt waffle as much.
Part 2
The sky resembled a giant whale, it was brilliantly blue with endless lines mapping its back. It was the most amazing place, untouched and unseen by most humans yet they had still managed to harm it, although thankfully, this was not visible. The world looked perfect and this was only the begining of my holiday.
The rain still poured, dampening my optimism as I gazed out of the window. It was empty. From here, London was empty, all that remained were those buildings tall enough to stand out from the crowd. The funnels, chimneys and buildings seemed so small in comparison to me. At 5'11 im no giant but I felt like God; like I could flick canary wharf and it would crush the Gherkin as though some giant trail of falling dominoes. Journeying further north, I came across my uncles work place, my school and the Eifel tower...huh? The Eifel tower is in Paris unless it was moved overnight. I am pretty sure it was not outside my school when I left yesterday . However mum is quick to clear up my confusion by reminding me we left the airport 20 minutes ago and were now flying over France.
The journey from London to Barcelona is short, so short that if you fall asleep and happen to gaze out the window having just left england, the masses of buildings, rivers and people all look the same. It is hard to distinguish the accents let alone the country. The sky is a blinker, a filter to my eyes, and from here everything seems the same. In this moment, I was reminded that despite the different nations, different eye colours and different shoe sizes, under the sky; we are all one. And barcelona was great by the way.
Disneyland Parade
Part 1- The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard (1922)
I chose this extract because it not only made me want to read on but also kept me interested whilst reading it. The writer uses a good source of descriptive vocabulary, for example ‘The moon was showing a ghastly ragged mountainous edge above us in the fog’. This is a good way of keeping the reader hooked to your extract. I really enjoyed the way Apsley Cherry-Gerrard described the scenery; it gave me a good, clear picture of the scenery in my head.
Part 2-Disneyland Parade
The darkness of the night and the icy cold breeze had consumed us. Every inch of the sidewalk was crowded with frozen bodies, huddled up for warmth. The only clear place left was the road, the road the parade was going to take place on. I struggled with the never-ending rope of people, the obstacle that kept me from my destination. You could almost taste the excitement coming from the atmosphere. I grew more and more impatient as I struggled through the crowd, annoyance was making itself visible. My mother’s voice broke me free from my silent cursing. She beckoned me towards herself and I followed obediently.
There at the opening she had found I saw the road, the road where it was going to take place. Other children’s cries of joy echoed in my ears as I waited. Next to me, people talked in an alien tongue; it almost sounded as if they were arguing. Across the road, I saw someone selling flashing lights; I was amazed at how the colours changed from red to blue to purple...etc. There were other’s selling hats, cloaks, teddies and other small childish things, things I wanted back then.
All of a sudden, a huge round of applause broke loose, startling me. All my anticipation had paid off. The parade had finally started. I heard it from the distance, not being able to see it yet. The appraising crowds' applause had made it impossible to hear the music. A short and agonizing minute later a light had caught my attention, it was the first lot of floats. The floats shone brightly as they passed. Some were of Disney characters like the seven dwarves or Cinderella. The way everything was set out amazed me. The way the dancer’s had followed so gracefully to the way the shrouded ones had scared me.
I chose this extract because it not only made me want to read on but also kept me interested whilst reading it. The writer uses a good source of descriptive vocabulary, for example ‘The moon was showing a ghastly ragged mountainous edge above us in the fog’. This is a good way of keeping the reader hooked to your extract. I really enjoyed the way Apsley Cherry-Gerrard described the scenery; it gave me a good, clear picture of the scenery in my head.
Part 2-Disneyland Parade
The darkness of the night and the icy cold breeze had consumed us. Every inch of the sidewalk was crowded with frozen bodies, huddled up for warmth. The only clear place left was the road, the road the parade was going to take place on. I struggled with the never-ending rope of people, the obstacle that kept me from my destination. You could almost taste the excitement coming from the atmosphere. I grew more and more impatient as I struggled through the crowd, annoyance was making itself visible. My mother’s voice broke me free from my silent cursing. She beckoned me towards herself and I followed obediently.
There at the opening she had found I saw the road, the road where it was going to take place. Other children’s cries of joy echoed in my ears as I waited. Next to me, people talked in an alien tongue; it almost sounded as if they were arguing. Across the road, I saw someone selling flashing lights; I was amazed at how the colours changed from red to blue to purple...etc. There were other’s selling hats, cloaks, teddies and other small childish things, things I wanted back then.
All of a sudden, a huge round of applause broke loose, startling me. All my anticipation had paid off. The parade had finally started. I heard it from the distance, not being able to see it yet. The appraising crowds' applause had made it impossible to hear the music. A short and agonizing minute later a light had caught my attention, it was the first lot of floats. The floats shone brightly as they passed. Some were of Disney characters like the seven dwarves or Cinderella. The way everything was set out amazed me. The way the dancer’s had followed so gracefully to the way the shrouded ones had scared me.
PART 1:The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard PART 2: Strike!
The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard (1922)
I chose The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard because this excerpt was very effectual, using a lot of descriptive writing about the entire landscape, appearance and ambience.
I found Apsley Cherry-Gerrard's writing evocative and enthralling even though it is nearly eighty years since it was written. The story is told with openness, honesty and great attention to detail.
Apsley started in one of the most intriguing ways possible- starting with a problem personally, I think this is a perfect way to start a story because it instantly catches the reader’s attention and makes them want to read more.
This Excerpt was grippingly stupefying. I thoroughly enjoyed this excerpt it was mind-bogglingly excellent!!
I chose The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard because this excerpt was very effectual, using a lot of descriptive writing about the entire landscape, appearance and ambience.
I found Apsley Cherry-Gerrard's writing evocative and enthralling even though it is nearly eighty years since it was written. The story is told with openness, honesty and great attention to detail.
Apsley started in one of the most intriguing ways possible- starting with a problem personally, I think this is a perfect way to start a story because it instantly catches the reader’s attention and makes them want to read more.
This Excerpt was grippingly stupefying. I thoroughly enjoyed this excerpt it was mind-bogglingly excellent!!
Strike!
My family and I were in Guatemala enjoying our holiday but something precarious occurred.
On August 20th at 20:46 we experienced an earthquake. It was striking, astonishing and perilous with everything drastically moving and shaking, it felt like being on a miniature boat in a storm. It was something that’s been welded in to my memory, trapped in my mind.
Fear fiercely filched firm grip of me, my heart pulsating out of control. I took a well needed deep breath, and sprung in to apprehensive action. Firstly I rushed to my bed and got my pillow, this would protect my head from any falling rubble, I then scutled to the corner away from the window and the tall oak door this would protect me from shards of glass or wood. I was well protected. I was safe. I briefly looked to see if the rest of my family were out of harm's way. My parents clinging on to my terrified younger sister were taking shelter underneath the dining table. They were well sheltered. They were safe and sound.
The whole thing lasted for an extremely hazardous, prolonged hour. But it had passed and I was safe, my family were safe and there was no damage to our holiday home- without taking note of our belongings stretched out on the floor. What a relief!
Several days later we were all sitting on the couch, around the T.V watching the news and we came to know that Mexico was hit by an earthquake of 7.6 on the Richter scale and more than 20 people died! It was a distressing catastrophe.
There are two major fault lines that go through Guatemala, so the country has a lot of seismic activity.
The volcano Fuego erupts several times per day, it sends immense clouds of smoke abating high into the sky. It is the only active volcano of the three that surround Guatemala and it is especially impressive. The first time I saw it, I stopped in ore and took some photographs, but the locals continued with their business as if nothing was happening! But we’d gotten used to it as well and only stopped to watch on occasion. At night, it was possible to see red hot lava erupt from the volcano, the best place to see this, is from café Sky. A cafe that is located on a roof of a building near a school, from where you have a magnificent, picturesque view over the town and the surrounding volcanoes.
Antigua Guatemala, as the full name of this town goes, was the capital of Guatemala (actually the entire Spanish colony covering what is now Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Honduras and parts of Mexico) until it was hit by an earthquake in 1773. The entire town was destroyed and in 1776 the capital was moved to Guatemala City, hence the name Antigua Guatemala, which means ancient Guatemala.
