Questões de Inglês - Reading/Writing
We walked on, the stranger walking with us. Taylor Franklin Bankole. Our last names an instant bond between us. We’re both descended from men who assumed African surnames back during the 1960s. His father and my grandfather had had their names legally changed, and both had chosen Yoruba replacement names.
“Most people chose Swahili names in the ’60s”, Bankole told me. He wanted to be called Bankole. “My father had to do something different. All his life he had to be different”.
“I don’t know my grandfather’s reasons”, I said. “His last name was Broome before he changed it, and that was no loss’. But why he chose Olamina…? Even my father didn’t know. He made the change before my father was born, so my father was always Olamina, and so were we.
BUTLER, O. E. Parable of the Sower. New York: Hachette, 2019 (adaptado).
Nesse trecho do romance Parable of the Sower, os nomes “Bankole” e “Olamina” representam o(a)
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The bundle of sticks
A father had a family of sons who were always fighting among themselves. When he failed to end their disputes by his warnings, he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a bundle of sticks.
When they had done so, he placed the bundle into the hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in pieces. They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it.
He next opened the bundle, took the sticks separately, one by one, and again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.
He then addressed them in these words: “My sons, if you are of one mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this bundle, unhurt by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks.”
(www.umass.edu. Adaptado.)
O ensinamento ministrado pelo pai a seus filhos pode ser expresso da seguinte maneira:
Leia o texto para responder a questão.
The bundle of sticks
A father had a family of sons who were always fighting among themselves. When he failed to end their disputes by his warnings, he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a bundle of sticks.
When they had done so, he placed the bundle into the hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in pieces. They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it.
He next opened the bundle, took the sticks separately, one by one, and again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.
He then addressed them in these words: “My sons, if you are of one mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this bundle, unhurt by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks.”
(www.umass.edu. Adaptado.)
O trecho do segundo parágrafo “They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it” indica que os filhos
Happiness
It was almost nightfall. The whole day: rain, torrents of rain. Drenched to the bone, I arrived in a
little Calabrian village. I had to find a hearth where I could dry out, a corner where I could sleep.
The streets were deserted, the doors bolted. The dogs were the only ones to scent the stranger’s
breath; they began to bark from within the courtyards. The peasants in this region are wild and
[5] misanthropic, suspicious of strangers. I hesitated at every door, extended my hand, but did not
dare to knock.
O for my late grandfather in Crete!, who took his lantern each evening and made the rounds of
the village to see if any stranger had come. He would take him home, feed him, give him a bed for
the night, and then in the morning see him off with a cup of wine and a slice of bread. Here in the
[10] Calabrian villages there were no such grandfathers.
Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. Inclining my head, I looked in: a murky
corridor with a lighted fire at the far end and an old lady bent over it. She seemed to be cooking.
I crossed the threshold and entered. I reached the fire and sat down on a stool which I found in
front of the hearth. The old lady was squatting on another stool, stirring the meal with a wooden
[15] spoon. I felt that she eyed me rapidly, without turning. But she said nothing. Taking off my jacket,
I began to dry it. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs,
my breast. Hungrily, avidly, I breathed in the delicious smell of the steam rising from the pot.
Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not
a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness
[20] is a domestic bird in our own courtyards.
As soon as we finished, she prepared a bed for me on a bench to the right of the table. I lay down,
and she lay down on the other bench opposite me. Outside the rain was falling by the bucketful.
For a considerable time I heard the water cackle on the roof, mixed with the old lady’s calm, quiet
breathing. She must have been tired, for she fell asleep the moment she inclined her head. Little
[25] by little, with the rain and the old lady’s respiration, I too slipped into sleep. When I awoke, I saw
daylight peering through the cracks in the door.
The old lady had already risen and placed a saucepan on the fire to prepare the morning milk.
I looked at her now in the sparse daylight. Shriveled and hump, she could fit into the palm of
your hand. Her legs were so swollen that she had to stop at every step and catch her breath.
[30] But her eyes, only her large, pitch-black eyes, gleamed with youthful, unaging brilliance. How
beautiful she must have been in her youth, I thought to myself, cursing man’s fate, his inevitable
deterioration. Sitting down opposite each other again, we drank the milk. Then I rose and slung
my carpetbag over my shoulder. I took out my wallet, but the old lady colored deeply.
“No, no,” she murmured, extending her hand.
[35] As I looked at her in astonishment, the whole of her wrinkled face suddenly gleamed.
“Goodbye, and God bless you,” she said. “May the Lord repay you for the good you’ve done me.
Since my husband died I’ve never slept so well.”
NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS* http://grammar.about.com
In the third and fourth paragraphs, there are different sensory images, as in the fragment below:
I breathed in the delicious smell of the steam rising from the pot. (ℓ. 17 )
In this fragment, the narrator makes use of the following type of imagery:
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“Hello”, said a quiet, musical voice.
I looked up, stunned that he was speaking to me. He was sitting as far away from me as the desk allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His hair was dripping wet – he looked like someone in a commercial for hair gel. His dazzling face was friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips. But his eyes were careful.
“My name is Edward Cullen,” he continued. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself last week. You must be Bella Swan.”
My mind was spinning with confusion. He was perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn’t think of anything conventional to say.
“H-how do you know my name?” I stammered.
He laughed a soft laugh.
“Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town was waiting for you to arrive.”
MEYER, S. Twilight. New York: Megan Tingley Books, 2006. Page 43.
“My mind was spinning with confusion. He was perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn’t think of anything conventional to say.
“H-how do you know my name?” I stammered.”
The excerpt above describes a feeling of
Leia o texto a seguir e responda à questão.
“Hello”, said a quiet, musical voice.
I looked up, stunned that he was speaking to me. He was sitting as far away from me as the desk allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His hair was dripping wet – he looked like someone in a commercial for hair gel. His dazzling face was friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips. But his eyes were careful.
“My name is Edward Cullen,” he continued. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself last week. You must be Bella Swan.”
My mind was spinning with confusion. He was perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn’t think of anything conventional to say.
“H-how do you know my name?” I stammered.
He laughed a soft laugh.
“Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town was waiting for you to arrive.”
MEYER, S. Twilight. New York: Megan Tingley Books, 2006. Page 43.
According to Bella’s descriptions in the text, Edward was
