Стратегия и тактика анализа текста = The Strategy and Tactic of Text Analysis

А.А. Гольдман

СТРАТЕГИЯ И ТАКТИКА 
АНАЛИЗА ТЕКСТА

The STraTegy and TacTicS
of TexT analySiS

Учебное пособие

4-е издание, стереотипное

Допущено УМО по классическому университетскому образованию 
для студентов высших учебных заведений
в качестве учебного пособия по направлению подготовки 
032700 — «Филология»

Москва
Издательство «ФЛИНТА»
2024

УДК 811.111’42(075.8)
ББК 81.432.1-5я73

 Г63

Р е ц е н з е н т ы :

д-р филол. наук, проф., директор ИЗФиР СВФУ О.А. Мельничук;

канд. филол. наук, доцент кафедры перевода 

ИЗФиР СВФУ А.А. Находкина

Г63

Гольдман А.А.
    Стратегия и тактика анализа текста : The Strategy and Tactic of Text 
Analysis : учеб. пособие / А.А. Гольдман. — 4-е изд., стер. — Москва:   
ФлИНТА, 2024. — 184 с. — ISBN 978-5-9765-2046-2. — Текст : 
электронный.

Цель пособия — обучить студентов практике стилистического и 
филологического анализа, научить их умению видеть взаимосвязь всех выразительных средств и стилистических приемов, используемых авторами художественных произведений, как прозы, так и 
поэзии, а также умению воспринимать и анализировать ораторскую речь, для выявления точки зрения автора на описываемое 
событие и воздействие на адресата.
Пособие адресовано студентам старших курсов языковых вузов 
для использования на занятиях по аналитическому чтению и стилистике 
современного английского языка.

УДК 811.111’42(075.8)
ББК 81.432.1-5я73

ISBN 978-5-9765-2046-2 
© Гольдман А.А., 2022
© Издательство «ФлИНТА», 2022

Introduction

The manual is devoted to the presentation of the schemes of stylistic 
analysis of the text on different levels, and philological analysis in general, 
because, according to O.V. Alexandrova, “philology as a science always 
combined both theoretical and practical aspects of language study in all its 
manifestations”.
The first part of the manual is devoted to the outline of general stylistic 
analysis. The task of this kind of analysis is to make a generalized worldworded review of all the distinctive features of the author’s language aimed 
at intensifying its expressiveness and emotional colouring, i.e. at a more 
vivid presentation of the message lodged in the text.
A Schematic Outline of General Stylistic Analysis:
1. Brief information concerning the author
2. General stylistic colouring of the text and its form of narration
3. The main idea of the text
4. Analysis of expressive means and stylistic devices disclosing the
author’s attitude to the characters and events described
5. Your own attitude to the characters and events described as well as
to the author’s manner of writing
The second part of the manual presents a pattern of the device-interpreting stylistic analysis. The task of this kind of analysis is to find and 
interpret all the stylistic devices appearing in the text.
When making a “device-interpreting” analysis of a certain part of the 
text, say a paragraph, containing some expressive means and stylistic 
devices the student should first of all interpret the idea expressed by this 
part. I.R. Galperin considered that “the analysis of any piece should begin 
with an attempt to grasp the idea expressed by this particular utterance”.
Each of the two parts is divided into two sections: section A — “Pattern 
Stylistic Analysis” and section B — “Independent Stylistic Analysis”.
A — “Pattern Stylistic Analysis” includes a number of passages with 
rigorous stylistic analysis which serve as pattern analysis. After each pat

tern analysis a text with assignments is offered. The students are expected 
to do the preceding pattern analysis.
B — “Independent Stylistic Analysis” presents a selection of texts supplied by assignments for independent analysis.
The third part introduces the student to the “elements of poetry”, where 
theory is illustrated by poems, followed by study questions.
The fourth part is devoted to the analysis of public speech as an object 
of philological study.