On August 20th at 20:46 we experienced an earthquake. It was striking, astonishing and perilous. It was something that’s been welded in to my memory, trapped in my mind.
On August 20th at 20:46 we experienced an earthquake. It was striking, astonishing and perilous with everything drastically moving and shaking, it felt like being on a miniature boat in a storm. It was something that’s been welded in to my memory, trapped in my mind.
Fear fiercely filched firm grip of me, my heart pulsating out of control. I took a well needed deep breath, and sprung in to apprehensive action. Firstly I rushed to my bed and got my pillow, this would protect my head from any falling rubble, I then scutled to the corner away from the window and the tall oak door this would protect me from shards of glass or wood. I was well protected. I was safe. I briefly looked to see if the rest of my family were out of harm's way. My parents clinging on to my terrified younger sister were taking shelter underneath the dining table. They were well sheltered. They were safe and sound.
The whole thing lasted for an extremely hazardous, prolonged hour. But it had passed and I was safe, my family were safe and there was no damage to our holiday home- without taking note of our belongings stretched out on the floor. What a relief!
Several days later we were all sitting on the couch, around the T.V watching the news and we came to know that Mexico was hit by an earthquake of 7.6 on the Richter scale and more than 20 people died! It was a distressing catastrophe.
There are two major fault lines that go through Guatemala, so the country has a lot of seismic activity.
The volcano Fuego erupts several times per day, it sends immense clouds of smoke abating high into the sky. It is the only active volcano of the three that surround Guatemala and it is especially impressive. The first time I saw it, I stopped in ore and took some photographs, but the locals continued with their business as if nothing was happening! But we’d gotten used to it as well and only stopped to watch on occasion. At night, it was possible to see red hot lava erupt from the volcano, the best place to see this, is from café Sky. A cafe that is located on a roof of a building near a school, from where you have a magnificent, picturesque view over the town and the surrounding volcanoes.
Antigua Guatemala, as the full name of this town goes, was the capital of Guatemala (actually the entire Spanish colony covering what is now Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Honduras and parts of Mexico) until it was hit by an earthquake in 1773. The entire town was destroyed and in 1776 the capital was moved to Guatemala City, hence the name Antigua Guatemala, which means ancient Guatemala.
On August 20th at 20:46 we experienced an earthquake. It was striking, astonishing and perilous. It was something that’s been welded in to my memory, trapped in my mind.
Part 1.
Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson.
The reason I absolutely adore this extract is as follows. Firstly I love the blunt sense of humour Bryson encapsulates through his British Holiday Genre. I love the whit involved in this piece aswell, and recognise that it is all to easy when attempting this genre to over/under do the piece you are writing. The underlying skill on Bryson's behalf is remarkable, he could get carried away in this piece and lose thread, yet he demonstrates control and composure throughout the piece. This bare simplicity is the reason why I have chosen to base my piece around Bryson's 'Notes From A Small Island'.
Only in Angleterre.
As a 12 year old adolescent boy. The appeal of a holiday was nearly non-existent, and when my mum finally plucked up the courage to attempt the infamous 'pack your bags' line, I replied in the only way a monosyllabic 12 year old is capable of, 'why?'.
On that cold, damp and rather unpleasant Sunday morning, I did something that, it would seem, only the British are capable of. I arrived at Stansted's check in desk , with all 23kg of my allowed luggage, 5 hours before 'Ms. Plastic Fantastic 1986' even attempts to call a boarding announcement. I then do what all 'time unconscious' British people do when stuck in an airport, I turned to seek salvation in the Duty Free. Surely only god could be capable of creating such a place! With countless OAPs stuffing their suitcases with thousands of carcinogenic cigarettes, the overpowering smell of 'Blue Jeans' contaminates my nostrils and most annoying of all, we have the crying baby, no real Duty Free is complete without at least one! So I decide to take a walk to Mr. Mugabe's arcade. The only arcade I know of that distracts you with flashing, whirly things, and then runs off with your wallet.
So, now when I walk back to mother and tell her I've been robbed by an arcade, she's not impressed. We now do another typically British thing, that all families do at the airport, we decide to ignore each other. I go one way, she goes the other. Yet it soon becomes apparent this won't keep us apart, mainly because the only respectable shop contained within this cesspit is some stagnant pool of dribble by the name of 'Superdrug'. Which, contrary to its 'promising' name, completely dulls my sensual awareness to a point of near extinction.
The only thing that keeps me alive during this soul destroying period is the hope of hearing the infamous 'boarding call'. This very single thing, promises salvation to the typical beer swilling, sandal wearing, speedo-clad backpackers. When Ms. Plastic Fantastic finally does decide to stop mutilating her face and make the all important 'boarding announcement', the British defy Darwin's theory of Evolution. We suddenly evolve into ecstasy-induced beasts! The sprint to the boarding gates is on, only the fittest will survive, granny gets the bags, as the family sprints for their reserved seats.
Bruised but not beaten, we get our seats, I beg mother for the seat by the window so I don't go completely mad in this flying tin can, she accepts and we sit down. I take the opportunity to familiarise myself with my surroundings and notice a respectable looking couple and child position themselves in the seats behind me. As the rumble of the engines gradually increases, I finally start to unwind, allowing myself to claim back some well earned sleep, however my ears are kept awake by the intriguing sound of the child behind me and as I just turn around to see what the commotions about, he says he does not feel well.
Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson.
The reason I absolutely adore this extract is as follows. Firstly I love the blunt sense of humour Bryson encapsulates through his British Holiday Genre. I love the whit involved in this piece aswell, and recognise that it is all to easy when attempting this genre to over/under do the piece you are writing. The underlying skill on Bryson's behalf is remarkable, he could get carried away in this piece and lose thread, yet he demonstrates control and composure throughout the piece. This bare simplicity is the reason why I have chosen to base my piece around Bryson's 'Notes From A Small Island'.
Only in Angleterre.
As a 12 year old adolescent boy. The appeal of a holiday was nearly non-existent, and when my mum finally plucked up the courage to attempt the infamous 'pack your bags' line, I replied in the only way a monosyllabic 12 year old is capable of, 'why?'.
On that cold, damp and rather unpleasant Sunday morning, I did something that, it would seem, only the British are capable of. I arrived at Stansted's check in desk , with all 23kg of my allowed luggage, 5 hours before 'Ms. Plastic Fantastic 1986' even attempts to call a boarding announcement. I then do what all 'time unconscious' British people do when stuck in an airport, I turned to seek salvation in the Duty Free. Surely only god could be capable of creating such a place! With countless OAPs stuffing their suitcases with thousands of carcinogenic cigarettes, the overpowering smell of 'Blue Jeans' contaminates my nostrils and most annoying of all, we have the crying baby, no real Duty Free is complete without at least one! So I decide to take a walk to Mr. Mugabe's arcade. The only arcade I know of that distracts you with flashing, whirly things, and then runs off with your wallet.
So, now when I walk back to mother and tell her I've been robbed by an arcade, she's not impressed. We now do another typically British thing, that all families do at the airport, we decide to ignore each other. I go one way, she goes the other. Yet it soon becomes apparent this won't keep us apart, mainly because the only respectable shop contained within this cesspit is some stagnant pool of dribble by the name of 'Superdrug'. Which, contrary to its 'promising' name, completely dulls my sensual awareness to a point of near extinction.
The only thing that keeps me alive during this soul destroying period is the hope of hearing the infamous 'boarding call'. This very single thing, promises salvation to the typical beer swilling, sandal wearing, speedo-clad backpackers. When Ms. Plastic Fantastic finally does decide to stop mutilating her face and make the all important 'boarding announcement', the British defy Darwin's theory of Evolution. We suddenly evolve into ecstasy-induced beasts! The sprint to the boarding gates is on, only the fittest will survive, granny gets the bags, as the family sprints for their reserved seats.
Bruised but not beaten, we get our seats, I beg mother for the seat by the window so I don't go completely mad in this flying tin can, she accepts and we sit down. I take the opportunity to familiarise myself with my surroundings and notice a respectable looking couple and child position themselves in the seats behind me. As the rumble of the engines gradually increases, I finally start to unwind, allowing myself to claim back some well earned sleep, however my ears are kept awake by the intriguing sound of the child behind me and as I just turn around to see what the commotions about, he says he does not feel well.
