Bonjour à tous,
J'ai un problème pour la matière de la littérature étrangère étant donnée que mon professeur est très vague dans ces explications c'est assez compliqué de m'en sortir.
C'est à propos du chapitre "Autobiographie" et ma thématique est "le je de l'écrivain et le jeu de l'écriture". Mon professeur nous ayant imposé un texte, "A significant event". (copier à la fin de mon explication). Je suis donc totalement perdu. Je ne sais pas comment mis prendre ni quoi dire, si quelqu'un avait quelques idées ou pourrait m'aider ça serait super cool 😞 .
Merci d'avance.
A significant event :
J'ai un problème pour la matière de la littérature étrangère étant donnée que mon professeur est très vague dans ces explications c'est assez compliqué de m'en sortir.
C'est à propos du chapitre "Autobiographie" et ma thématique est "le je de l'écrivain et le jeu de l'écriture". Mon professeur nous ayant imposé un texte, "A significant event". (copier à la fin de mon explication). Je suis donc totalement perdu. Je ne sais pas comment mis prendre ni quoi dire, si quelqu'un avait quelques idées ou pourrait m'aider ça serait super cool 😞 .
Merci d'avance.
A significant event :
At lunch Mr. Kett came to my table and sat down opposite me. I felt a thousand eyes
burning into me.
“Now then, young man. What’s this about me not being in the classroom this morning?
I never left my classroom.”
“Well, I knocked, sir, but you didn’t answer and I went away.”
“Miss Meddlar says you said you left the mark sheet on my desk.”
“Oh no, sir. As you didn’t answer my knock I went away.”
“I see.”
A pause, while, hot and prickly, I looked down at my lunch.
“Well, if you give me the mark sheet now then…”
“Sir?”
“I’ll take it now.”
“Oh. I lost it, sir.”
“You lost it?”
“Sir, in break.”
A puzzled look spread over Mr. Kett’s face.
Get to know that puzzled look, Stephen Fry. You will see it many times.
For Narcissus to find himself desirable, the water he looks into must be clear and calm
and sweet. If a person looks into a turbulent pool, his reflection will be dark and disturbed.
That was Mr. Kett’s face, rippled with dark perturbation. He was being lied at, but lied at so
well and for so impenetrable a reason.
I can see his perplexity so clearly. It looms before me now and the turbulence in his
eyes makes me look very ugly indeed.yes makes me look very ugly indeed.
Here was a bright boy, very bright. He came from a big house up the road: his parents,
although newcomers to Norfolk, seemed nice people – even qualifying for what used to be
called awfully nice. Their boy was only here at this little school for a term before he went
away to prep school. Kett was a man of his village and therefore a man of the world. He
had seen bright children before, he had seen children of the upper middle classes
before.This boy seemed presentable enough, charming enough, decent enough and here
he was telling the lie direct without so much of a blush or a stammer.
Maybe I’m over-refining.
There is little chance that John Kett remembers that day. In fact, I know he doesn’t.
Of course I’m over-refining. I’m reading into the incident what I want to read into it.
Like all teachers, John Kett overlooked and pardoned those thousands of revelatory
moments in which the children under his care exposed the animal inside them. Everyday
he must bid good morning to men and women, parents now themselves, whom once he
witnessed thrashing about in mad tantrum, bullied, whom once he saw bursting into terrified
screams at the sight of a tiny spider or the sound of distant thunder, whom once he saw
torturing ladybirds. True, a cold lie is worse than animal savagery or hot fright, but that lie is
and always was, my problem, not John Kett’s.
This Affair of the Test Results in Mary Hench’s Wellington Boot is a big episode for me
simply because I remember it so clearly: it is significant, in other words, because I have
decided that it is significant and that in itself is of significance to merds, because I have
decided that it is significant and that in itself is of significance to me. I suppose it seems to
mark in my mind the beginning of what was to become a pattern of lonely lies and public
exposures. The virtue of this particular lie was that it was pointless, a pure lie, its vice that it
was so consciously, so excellently done. When Kett sat down at the lunch table I had been
nervous – mouth dry, heart thumping, hands clammy – but the moment I began to speak I
found I became more than simply nerveless, I became utterly confident and supremely
myself. It was as if I had discovered my very purpose in life. To put one over, to dupe: to
deceive not only without shame, but with real pride. Private pride, that was always the
problem. Not a pride I could share in the playground, but a secret pride to hug to myself like
miser’s gold. The hours leading up to exposure would have me sweating with fear, but the
moment itself would define me: I became charged, excited and happy, while at the same
time maintaining absolute outward calm and confidence, able to calculate in microseconds.
Telling lies would bring about in me that state the sportsman knows when he is suddenly in
form, when the timing becomes natural and rhythmic, the sound of the bat/racket/club/cue
sweet and singing: he is simultaneously relaxed and in deepest concentration I could
almost claim that the moment the police snapped the cuffs about my wrists eleven years
later was one of the happiest of my life.
Of course, someone might try to make the connection between all this and acting. When
acting is going well, the same feeling of mastery of time, of rhythm, of control and timing
comes over one. Acting, after all, is lying, lying for the pure exquisite joy of it, you might
think. Only acting isn’t that, not to me at any rate. Acting is telling the truth for the pure,
agonising hell of it.