Part І

A. Pattern Text Analysis

General Analysis

The task of this kind of analysis is to make a generalized world — worded 
review of all the distinctive features of the author’s language aimed at intensifying its expressiveness and emotional colouring, i.e. at a more vivid 
presentation of the idea lodged in the text.
A schematic outline of general stylistic analysis:
1. Schematic outline of general stylistic analysis
2. Brief information concerning the author
3. General colouring of the text and its form of narration
4. Analysis of expressive means (EMs) and stylistic devices (SDs) 
disclosing the author’s attitude to the characters and phenomena 
described
5. Your own attitude to the characters and phenomena described as 
well as to the author’s manner of writing

PREFACE

As it is rightly stressed by Hemingway’s critics, his talent lies, first and 
foremost in his deep psychological insight into human nature.
Though Hemingway described physical activity and the outdoor world, 
for him the real battle ground is inward. This is quite true, and to bring 
home to the reader the innermost psychological world of his characters 
Hemingway makes the reader share his character’s experience. “I want to 
convey the experience to the reader” (Hemingway), so the reader becomes 
a participant of the events described by the author. Hemingway’s wonderful 
mastery of the language permits him to convey the experience to the reader, 
the author proved capable “of getting below the skin and presenting the 
universal underlying truth”.
Hence in the works of Hemingway it is the implication that counts, the 
“submerged part of the iceberg”, the unspoken reference due to which a 

briefly sketched natural description is charged with mood and emotional 
atmosphere.
Note such distinguishing features of Hemingway’s style as the masterful 
use of “relevant detail”, as essential detail that suggests the whole, and the 
use of a relevant detail both as fact and as symbol.
Analysing his stories proceed from Hemingway’s principle (cited above) 
and try to perceive the “submerged parts of the iceberg”, i.e. the unspoken 
reference.

Ernest Hemingway

The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber

It was now lunch time and they were all sitting under the double green 
fly of the dining tent pretending that nothing had happened.
“Will you have lime juice or lemon squash?” Macomber asked.
“I’ll have a gimlet,” Robert Wilson told him.
“I’ll have a gimlet too. I need something,” Macomber’s wife said.
“I suppose it’s the thing to do,” Macomber agreed. “Tell him to make 
three gimlets.”
The mess boy had started them already, lifting the bottles out of the 
canvas cooling bags that sweated wet in the wind that blew through the trees 
that shaded the tents.
“What had I ought to give them?” Macomber asked.
“A quid would be plenty,” Wilson told him. “You don’t want to spoil them.”
“Will the headman distribute it?”
“Absolutely.”
Francis Macomber had, half an hour before, been carried to his tent from 
the edge of the camp in triumph on the arms and shoulders of the cook, the 
personal boys, the skinner and the porters. The gun-bearers had taken no 
part in the demonstration. When the native boys put him down at the door 
of his tent, he had shaken all their hands, received their congratulations, and 
then gone into the tent and sat on the bed until his wife came in. She did not 
speak to him when she came in and he left the tent at once to wash his face 
and hands in the portable wash basin outside and go over to the dining tent 
to sit in a comfortable canvas chair in the breeze and the shade.
“You’ve got your lion,” Robert Wilson said to him, “and a damned fine 
one too.”
Mrs. Macomber looked at Wilson quickly. She was an extremely handsome and well-kept woman of the beauty and social position which had, five 
years before, commanded five thousand dollars as the price of endorsing, 
with photographs, a beauty product which she had never used. She had been 
married to Francis Macomber for eleven years.
“He is a good lion, isn’t he?” Macomber said. His wife looked at him 
now. She looked at both these men as though she had never seen them 
before.

One, Wilson, the white hunter, she knew she had never truly seen before. 
He was about middle height with sandy hair, a stubby mustache, a very red 
face and extremely cold blue eyes with faint white wrinkles at the corners 
that grooved merrily when he smiled. He smiled at her now and she looked 
away from his face at the way his shoulders sloped in the loose tunic he 
wore with the four big cartridges held in loops where the left breast pocket 
should have been, at his big brown hands, his old slacks, his very dirty boots 
and back to his red face again. She noticed where the baked red of his face 
stopped in a white line that marked the circle left by his Stetson hat that 
hung now from one of the pegs of the tent pole.
“Well, here’s to the lion,” Robert Wilson said. He smiled at her again 
and, not smiling, she looked curiously at her husband.
Francis Macomber was very tall, very well built if you did not mind that 
length of bone, dark, his hair cropped like an oarsman, rather thin-lipped, 
and was considered handsome. He was dressed in the same sort of safari 
clothes that Wilson wore except that his were new, he was thirty-five years 
old, kept himself very fit, was good at court games, had a number of biggame fishing records, and had just shown himself, very publicly, to be a 
coward.
“Here’s to the lion,” he said. “I can’t ever thank you for what you did.”
Margaret, his wife, looked away from him and back to Wilson.
“Let’s not talk about the lion,” she said.
Wilson looked over at her without smiling and now she smiled at him.
“It’s been a very strange day,” she said. “Hadn’t you ought to put your 
hat on even under the canvas at noon? You told me that, you know.”
“Might put it on,” said Wilson.
“You know you have a very red face, Mr. Wilson,” she told him and 
smiled again.
“Drink,” said Wilson.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Francis drinks a great deal, but his face is 
never red.”
“It’s red today,” Macomber tried a joke.
“No,” said Margaret. “It’s mine that’s red today. But Mr. Wilson’s is 
always red.
“Must be racial,” said Wilson. “I say, you wouldn’t like to drop my 
beauty as a topic, would you?”
“I’ve just started on it.”