My First Journey Ever!
Part 1
I enjoyed reading The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard as i found it quite fascinating and effective the way it included me in the text. It also uses quite a lot of emotive language and powerful punctuation for example "......." (Ellipsis)
Part 2
2 weeks before 17th February 2004, my mum and dad announced that we were going to England. I didn’t understand what they really meant, however I thought we might only be visiting .I knew it was going to be a great experience and a chance to at least explore most of the world. I and my sister couldn’t believe what we heard. We were full of excitement that we started jumping up and down. My brother, who was only 3 years old at that time didn’t know what on Earth was happening but copied what me and my sister were doing. As we started on the packing, my mum packed some of the new cutlery and pots and pans that she had bought. Why would she pack them if we were going on HOLIDAY? You are only supposed to pack clothes. I got over that, and my sister who was 9 years old helped me pack my bags. The night before the great day, most of my family came and slept over our house. It was really fun. The only thing I didn’t understand was why they were all saying ‘we are going to miss you’.
Dawn approached and the whole family woke up and got dressed. I helped carry the suitcases to the Beige Renault car. As my dad drove to the airport, we stopped at my primary school so I can give my best friends the last hug and the class my last goodbye.
When we arrived at the airport, my mum asked me to hug my aunties and uncles. One of my aunties started crying. Why was she crying and why did I have to say goodbye to my family and friends? That was another question I asked myself. My uncle accompanied us inside the airport where the security guards checked our luggage and led us to the body of the airport. There our passports and flight tickets got checked. We then had to say a finale goodbye to our uncle. We went through a white gate at the end of the airport where a blue and green bus took us near the plane. We jumped out and went in to the white and red plane. We departed at 10:30.While the plane was still hovering in the sky, I asked my mum the questions that were wondering inside my head. Her only answer was ‘we are going for good’
I sat on my seat quietly throughout the journey. I couldn’t talk. I didn’t know what happened to me as I knew I will be missing all my friends and family. As the plane embarked everyone stood up and started making their way out. I followed too behind my family. As I stepped out of the plane I asked my mum if she could tell me what ‘Hi’ was in English. She said I didn’t have to rush in starting to speak English.
This was the best journey I have ever had.
I enjoyed reading The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard as i found it quite fascinating and effective the way it included me in the text. It also uses quite a lot of emotive language and powerful punctuation for example "......." (Ellipsis)
Part 2
2 weeks before 17th February 2004, my mum and dad announced that we were going to England. I didn’t understand what they really meant, however I thought we might only be visiting .I knew it was going to be a great experience and a chance to at least explore most of the world. I and my sister couldn’t believe what we heard. We were full of excitement that we started jumping up and down. My brother, who was only 3 years old at that time didn’t know what on Earth was happening but copied what me and my sister were doing. As we started on the packing, my mum packed some of the new cutlery and pots and pans that she had bought. Why would she pack them if we were going on HOLIDAY? You are only supposed to pack clothes. I got over that, and my sister who was 9 years old helped me pack my bags. The night before the great day, most of my family came and slept over our house. It was really fun. The only thing I didn’t understand was why they were all saying ‘we are going to miss you’.
Dawn approached and the whole family woke up and got dressed. I helped carry the suitcases to the Beige Renault car. As my dad drove to the airport, we stopped at my primary school so I can give my best friends the last hug and the class my last goodbye.
When we arrived at the airport, my mum asked me to hug my aunties and uncles. One of my aunties started crying. Why was she crying and why did I have to say goodbye to my family and friends? That was another question I asked myself. My uncle accompanied us inside the airport where the security guards checked our luggage and led us to the body of the airport. There our passports and flight tickets got checked. We then had to say a finale goodbye to our uncle. We went through a white gate at the end of the airport where a blue and green bus took us near the plane. We jumped out and went in to the white and red plane. We departed at 10:30.While the plane was still hovering in the sky, I asked my mum the questions that were wondering inside my head. Her only answer was ‘we are going for good’
I sat on my seat quietly throughout the journey. I couldn’t talk. I didn’t know what happened to me as I knew I will be missing all my friends and family. As the plane embarked everyone stood up and started making their way out. I followed too behind my family. As I stepped out of the plane I asked my mum if she could tell me what ‘Hi’ was in English. She said I didn’t have to rush in starting to speak English.
This was the best journey I have ever had.
Task 37; Bajajs
Old Glory: A Voyage down the Mississippi by Jonathan Raban
There is always something about a story written in the first person that always grabs my attention. “I twiddled my way” alongside Raban in his voyage with great pleasure, enjoying the “corn and cattle” and “hilly landscape” that he could see out of his “mustard” window. Writing in the first person gives a story that sprinkle of personality which writing in third person can not. Although “we” and “us” can achieve an equally brilliant narration, “I”, the writer, and you, the reader, share a connection that can stand the strongest current – a current that carries the exciting adventure. A “presence” is created above the page, where the character’s thoughts and actions teach us something new about what they are feeling, and the progress they make on their journey.
Raban’s descriptive language is kept to a limit, and does not reach the heights of ‘over-the-top’. “Splayed limbs”, “noisy raids” and “bright lights” display Raban’s use of one-adjective with one-noun. Raban keeps his narration short and simple, which helps to confine his flock of actions into a neat and tidy narrative pen. The use of speech also helps to maintain the illusion of the present tense, and acts as a “song” that helps to stop the reader from falling “asleep”.
Bajajs
I can’t breathe.
The congestion is congesting my nasal passages, and the eco-disastrous Bajajs aren’t helping. Space is precious in a city like this, and the city is only so big. Judging from the vile smell that seems to follow me wherever I go, space for even the sewers is running out.
“Selamat Detang” was the first thing that my uncle’s old driver had said to me, baring his grime tanned teeth. Although I should have tried to hide my dissatisfaction at his beer drenched breath, my face remained pretty much chilli and spice for the entire journey to Bukit Timur. Dirt washed highways greeted me as we pulled out of the aging Soekarno-Hatta, a drive that was, and still is, without the glory of very strong air-conditioning.
For the last few hours, I have learnt a lot about this partially open window. I’ve counted the specs of dirt – sixty one previous drops of dirty water and five flies, exactly. Shell petrol stations get dotted with grey snow flakes every time we drive past one, and so do the many shoeless beggars that come to chisel a little bit more of our conscience.
“Why can’t we give money to them, mum?”
I don’t get a reply.
I’ve resorted to using my passport as a make-shift fan, to try and dissolve the beads of sweat that like to constantly dive off my forehead. No pain, no gain, but this torture is beyond Poe’s shiny pendulum. Body odour has long since taken over the job of the dangling air freshener, although right now ‘fresh’ could describe a week old loaf of bread. The driver mumbles something to mum, and we pull over into one of the tiny bays that randomly dot the highway.
He gets out, I sigh much too sarcastically, mum moans, I shut up.
He didn’t take long, and he bought me the Coke that I’d been telepathically begging for. I could feel it massaging the insides of my stomach, soothing my flying body temperature.
We're heading to that house in East Jakarta, the place that I have to call home for the next week. To call it home is hard, but atleast it shelters the two things that I need to live past this evening– precious air conditioning and a soft mattress.
Right now, for these two things, I’ll happily bare the tropical pain.
There is always something about a story written in the first person that always grabs my attention. “I twiddled my way” alongside Raban in his voyage with great pleasure, enjoying the “corn and cattle” and “hilly landscape” that he could see out of his “mustard” window. Writing in the first person gives a story that sprinkle of personality which writing in third person can not. Although “we” and “us” can achieve an equally brilliant narration, “I”, the writer, and you, the reader, share a connection that can stand the strongest current – a current that carries the exciting adventure. A “presence” is created above the page, where the character’s thoughts and actions teach us something new about what they are feeling, and the progress they make on their journey.
