OBAVEŠTENJE ZA STUDENTE PRVE GODINE

Test 1 iz predmeta Britanska istorija i kultura održaće se 19.11. (sreda) u amfiteatru s početkom u 20.00 časova.

OBAVEŠTENJE ZA STUDENTE PRVE GODINE - GRUPA C

Obaveštavaju se studenti prve godine, grupe C, da će se u petak, 31. oktobra, vežbe iz predmeta Srednjovekovna i renesansna engleska drama održati u terminu od 12.00 do 13.30 časova u učionici 49. 

Odlomci za 27. 10.

Chapter 2

About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily

joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to

shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of

ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and

hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and

chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of

men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives

out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey

men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud

which screens their obscure operations from your sight.

But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift

endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T.

J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and

gigantic--their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but,

instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a

nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to

fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself

into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes,

dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over

the solemn dumping ground.

The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and

when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on

waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an

hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was

because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress.

The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His

acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular

restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about,

chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I

had no desire to meet her--but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on

the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped

to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the

car.

"We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl."

I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to

have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that

on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.

I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked

back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent

stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick

sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street

ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the

three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night

restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a

garage--Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold--and I followed

Tom inside.

The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the

dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had

occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that

sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the

proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands

on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and

faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his

light blue eyes.

Chapter 5

...After half an hour the sun shone again and the grocer's automobile

rounded Gatsby's drive with the raw material for his servants' dinner--I

felt sure he wouldn't eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper

windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from a

large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I

went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of

their voices, rising and swelling a little, now and then, with gusts of

emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within

the house too.

I went in--after making every possible noise in the kitchen short of

pushing over the stove--but I don't believe they heard a sound. They

were sitting at either end of the couch looking at each other as if

some question had been asked or was in the air, and every vestige of

embarrassment was gone. Daisy's face was smeared with tears and when I

came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before

a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding.

He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new

well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.

"Oh, hello, old sport," he said, as if he hadn't seen me for years. I

thought for a moment he was going to shake hands.

"It's stopped raining."

"Has it?" When he realized what I was talking about, that there were

twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man,

like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to

Daisy. "What do you think of that? It's stopped raining."

"I'm glad, Jay." Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only

of her unexpected joy.

"I want you and Daisy to come over to my house," he said, "I'd like to

show her around."

"You're sure you want me to come?"

"Absolutely, old sport."

Daisy went upstairs to wash her face--too late I thought with humiliation

of my towels--while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.

"My house looks well, doesn't it?" he demanded. "See how the whole

front of it catches the light."

I agreed that it was splendid.

"Yes." His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. "It took

me just three years to earn the money that bought it."

"I thought you inherited your money."

"I did, old sport," he said automatically, "but I lost most of it in

the big panic--the panic of the war."

I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what

business he was in he answered "That's my affair," before he realized

that it wasn't the appropriate reply.

"Oh, I've been in several things," he corrected himself. "I was in the

drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I'm not in either

one now." He looked at me with more attention. "Do you mean you've been

thinking over what I proposed the other night?"

Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass

buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.

"That huge place THERE?" she cried pointing.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it, but I don't see how you live there all alone."

"I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who

do interesting things. Celebrated people."

Chapter 7

It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights

in his house failed to go on one Saturday night--and, as obscurely as it

had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over.

Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned

expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove

sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out--an

unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously

from the door.

"Is Mr. Gatsby sick?"

"Nope." After a pause he added "sir" in a dilatory, grudging way.

"I hadn't seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway

came over."

"Who?" he demanded rudely.

"Carraway."

"Carraway. All right, I'll tell him." Abruptly he slammed the door.

My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his

house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never

went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered

moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the

kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was

that the new people weren't servants at all.

Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.

"Going away?" I inquired.

"No, old sport."

"I hear you fired all your servants."

"I wanted somebody who wouldn't gossip. Daisy comes over quite often--in

the afternoons."

So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the

disapproval in her eyes.

"They're some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They're all

brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel."

"I see."

He was calling up at Daisy's request--would I come to lunch at

her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later

Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming.

Something was up. And yet I couldn't believe that they would choose

this occasion for a scene--especially for the rather harrowing scene

that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.

The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of

the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the

hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush

at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion;

the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white

shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers,

lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-book

slapped to the floor....

With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her

nurse's hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back,

preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.

Gatsby took up his drink.

"They certainly look cool," he said, with visible tension.

We drank in long greedy swallows.

"I read somewhere that the sun's getting hotter every year," said Tom

genially. "It seems that pretty soon the earth's going to fall into the

sun--or wait a minute--it's just the opposite--the sun's getting colder

every year.

"Come outside," he suggested to Gatsby, "I'd like you to have a look at

the place."

I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the

heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby's eyes

followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.

"I'm right across from you."

"So you are."

Our eyes lifted over the rosebeds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse

of the dog days along shore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved

against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and

the abounding blessed isles.

"There's sport for you," said Tom, nodding. "I'd like to be out there

with him for about an hour."