“Let’s chuck it,” said Wilson.
“Conversation is going to be so difficult,” Margaret said.
“Don’t be silly, Margot,” her husband said.
“No difficulty,” Wilson said. “Got a damn fine lion.”
Margot looked at them both and they both saw that she was going to cry. 
Wilson had seen it coming for a long time and he dreaded it. Macomber was 
past dreading it.
“I wish it hadn’t happened. Oh, I wish it hadn’t happened,” she said and 
started for her tent. She made no noise of crying but they could see that her 
shoulders were shaking under the rose-colored, sun-proofed shirt she wore.
“Women upset,” said Wilson to the tall man. “Amounts to nothing. 
Strain on the nerves and one thing’n another.”
“No,” said Macomber. “I suppose that I rate that for the rest of my life 
now.”
“Nonsense. Let’s have a spot of the giant killer,” said Wilson. “Forget the 
whole thing. Nothing to it anyway.”
“We might try,” said Macomber. “I won’t forget what you did for me 
though.”
“Nothing,” said Wilson. “All nonsense.”
So they sat there in the shade where the camp was pitched under some 
wide-topped acacia trees with a boulder-strewn cliff behind them, and a 
stretch of grass that ran to the bank of a boulder-filled stream in front with 
forest beyond it, and drank their just-cool lime drinks and avoided one 
another’s eyes while the boys all knew about it now and when he saw 
Macomber’s personal boy looking curiously at his master while he was 
putting dishes on the table he snapped at him in Swahili. The boy turned 
away with his face blank.
“What were you telling him?” Macomber asked.
“Nothing. Told him to look alive or I’d see he got about fifteen of the best.”
“What’s that? Lashes?”
“It’s quite illegal,” Wilson said. “You’re supposed to fine them.”
“Do you still have them whipped?”
“Oh, yes. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. But they 
don’t. They prefer it to the fines.”
“How strange!” said Macomber.
“Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a 
good birching or lose your pay?”

Then he felt embarrassed at asking it and before Macomber could ans- 
wer he went on, “We all take a beating every day, you know, one way or  
another.”
This was no better. “Good God,” he thought. “I am a diplomat, aren’t I?”
“Yes, we take a beating,” said Macomber, still not looking at him. “I’m 
awfully sorry about that lion business. It doesn’t have to go any further, 
does it? I mean no one will hear about it, will they?”
“You mean will I tell it at the Mathaiga Club?” Wilson looked at him 
now coldly. He had not expected this. So he’s a bloody four-letter man as 
well as a bloody coward, he thought. I rather liked him too until today. But 
how is one to know about an American?
“No,” said Wilson. “I’m a professional hunter. We never talk about our 
clients. You can be quite easy on that. It’s supposed to be bad form to ask us 
not to talk though.”
He had decided now that to break would be much easier. He would eat, 
then, by himself and could read a book with his meals. They would eat by 
themselves. He would see them through the safari on a very formal basis 
what was it the French called it? Distinguished consideration and it would 
be a damn sight easier than having to go through this emotional trash. He’d 
insult him and make a good clean break. Then he could read a book with his 
meals and he’d still be drinking their whisky. That was the phrase for it 
when a safari went bad. You ran into another while hunter and you asked, 
“How is everything going?” and he answered, “Oh, I’m still drinking their 
whisky,” and you knew everything had gone to pot.
“I’m sorry,” Macomber said and looked at him with his American face 
that would stay adolescent until it became middle-aged, and Wilson noted 
his crew-cropped hair, fine eyes only faintly shifty, good nose, thin lips and 
handsome jaw. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize that. There are lots of things  
I don’t know.”
So what could he do, Wilson thought. He was all ready to break it off 
quickly and neatly and here the beggar was apologizing after he had just 
insulted him. He made one more attempt. “Don’t worry about me talking,” 
he said. “I have a living to make. You know in Africa no woman ever misses 
her lion and no white man ever bolts.
“I bolted like a rabbit,” Macomber said.
Now what in hell were you going to do about a man who talked like that, 
Wilson wondered.