Raban’s descriptive language is kept to a limit, and does not reach the heights of ‘over-the-top’. “Splayed limbs”, “noisy raids” and “bright lights” display Raban’s use of one-adjective with one-noun. Raban keeps his narration short and simple, which helps to confine his flock of actions into a neat and tidy narrative pen. The use of speech also helps to maintain the illusion of the present tense, and acts as a “song” that helps to stop the reader from falling “asleep”.
Bajajs
I can’t breathe.
The congestion is congesting my nasal passages, and the eco-disastrous Bajajs aren’t helping. Space is precious in a city like this, and the city is only so big. Judging from the vile smell that seems to follow me wherever I go, space for even the sewers is running out.
“Selamat Detang” was the first thing that my uncle’s old driver had said to me, baring his grime tanned teeth. Although I should have tried to hide my dissatisfaction at his beer drenched breath, my face remained pretty much chilli and spice for the entire journey to Bukit Timur. Dirt washed highways greeted me as we pulled out of the aging Soekarno-Hatta, a drive that was, and still is, without the glory of very strong air-conditioning.
For the last few hours, I have learnt a lot about this partially open window. I’ve counted the specs of dirt – sixty one previous drops of dirty water and five flies, exactly. Shell petrol stations get dotted with grey snow flakes every time we drive past one, and so do the many shoeless beggars that come to chisel a little bit more of our conscience.
“Why can’t we give money to them, mum?”
I don’t get a reply.
I’ve resorted to using my passport as a make-shift fan, to try and dissolve the beads of sweat that like to constantly dive off my forehead. No pain, no gain, but this torture is beyond Poe’s shiny pendulum. Body odour has long since taken over the job of the dangling air freshener, although right now ‘fresh’ could describe a week old loaf of bread. The driver mumbles something to mum, and we pull over into one of the tiny bays that randomly dot the highway.
He gets out, I sigh much too sarcastically, mum moans, I shut up.
He didn’t take long, and he bought me the Coke that I’d been telepathically begging for. I could feel it massaging the insides of my stomach, soothing my flying body temperature.
We're heading to that house in East Jakarta, the place that I have to call home for the next week. To call it home is hard, but atleast it shelters the two things that I need to live past this evening– precious air conditioning and a soft mattress.
Right now, for these two things, I’ll happily bare the tropical pain.
Task 37, A Journey.
I thought that excerpt 5 was very unique in its structure, “first, you were born and second, you are alive." This makes it seem like its part of a method, the way something is meant to happen. Moreover, it is very direct to the reader, “you could just as easily have been a flatworm.” This makes it effective because it grabs the reader’s attention and makes them want to read on. Also, it doesn’t first occur to the reader that the story is about ‘travel’ and only when the reader reads the last line, “if you find yourself alone in Weston-super-Mare on a rainy Tuesday evening you may come close,” it shows where the character is.
I would advice you to stay exactly where you are.
Clothes all over the place like shattered beads; it becomes hard to pick out the best ones. You would think that this would be a simple process, wouldn’t you? But you’re left tangled up with whether to choose the red or blue top that will go best with your jeans. Then choosing the extra little things, the ones that are not so necessary to obtain though they‘re like the cherry on top of a cake or the glamorous gloss on your lips. For you, to truly master the skill of pick and choose will only occur when a ever green tree loses its leaves.
To be lost, can it be that easy? It takes one wrong turn to lose your way or it may find you a new destination. Check your route carefully before you leave, will be my second advice but if you follow the first one then you won’t need to read further. Turning back won’t be as easy as turning a page; beware of the images you hold in your mind of your destination. Directions are never easy to follow, especially if you don’t know much about roads and can’t really tell what the signs are telling you. Having someone with better understanding of signs will be a good choice but if you find yourself being alone then simply ask someone; a stranger might be more helpful than you know.
You’ve reach you destination, may your stay here be as enjoyable as possible. This is the final step, the last stop. All the troubles you went through, was it worth it? It may not be, if you found yourself to be standing here, a Tuesday afternoon in Germany. With the harsh rain splashing on your face, your top losing its colour and you’re left standing alone amongst the unknowns.
I would advice you to stay exactly where you are.
Clothes all over the place like shattered beads; it becomes hard to pick out the best ones. You would think that this would be a simple process, wouldn’t you? But you’re left tangled up with whether to choose the red or blue top that will go best with your jeans. Then choosing the extra little things, the ones that are not so necessary to obtain though they‘re like the cherry on top of a cake or the glamorous gloss on your lips. For you, to truly master the skill of pick and choose will only occur when a ever green tree loses its leaves.
To be lost, can it be that easy? It takes one wrong turn to lose your way or it may find you a new destination. Check your route carefully before you leave, will be my second advice but if you follow the first one then you won’t need to read further. Turning back won’t be as easy as turning a page; beware of the images you hold in your mind of your destination. Directions are never easy to follow, especially if you don’t know much about roads and can’t really tell what the signs are telling you. Having someone with better understanding of signs will be a good choice but if you find yourself being alone then simply ask someone; a stranger might be more helpful than you know.
You’ve reach you destination, may your stay here be as enjoyable as possible. This is the final step, the last stop. All the troubles you went through, was it worth it? It may not be, if you found yourself to be standing here, a Tuesday afternoon in Germany. With the harsh rain splashing on your face, your top losing its colour and you’re left standing alone amongst the unknowns.
Task 37
Opening 2
Adventure and travel, two words that on their own conjure a whole library full of excitement and awe, of which can then spear off into an alternate tangent leaving a protagonist in an impossible position. Silak however, avoids this common structural use by very briefly describing the currents “flowing backwards against the wind”, thus shortening our attention to the wayward waves and funnelling our focus on the “placidity unbroken by wave or eddy”. Silak also makes great use of personification, bringing alive the subtle breeze that is subtly “licking” her “toes”, provoking a gentle, calm and strain-free atmosphere.
Determined
“Number 415 please step onto the mark”
This was it, my time had come. The blades of my ice-skates seemed to quiver in despair, as though they knew that I would inevitably be the last to cross the unforgiving finishing line once more. I had no choice, for if I forfeited-then there would no chance of winning, however if I competed- then there may be the slightest of opportunities that I may win. The wind seemed to barrage me with it’s unmerciful waves, the trees a deep, dark green-from which there branches seemed to emit a low pitched cackle at my dispense.
But before I could have any more time to think, “BANG”, the starting gun had been released and the other 2 competitors had streamed off into lead, leaving an approximate 9 second gap between us. My skates had formed a soft and fragile state, as did my legs. The wind howling in my ear as I gained speed, and the spray from the competitor’s skates freckled upon my face made it a much more demanding task than it already was. Nearly blind and relying purely on instinct alone, I soldiered on, hoping to catch a glimpse of the corner marker, but to no prevail-as my weight seemed to suddenly slip away from me and shifting from head to toe. The wind still howling, my vision worse than ever, the whole world seemed to be spiralling out of my reach yet all I could think about was the dream of finally being able to hold the “Ice-skating rally” cup for 2010. I could no longer defy gravity, and with my skates flailing from side to side I finally made the long anticipated contact of human flesh on ice. My vision still a complete mystery, coupled with the sudden clear hearing lead me to believe that I had come to a halt.
Hair a mess, crowd so strongly discouraging me, I felt it would do no harm to then just put the effort into the race, discarding any worries or thoughts that seemed to be imprisoning me. I dug my right-skate into the ice, making my mark onto the world, and (standing tall) I set my sights onto the leaders jockeying for position.
“You might as well give it up now mate”
“Humph, not for you mate”.
Adventure and travel, two words that on their own conjure a whole library full of excitement and awe, of which can then spear off into an alternate tangent leaving a protagonist in an impossible position. Silak however, avoids this common structural use by very briefly describing the currents “flowing backwards against the wind”, thus shortening our attention to the wayward waves and funnelling our focus on the “placidity unbroken by wave or eddy”. Silak also makes great use of personification, bringing alive the subtle breeze that is subtly “licking” her “toes”, provoking a gentle, calm and strain-free atmosphere.