We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened, too, against the heat,

and drank down nervous gayety with the cold ale.

"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon," cried Daisy, "and the

day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Don't be morbid," Jordan said. "Life starts all over again when it gets

crisp in the fall."

"But it's so hot," insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, "And

everything's so confused. Let's all go to town!"

Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its

senselessness into forms.

"I've heard of making a garage out of a stable," Tom was saying to

Gatsby, "but I'm the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage."

"Who wants to go to town?" demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby's eyes

floated toward her. "Ah," she cried, "you look so cool."

Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space.

With an effort she glanced down at the table.

"You always look so cool," she repeated.

She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was

astounded. His mouth opened a little and he looked at Gatsby and then

back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as some one he knew a

long time ago.

"You resemble the advertisement of the man," she went on innocently.

"You know the advertisement of the man----"

"All right," broke in Tom quickly, "I'm perfectly willing to go to

town. Come on--we're all going to town."

He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife.

No one moved.

SAVREMENA BRITANIJA

SAVREMENA BRITANIJA

OKTOBAR II

Ispit održan 21. 10. 2014.

Rezultati ispita

Paunović Mirjana 11; 16,5; 41,5; 69; 7 (sedam)

NAPOMENA:  Upis ocene je u četvrtak, 23. oktobra, u 9:30, u kabinetu br. 62/ II

GRUPA A MODERNIZAM PREZENTACIJE ISPRAVKA

1.      Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim – narativna tehnika       20. 10.                                         

2. Lord Jim – moralna problematika romana    NIKOLA ALEKSIĆ  20. 10.            
3. Lord Jim – autobiografski elementi MARKO BESERMENJI  27. 10.                     
4. Lord Jim – Marlo i Džim    27. 10.                                                           
5. D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers – društvena tematika dela    MILICA CICMIL 3. 11.     
6. D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers – elementi bildungs romana GLORIA BRUSNJAI  3. 11.
7. D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers – ljubavi Pola Morela  HERMINA DRAH  3. 11.                  
8. Virginia Woolf, Mrs.Dalloway – narativna tehnika  TIJANA BLAGOJEVIC  17. 11.    
9. Mrs. Dalloway -  društveno-istorijski kontekst  dela MILICA ANDRIĆ 17.11.
10. Mrs. Dalloway – lik Klarise Dalovej EMEŠE ČEKE 24. 11.
11. Mrs. Dalloway – Klarisa and Septimus  JELENA ĐURĐEVIĆ 24. 11.
12. James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist – novo shvatanje romaneskne umetnosti  Jelena Kavaja (B)      1. 12.
13. James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist – Stivenovi konflikti: vera, porodica, nacija  NIRVANA BRADIĆ 1. 12.
14. James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist- upotreba mita u romanu  1. 12.
15. T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land – odlike modernističke poezije  GORDANA ĆIRIĆ   8. 12.
16. T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land – društvena i kulturološka kritika  ĐORĐE DOBROSAVLJEVIĆ 8. 12.
17. T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land – odnosi između polova  LUKA CEKIĆ 15. 12.       
18. T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land – uporišta i izvori dela    ŽARKO CVEJIĆ 15. 12.      
19. W. B. Yeats ’Sailing to Byzantium’ – analiza VERA ĐUKANOVIĆ 22.12.               
20. ’Byzantium’ – analiza BOGDAN DIKLIĆ  22.12.                                            
21.  ’The Second Coming’ – analiza   MARIO BAČANOVIĆ 12. 1.           
22. W. B. Yeats, “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” - analiza  MARKO BARAC 12.1          

MODERNIZAM - RASPORED PREZENTACIJA

Raspored za grupu A je ovde, za grupu B ovde, a za grupe C i D ovde.

ETA
Dodatak za grupu B:

tema 20. Ana Grubić

tema 21. Andrijana Jovanović

tema 22. Miloš Đurić

ENGLESKI ROMAN 18. VEKA - PISMENI, OKTOBAR II

ENGELSKI ROMAN 18. VEKA

OKTOBAR II

                       

                                   Test     Esej

Ilić Anđa                    8          7-

Jevtić Milica               9          6

MEDIEVAL AND RENAISSANCE POETRY: references

A Critical History of English Literature, D. Daiches

English Literature of the Middle Ages, S. Coote

Medieval English Literature

The Penguin History of Literature: The Middle Ages

The Penguin History of Literature: English Poetry and Prose 1540-1674

A Critical History of Old English Literature

English Literature Before Chaucer, Swanton

English Medieval Romance, Barron

Poetry of the Age of Chaucer, A. C. and J. E. Spearing (eds.)

English Poetry of the 16^th Century

A Reader’s Guide to the Metaphysical Poets, G. Williamson

The Oxford Companion to English Literature

The Pelican Guide to English Literature

Engleska književnost, I. Kovačević

Macmillan Anthologies of English Literature: The Middle Ages

Macmillan Anthologies of English Literature: The Renaissance

AND MANY MORE IN LIBRARY CABINET 1!