Determined
“Number 415 please step onto the mark”
This was it, my time had come. The blades of my ice-skates seemed to quiver in despair, as though they knew that I would inevitably be the last to cross the unforgiving finishing line once more. I had no choice, for if I forfeited-then there would no chance of winning, however if I competed- then there may be the slightest of opportunities that I may win. The wind seemed to barrage me with it’s unmerciful waves, the trees a deep, dark green-from which there branches seemed to emit a low pitched cackle at my dispense.
But before I could have any more time to think, “BANG”, the starting gun had been released and the other 2 competitors had streamed off into lead, leaving an approximate 9 second gap between us. My skates had formed a soft and fragile state, as did my legs. The wind howling in my ear as I gained speed, and the spray from the competitor’s skates freckled upon my face made it a much more demanding task than it already was. Nearly blind and relying purely on instinct alone, I soldiered on, hoping to catch a glimpse of the corner marker, but to no prevail-as my weight seemed to suddenly slip away from me and shifting from head to toe. The wind still howling, my vision worse than ever, the whole world seemed to be spiralling out of my reach yet all I could think about was the dream of finally being able to hold the “Ice-skating rally” cup for 2010. I could no longer defy gravity, and with my skates flailing from side to side I finally made the long anticipated contact of human flesh on ice. My vision still a complete mystery, coupled with the sudden clear hearing lead me to believe that I had come to a halt.
Hair a mess, crowd so strongly discouraging me, I felt it would do no harm to then just put the effort into the race, discarding any worries or thoughts that seemed to be imprisoning me. I dug my right-skate into the ice, making my mark onto the world, and (standing tall) I set my sights onto the leaders jockeying for position.
“You might as well give it up now mate”
“Humph, not for you mate”.
My Amazing Journey to Paris
Part 1
The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard (1922)
I chose The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard because out of all five travel literatures this one had the most effective, detailed writing about the whole scene, appearance and atmosphere.
Apsley Cherry-Gerrard used thought-provoking, figurative description for the atmosphere “....The moon was showing a ghastly ragged mountainous edge above us in the fog, and as we rose we found that we were on a pressure ridge”, and a good use of vocabulary and adjective.
The author used amazing language and sound effects for how the ice cracked it made you fell like you were really there, “More bangs, and creaks, and groans; for that ice was moving and splitting like glass. The cracks went off all round us, and some of them ran along for hundreds of yards”.
The opening of The Worst Journey in my World was extraordinary it was like the writing just started from nowhere, “Our troubles were greatly increased by the state of our clothes. If we had been dressed in lead we should have been able to move our arms and necks and heads more easily than we could now”.
Part 2
My Travel Literature - My Amazing Journey to Paris
Apsley Cherry-Gerrard used thought-provoking, figurative description for the atmosphere “....The moon was showing a ghastly ragged mountainous edge above us in the fog, and as we rose we found that we were on a pressure ridge”, and a good use of vocabulary and adjective.
The author used amazing language and sound effects for how the ice cracked it made you fell like you were really there, “More bangs, and creaks, and groans; for that ice was moving and splitting like glass. The cracks went off all round us, and some of them ran along for hundreds of yards”.
The opening of The Worst Journey in my World was extraordinary it was like the writing just started from nowhere, “Our troubles were greatly increased by the state of our clothes. If we had been dressed in lead we should have been able to move our arms and necks and heads more easily than we could now”.
Part 2
My Travel Literature - My Amazing Journey to Paris
As we came out of the ferry we saw the beautiful city of France, it wasn’t looking that amazing when we were outside the ferry, and it was really scruffy and ugly. We yelled out for the taxi, so we can go and eat at a restaurant. When we got into the restaurant it was crowded with a lot of tourist just like us.
“Bonjour, ca va?” I said politely to the waitress because that was the only two French word I knew back then. She replied ending with some other French vocabulary, which I didn’t know.
On that same day we went to visit the best tourist attraction places, and there it was the most mind blowing monument, The Eiffel Tower it looked amazing, I tipped my head to see the top tip of the Tower, but I couldn't’t because the sun was upon there and it was making me cringe.
The next day we went to see the top theme park in Paris, Disneyland. There were a lot of children messing about holding their parents hand. We went on a ride “ARGHHHHH” several children were yelling and screaming. The ride nearly made me puke which felt very atrocious.
That same day we went to dinner and dance, which was very lovely and relaxing, and all of us had a good time, listening to French songs. After the dinner and dance we went back to hotel and went to sleep.
Before it was time to leave and go to the ferry, we stopped at the very best souvenir shop, and brought several French key rings, goody bag, flag etc and stopped at the café, to eat what France was known for the beast, bread and cheese.
We walked quick, anxiously thinking that we missed the ferry taking us back to England. But as soon as we got there it was time for it to sail, so we made it.
“Bonjour, ca va?” I said politely to the waitress because that was the only two French word I knew back then. She replied ending with some other French vocabulary, which I didn’t know.
On that same day we went to visit the best tourist attraction places, and there it was the most mind blowing monument, The Eiffel Tower it looked amazing, I tipped my head to see the top tip of the Tower, but I couldn't’t because the sun was upon there and it was making me cringe.
The next day we went to see the top theme park in Paris, Disneyland. There were a lot of children messing about holding their parents hand. We went on a ride “ARGHHHHH” several children were yelling and screaming. The ride nearly made me puke which felt very atrocious.
That same day we went to dinner and dance, which was very lovely and relaxing, and all of us had a good time, listening to French songs. After the dinner and dance we went back to hotel and went to sleep.
Before it was time to leave and go to the ferry, we stopped at the very best souvenir shop, and brought several French key rings, goody bag, flag etc and stopped at the café, to eat what France was known for the beast, bread and cheese.
We walked quick, anxiously thinking that we missed the ferry taking us back to England. But as soon as we got there it was time for it to sail, so we made it.
The cruellest journey
Part 1
I felt that the second excerpt from The Cruellest Journey: 600 miles to Timbuktu by Kira Salak (2004) was the most effective in its genre. This is because I found that it used many effective tools such as figurative language, for example, “The journey to Timbuktu binds me, it kidnaps and drugs me. It deceives me”, this makes it more interesting because by using metaphors it still gets the point across but in an original way. Setting it out as an anecdote attracts us since it’s like an insight into a person’s life and experiences which is appealing in it own sense, making us want to read it. It is also quite humorous in the way that it presents the mentality of people surprised to see a woman alone without her “husband”. The description of the place creates an image inside our mind as if we are there in the scene which gives you an idea of what the narrator is seeing and feeling for example “the sun on me, a breeze licking my toes when I lay back to rest, the current as negligible as a faint breath.” This description leaves us to imagine how she is feeling and also makes us feel as if we are there feeling the sun and the breeze. The use of Timbuktu is also very clever especially at the end when the villagers ask her where she is going and she answers “Timbuktu”. This can be taken literally or it can also be interpreted as sarcasm adding to the humour of this piece.
Part 2
It was August 2006. The day that changed my life. This was the day that I landed in the country where my intended lived. This was the day that I was supposed to bring him and his family out of poverty and take him back to London to live a comfortable life as my husband.
Our luggage was the first to arrive. Unfortunately. It meant that no time was to wait for our bags and to contemplate my next move; it all went smoothly and we were quickly able to go meet them. My family; you see the person my parents chose for me happened to be my cousin.
We, me parents and me, stepped out of the air conditioned airport to be harshly embraced and welcomed by the famous sun; after a few moments the wind came to my rescue reducing the effect of the sun and instead encircling me in a cool breeze. This beautiful moment didn’t last long for it was replaced with another circle of harshness- my family. While being tossed about like a rag doll I was searching and searching for the breeze to rescue me and take me away. It didn’t come to my aid this time; instead after every member of the family touched me to make sure it was in fact me that was before their tearful eyes, I met up, once again, with the sun and from then on I knew what was in store for me. There wasn’t ever going to be a rescue. I wasn’t in London anymore where I could turn to someone for help, there was no escape.
I felt that the second excerpt from The Cruellest Journey: 600 miles to Timbuktu by Kira Salak (2004) was the most effective in its genre. This is because I found that it used many effective tools such as figurative language, for example, “The journey to Timbuktu binds me, it kidnaps and drugs me. It deceives me”, this makes it more interesting because by using metaphors it still gets the point across but in an original way. Setting it out as an anecdote attracts us since it’s like an insight into a person’s life and experiences which is appealing in it own sense, making us want to read it. It is also quite humorous in the way that it presents the mentality of people surprised to see a woman alone without her “husband”. The description of the place creates an image inside our mind as if we are there in the scene which gives you an idea of what the narrator is seeing and feeling for example “the sun on me, a breeze licking my toes when I lay back to rest, the current as negligible as a faint breath.” This description leaves us to imagine how she is feeling and also makes us feel as if we are there feeling the sun and the breeze. The use of Timbuktu is also very clever especially at the end when the villagers ask her where she is going and she answers “Timbuktu”. This can be taken literally or it can also be interpreted as sarcasm adding to the humour of this piece.
Part 2
It was August 2006. The day that changed my life. This was the day that I landed in the country where my intended lived. This was the day that I was supposed to bring him and his family out of poverty and take him back to London to live a comfortable life as my husband.
Our luggage was the first to arrive. Unfortunately. It meant that no time was to wait for our bags and to contemplate my next move; it all went smoothly and we were quickly able to go meet them. My family; you see the person my parents chose for me happened to be my cousin.
We, me parents and me, stepped out of the air conditioned airport to be harshly embraced and welcomed by the famous sun; after a few moments the wind came to my rescue reducing the effect of the sun and instead encircling me in a cool breeze. This beautiful moment didn’t last long for it was replaced with another circle of harshness- my family. While being tossed about like a rag doll I was searching and searching for the breeze to rescue me and take me away. It didn’t come to my aid this time; instead after every member of the family touched me to make sure it was in fact me that was before their tearful eyes, I met up, once again, with the sun and from then on I knew what was in store for me. There wasn’t ever going to be a rescue. I wasn’t in London anymore where I could turn to someone for help, there was no escape.
Task 37
Excerpt 4 - "The Road to McCarthy" by Pete McCarthy
Once I had heard our next Word Voodoo task was travel literature, the first thought that swam in my mind was if I was unsuccessfully going to choose a desirable excerpt that I would honestly enjoy reading! Travel literature isn’t my forté, so I sincerely gave up hope producing a satisfactory piece of work. However, once I had read Pete McCarthy’s extract from“The Road to McCarthy” my doubts just vanished! His diction purely astounded me – the unmistakeable way he describes the simple things in life really puts me to shame! I also idolised the way he encapsulated Ireland in a few paragraphs; (Something which I struggle to do!) he narrated its beauty as well as discussing the idiocy behind horse – racing, both of which Ireland are renowned for. He almost looks at the whole picture and not just what we see behind a film of false happiness. I would like to stress how important I find this in a novel; some people want to pick up a book to get away from real life, but I feel I find out more about the world if the text is blunt and outspoken. To finish, he ends on quite a philosophical note and rhetorically it makes you think. No matter who the reader is, we all have different interpretations on this last quote: “You can’t plan these moments. You just have to know them when fate sends them your way, and accept them for what they are.” It can conjure up all sorts of thoughts about life in your mind!
Life's Many Pots of Gold
It’s rather ironic, isn’t it? How the wealthy preach about the world’s demising ecosystem, yet they feel purchasing the latest Land Rover is the way to outfox their competitive friends. Do they feel a sense of power being hypocrites, or is it just their instinctive ability to always “keep up appearances?” But, to be frank, you can’t blame them – the Land Rover is a beautiful car and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of power as I elegantly strolled out of its comfortable interior and slammed its doors shut. It reminded me of a faithful dog; always at your service and blissfully unable to judge what horrible emerald dress or metallic gold killer heels you may be sporting: unlike your real friends. However, as much of a grateful person I am, I did feel the bothersome sensation in my stomach that I have to sustain every time that emotion named “jealousy” creeps up on me; because neither this car or the closest thing to heaven, in other words, Finchingfield was mine! Still, why be envious of what I can possess some day in the future? When one day, I could wake up to the tranquil melody of birds composing the closest thing they can exert to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4 in B- flat major, or relaxing in my three acre garden surrounded by honeysuckle and lavender and red roses! What a dreamer I am! A dreamer that tries to make sure my aspirations become a reality, not just a figment of hope that harbours uselessly in my mind. There is nothing worse than gloating to the world that you will do something today, yet you are still wallowing in your reverie the same time tomorrow . . .
Away from the Burberry adorned Wags’ that have pink bathrooms and gyms in their Chigwell manors, (Why are people so stereotypical? The tabloids always claim that Essex is all about clubbing and binge drinking! When in reality, it's not all bad!) I surveyed everything my bespectacled eyes could consume – traditional antique shops bordered with white gates and achromatic canopies; quaint tea rooms and whitewashed shopping emporiums that sold vintage glamour and objet d’art. Ice cream parlours, pâtisseries and gourmet cafés (Please take note of the diacritic on top of the “e”. Cafés in Finchingfield are far from greasy spoons!) dotted their charm around us. It was like a picture postcard. Everything seemed to be perfect: apart from one small problem – hairy bikers spawned the entire town! Finchingfield is very spacious and has many winding roads, which is the obvious reason why they choose to ride in the vicinity – I suppose that’s how they get their thrills. (Like I get my thrills from scoffing crème brûlée ice cream!)
Making our way to Duck End Mill; the 18th Century windmill that dominated Finchingfield, I happily allowed the ice cream (Made from Devon clotted cream, of course!) dribble down my fingers in the late August heat. It was a hot day; temperatures reached 26○C and I recall wearing what used to be my favourite chocolate brown jumper around my waist. For an unforeseen circumstance, I was unaware of the humid weather that would follow later that day, therefore my clothes did look rather autumnal. Even with the amount of my Uncle's sun tan lotion I had applied, it didn’t prevent what looked like specks of brown sugar from dusting my nose! Unfortunately, we discovered that the mill is only open once a month on a Sunday in the summer, (August the 28th, 2007 was a Tuesday!) so we irascibly had to walk back to the town square to search for somewhere else to roam. After an exhausting five minutes of precious time wasted, me and my mum both found ourselves naturally walking into the threshold of an antique shop. (My uncle and grandmother had gone their separate ways). The walls were coated with floral Edwardian wallpaper and every imaginable clock ornamented the room. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, carriage clocks – their hands almost clapped in appreciation as I gratefully listened to their ticking harmonies. Being so aware of the time, I stood wondering in disbelief at how momentous the hours had drifted away into a beclouding night.
It’s rather ironic, isn’t it? How the wealthy preach about the world’s demising ecosystem, yet they feel purchasing the latest Land Rover is the way to outfox their competitive friends. Do they feel a sense of power being hypocrites, or is it just their instinctive ability to always “keep up appearances?” But, to be frank, you can’t blame them – the Land Rover is a beautiful car and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of power as I elegantly strolled out of its comfortable interior and slammed its doors shut. It reminded me of a faithful dog; always at your service and blissfully unable to judge what horrible emerald dress or metallic gold killer heels you may be sporting: unlike your real friends. However, as much of a grateful person I am, I did feel the bothersome sensation in my stomach that I have to sustain every time that emotion named “jealousy” creeps up on me; because neither this car or the closest thing to heaven, in other words, Finchingfield was mine! Still, why be envious of what I can possess some day in the future? When one day, I could wake up to the tranquil melody of birds composing the closest thing they can exert to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4 in B- flat major, or relaxing in my three acre garden surrounded by honeysuckle and lavender and red roses! What a dreamer I am! A dreamer that tries to make sure my aspirations become a reality, not just a figment of hope that harbours uselessly in my mind. There is nothing worse than gloating to the world that you will do something today, yet you are still wallowing in your reverie the same time tomorrow . . .
Away from the Burberry adorned Wags’ that have pink bathrooms and gyms in their Chigwell manors, (Why are people so stereotypical? The tabloids always claim that Essex is all about clubbing and binge drinking! When in reality, it's not all bad!) I surveyed everything my bespectacled eyes could consume – traditional antique shops bordered with white gates and achromatic canopies; quaint tea rooms and whitewashed shopping emporiums that sold vintage glamour and objet d’art. Ice cream parlours, pâtisseries and gourmet cafés (Please take note of the diacritic on top of the “e”. Cafés in Finchingfield are far from greasy spoons!) dotted their charm around us. It was like a picture postcard. Everything seemed to be perfect: apart from one small problem – hairy bikers spawned the entire town! Finchingfield is very spacious and has many winding roads, which is the obvious reason why they choose to ride in the vicinity – I suppose that’s how they get their thrills. (Like I get my thrills from scoffing crème brûlée ice cream!)
Making our way to Duck End Mill; the 18th Century windmill that dominated Finchingfield, I happily allowed the ice cream (Made from Devon clotted cream, of course!) dribble down my fingers in the late August heat. It was a hot day; temperatures reached 26○C and I recall wearing what used to be my favourite chocolate brown jumper around my waist. For an unforeseen circumstance, I was unaware of the humid weather that would follow later that day, therefore my clothes did look rather autumnal. Even with the amount of my Uncle's sun tan lotion I had applied, it didn’t prevent what looked like specks of brown sugar from dusting my nose! Unfortunately, we discovered that the mill is only open once a month on a Sunday in the summer, (August the 28th, 2007 was a Tuesday!) so we irascibly had to walk back to the town square to search for somewhere else to roam. After an exhausting five minutes of precious time wasted, me and my mum both found ourselves naturally walking into the threshold of an antique shop. (My uncle and grandmother had gone their separate ways). The walls were coated with floral Edwardian wallpaper and every imaginable clock ornamented the room. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, carriage clocks – their hands almost clapped in appreciation as I gratefully listened to their ticking harmonies. Being so aware of the time, I stood wondering in disbelief at how momentous the hours had drifted away into a beclouding night.
Stepping outside accompanied with the small treasures I had bought from a grocers earlier on: Victoria plums, Little Scarlet strawberries, a pot of clover honey and not to forget, an overgrown courgette that looked like a marrow, I knew it was time to start our journey home. I climbed into the Land Rover, in exactly the same fashion as I had done when I arrived, yet something was different – I didn't feel my hope bubble into a vaporous and irreplaceable morsel of matter; I didn’t wish that I could have a few more hours lounging in the sun. I moved on without looking back: as I knew that some day, I would certainly be here again . . .
Travel Writitng
Part 1
I chose note from a small island by Bill Bryson, because it makes me chuckle (especially the English Channel/Vagina metaphor. I also love the tangent it goes on which, in a way, correlates very nicely to the theme of travel. Secondly, even though Bryson makes fun of the act of conception he does make you feel lucky to be alive.
Part 2.
For the first time, me and my dad were lost. We had driven ourselves down a very murky path, which seemed to end up being a very sticky cul-de-sac. We had no idea what to say about Steve's story. He glanced eagerly at each of us for a length couple of seconds until my dad spoke.
'I think the absence of any character or setting is really unique...'
'it gives you a wacky perspective right?. Cool. Cheers Dan.'
My dad and I did a telepathic sigh of relief. I then, being a nine year old boy, asked Steve about the spiders i had heard about in this specific bit of Queensland. Little did i know that i had taken the wheel and driven through the dead end and into a well.
'Sure. The little ones live in the books'.
I darted forward and rifled through the cavernous chasms that were the gaps between the pages of Steve's poetry. He then enthused:
'I've always thought of spiders as being like beautiful women.'
My dad gasped and, as he caught my eye, sealed his lips.
' I got some gorgeous snaps of some.'
Steve summed up Byron Bay for me. His unfailing eccentric enthusiasm, and sometimes inappropriate relationship with insects, was accepted by the people of Byron Bay. This was a place where a fifty year old poet/salsa DJ was revered and not dismissed as a old saddo.
I chose note from a small island by Bill Bryson, because it makes me chuckle (especially the English Channel/Vagina metaphor. I also love the tangent it goes on which, in a way, correlates very nicely to the theme of travel. Secondly, even though Bryson makes fun of the act of conception he does make you feel lucky to be alive.
Part 2.
For the first time, me and my dad were lost. We had driven ourselves down a very murky path, which seemed to end up being a very sticky cul-de-sac. We had no idea what to say about Steve's story. He glanced eagerly at each of us for a length couple of seconds until my dad spoke.
'I think the absence of any character or setting is really unique...'
'it gives you a wacky perspective right?. Cool. Cheers Dan.'
My dad and I did a telepathic sigh of relief. I then, being a nine year old boy, asked Steve about the spiders i had heard about in this specific bit of Queensland. Little did i know that i had taken the wheel and driven through the dead end and into a well.
'Sure. The little ones live in the books'.
I darted forward and rifled through the cavernous chasms that were the gaps between the pages of Steve's poetry. He then enthused:
'I've always thought of spiders as being like beautiful women.'
My dad gasped and, as he caught my eye, sealed his lips.
' I got some gorgeous snaps of some.'
Steve summed up Byron Bay for me. His unfailing eccentric enthusiasm, and sometimes inappropriate relationship with insects, was accepted by the people of Byron Bay. This was a place where a fifty year old poet/salsa DJ was revered and not dismissed as a old saddo.
Friday, 6 March 2009
Excerpt 5 Notes from a small island by Bill Bryson (1995)
I enjoyed this excerpt the most because I found it quite comical, for example when describing how being born is a blessing in itself. It also grabbed my attention as soon as I started reading it, since the author speaks directly to you which make you feel as you are part of the book. Also the fact that it is structured in short paragraphs makes you want to read it because if it was in long paragraphs with very long sentences, your brain would switch off as soon as you look at it.
I Once Remember When....
December 1996 was a month that would decide were the rest of my life would be built. It was a month that decided my fate. I made my first journey out of Algeria, and my first ride on a plane at the age of four; now you tell me how many people you know made a plane journey at that age, not many are there.
Well basically I got on the plane with my mother, father, grandfather and sister; well my sister didn't exactly take up a seat by herself, she was more or less taking up most of my mums. Anyway so we were on the plane going to Turkey for a one week stop before joining our family in England.
When we arrived in Turkey the first difference I could see was that the sky was greyer than how I left it in Algeria, the attendants in the airport were also cold, to match their weather.
We finally got to the room which we were staying at for that week.
The third day into our week me and my mum went out with a lady- the managers wife- she was showing us around, the female parts of town, shopping!!!On the way I got into a strop with my mum, because she told me to stop annoying the woman when I wasn't; I was just asking her if she had a little sister inside her tummy just like my mum, I mean I was trying my best to bond with the lady, couldn't my mum understand that. I could almost hear my mum blaming herself for taking me with her instead of leaving me with my granddad, the woman also started to feel uneasy towards me; so I decided to do them a favour and I crossed the road.
I started day dreaming about how it's going to be like going on a plane again to finally see my family again; I didn’t realise where I was going until I saw myself inside a shop and surrounded by clothes. The shop attendant saw me and started talking to me, but I understood nothing of what she was saying; and I think she realised because she took me by the hand to the front of the shop and started to speak through the mike.
Of course no one came. No one wanted me. Then as if from a fairytale; guess who walked through the door...my mother...yes it was her I wasn't dreaming, my mum had come back for me. As soon as I saw her I ran up to her and hugged her before I had the time to wake up.
Our way home was accompanied by silence. It divided me and my mum for the rest of the day.
This experience has played an impact on my life, and has always made me feel uneasy towards going to new countries. However some good has come out of it as well, I now know that I should never ask a woman if she is pregnant until she brings up the subject herself.
I Once Remember When....
December 1996 was a month that would decide were the rest of my life would be built. It was a month that decided my fate. I made my first journey out of Algeria, and my first ride on a plane at the age of four; now you tell me how many people you know made a plane journey at that age, not many are there.
Well basically I got on the plane with my mother, father, grandfather and sister; well my sister didn't exactly take up a seat by herself, she was more or less taking up most of my mums. Anyway so we were on the plane going to Turkey for a one week stop before joining our family in England.
When we arrived in Turkey the first difference I could see was that the sky was greyer than how I left it in Algeria, the attendants in the airport were also cold, to match their weather.
We finally got to the room which we were staying at for that week.
The third day into our week me and my mum went out with a lady- the managers wife- she was showing us around, the female parts of town, shopping!!!On the way I got into a strop with my mum, because she told me to stop annoying the woman when I wasn't; I was just asking her if she had a little sister inside her tummy just like my mum, I mean I was trying my best to bond with the lady, couldn't my mum understand that. I could almost hear my mum blaming herself for taking me with her instead of leaving me with my granddad, the woman also started to feel uneasy towards me; so I decided to do them a favour and I crossed the road.
I started day dreaming about how it's going to be like going on a plane again to finally see my family again; I didn’t realise where I was going until I saw myself inside a shop and surrounded by clothes. The shop attendant saw me and started talking to me, but I understood nothing of what she was saying; and I think she realised because she took me by the hand to the front of the shop and started to speak through the mike.
Of course no one came. No one wanted me. Then as if from a fairytale; guess who walked through the door...my mother...yes it was her I wasn't dreaming, my mum had come back for me. As soon as I saw her I ran up to her and hugged her before I had the time to wake up.
Our way home was accompanied by silence. It divided me and my mum for the rest of the day.
This experience has played an impact on my life, and has always made me feel uneasy towards going to new countries. However some good has come out of it as well, I now know that I should never ask a woman if she is pregnant until she brings up the subject herself.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Excerpt 1 The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Gerrard (1922)
I personally think that this excerpt is very effective of it's genre, for the reason that it intrigues the reader in a way which will make her/ him feel that they are apart of the scene. Also, it describes the emotions quite realistically, therefore this excerpt has captivated me the most.
I think that the innovation in literature is quite essential, and in this piece it showed it quite alot. I thought it was quite miraculous!
Deppresion or Anticipation
Well, it was the last day of school, last day of primary- I did not know whether to be filled with Exhilaration or sorrow. Through out our "normal" school day, children were behaving like nothing has happened, although I could see the deep gloominess inside each and everyone of them as I glance around the swarming playground from a near wrecked bench. Gazing at the apparent, azure sky; I wonder if this will be the last time I look up at this angle, I wonder if I would ever see my dearest friends again, I wonder how it will feel to leave and start a advanced education now.
Immediately I snap out of my moment of thoughts, as the penetrating bell had rung. Now nearing to the one hour we have remaining; everyone could feel the deppresion now (even the toughest boys), me and my closest friends squash up on one table whilst the others scatter around the room. One of my best teachers had made things worse emotionally, for the reason that she put on all the assemblies that we had rehearsed together- that really hit me and my friends, and so we began to cry silently. Tears were dripping down my pale white face, like I have been severly ill but I wasn't the only one. Unfortunately we didn't get a glimpse of the boys crying- however they did start to mock us which did liven the end of the day a little.
( It took us approximately twenty minutes to come out and go home, because of all the farwells)
Walking down the road cautiously, hand in hand with my mother; I then realised that we were taking a journey by car to my country- which would take about three complete days. As I entered the cavernous hallway a sudden feeling of anticipation began to commence.
As we all came rushing into the car- my parents then noticed that they had forgotten the car keys, which was quite exasperating for me and my sisters. They got back in time so we were settled (not necessarily), and quite frankly the minute we got into our car we rapidly zoomed off.
Pugnacious and fidgiting at the back, me and my sisters just couldn't get comfortable - It was lucky that we missed being stuck in traffic or things may have gotten treacherous, however we did arrive in france earlier than expected but that didn't stop us from having a lunch break.
Our lunch break wasn't that long, but we did have to linger for quite a prolonged time for toilets....
Germany was one of my preeminent locations, yet what really aggravated me was that it is literally one of the most largest countries, so it would be exceedingly time-consuming.
Finally , we did make it- just not in the time we expected, however a debacle had ensued just as we were entering; the diesel ran out, and therefore we had to push our car to a near petrol station, fortunately we stopped adjecent to the petrol station so triumph in the end.
-note to self: make a list of everything we SHOULD do before leaving, and what we SHOULDN'T forget.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Task 37: Travel Literature
This week, I am going to ask you to experiment in a genre usually inhabiting the realm of non-fiction (although there have also been plenty of fictional accounts): travel literature.Just like the others this term, your task will consist of two parts; however, unlike the other tasks, which have predominantly dealt with genres with which you are all largely familiar, your success with this task will depend massively on how much you are able to learn from Part One - and how much you are able to demonstrate what you have learnt when you write your own piece in Part Two.
Part One
I will email you all FIVE EXCERPTS from famous and successful pieces of travel literature. I would like you to READ them carefully, CHOOSE which one you thought was the most effective of its genre, and EXPLAIN, in some detail and with examples (i.e. quotations), why you made your choice.
This is your chance to identify some of the most successful ingredients of good travel literature - e.g. witty anecdotes, figurative descriptions etc. - in order that you can try to embed those very same techniques in your own travel writing in Part Two.
Part Two
First of all, you will need to DECIDE on your subject matter. Unless you have spent the last 12-16 years locked 24/7 in a darkened room, you have all travelled considerably, whether it be internationally, nationally or just in the local area. And it is important to realise that good travel literature does not need to be about some exotic location: one of my favourite pieces by American travel writer, Bill Bryson, is simply about a small section of the Central Line on the London Underground.
Then, using some of the techniques you have observed in one/some/all of the excerpts I have sent you to bring your writing to life and engage and sustain the interest of your reader, you should WRITE (approx) 300-400 words in which you describe an episode from one of your own travels. N.B A tip: don't try to write about an entire holiday, as you will, inevitably, end up just skimming the surface; a brief episode, a particular segment of a journey, one chance encounter - these are ample around which to base such a short piece of travel literature.
The DEADLINE for this task is midnight on Saturday 7th March 2009.
PLEASE make sure you meet this deadline, as I cannot stress enough how inconvenient it can be when you keep your moderators waiting. And PLEASE make sure you proof-read your work for careless spelling/punctuation/grammar errors and silly typos, as these are still spoiling too many of your work unnecessarily.
Good luck! And a special GOOD LUCK to those of you new to the blog entirely this week: I hope you have fun! :)
Finally, here is my attempt:
When I was 21, I nearly died.
It was only on 31st October 1996, from the tectonic safety of a house I shared with another trainee teacher, the right side of the walls of H.M.P. Wakefield, home to some of the country's most dangerous and violent criminals, that I first realised quite how close I had come to extinction just under a year earlier. A brief item towards the end of the news mentioned that Gunung Merapi, an active (and, evidently, rather angry) volcano in the middle of the Indonesian island of Java, was erupting. Burning ash was raining down on houses on the mountain's flank, after part of the lava dome itself had collapsed earlier that day.
January 1996. In hindsight, certain details should have spoken louder to us, as we unpacked our rucksacks in the Merapi View hostel the night before our ascent: the eery absence of life emanating from almost all the houses we passed as we strolled around the village upon arrival; the still raw, lifeless canyon carved where half the village had been only two years previously; the fact that the puddles by the side of the road were all bubbling! The incessant plume of smoke from the summit should have warned us that someone was definitely at home; and the distinct absence of any vegetation whatsoever around the entire peak should have made it perfectly clear that visitors were definitely not welcome.
Was it the arrogance of youth? Or the naivete of the foreign traveler? Perhaps we were guilty of exactly the same disrespect we had villified in the hoards of tourists who scaled the holy arc of Uluru in Australia the month before? Deaf to common sense and blind to our own mortality, we duly rose in the middle of the night, donned our waterproofs and walking boots, and joined our brave guide as he took us on the three hour hike to the treeline. Had the sound of the rain abated, had our feverish pace slackened just for a moment, I might have called out to him, and asked him if this was really safe.
However, to be honest, the blackened stumps which spiked the grass as far as the eye could see gave me my answer; as did the thunder which shook the mountainside several times during our climb and descent. For it wasn't thunder. At the end of the news item back in Wakefield, the reporter explained, in sober tones, that the recent eruption was, in fact, nothing more than a continuation: Gunung Merapi had actually been erupting constantly since late 1994.
Note to self: if in close proximity to the fiery peak of an active volcano, walk the other way.
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