Esempi 1 anno

Primo anno
From 1984, by George Orwell
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street
little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was
shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the
posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from
every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG
BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into
Winston's own. Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in
the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance
a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and
darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's
windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron
and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and
transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low
whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of
vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of
course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was
guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any
rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from
habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard,
and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even
a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered
vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces
of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether
London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting
nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows
patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls
sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air
and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs
had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings
like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his
childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and
mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak* -- was startlingly different from any other
object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete,
soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was
just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of
the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
From The Fox by D. H. Lawrence
The fox really exasperated them both. As soon as they had let the fowls out, in the early
summer mornings, they had to take their guns and keep guard: and then again as soon as
evening began to mellow, they must go once more. And he was so sly. He slid along in the
deep grass; he was difficult as a serpent to see. And he seemed to circumvent the girls
deliberately. Once or twice March had caught sight of the white tip of his brush, or the
ruddy shadow of him in the deep grass, and she had let fire at him. But he made no
account of this.
One evening March was standing with her back to the sunset, her gun under her arm, her
hair pushed under her cap. She was half watching, half musing. It was her constant state.
Her eyes were keen and observant, but her inner mind took no notice of what she saw. She
was always lapsing into this odd, rapt state, her mouth rather screwed up. It was a question
whether she was there, actually conscious present, or not.
The trees on the wood-edge were a darkish, brownish green in the full light — for it was the
end of August. Beyond, the naked, copper-like shafts and limbs of the pine trees shone in
the air. Nearer the rough grass, with its long, brownish stalks all agleam, was full of light.
The fowls were round about — the ducks were still swimming on the pond under the pine
trees. March looked at it all, saw it all, and did not see it. She heard Banford speaking to
the fowls in the distance — and she did not hear. What was she thinking about? Heaven
knows. Her consciousness was, as it were, held back.
She lowered her eyes, and suddenly saw the fox. He was looking up at her. Her chin was
pressed down, and his eyes were looking up. They met her eyes. And he knew her. She was
spellbound — she knew he knew her. So he looked into her eyes, and her soul failed her. He
knew her, he was not daunted.
She struggled, confusedly she came to herself, and saw him making off, with slow leaps
over some fallen boughs, slow, impudent jumps. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and
ran smoothly away. She saw his brush held smooth like a feather, she saw his white
buttocks twinkle. And he was gone, softly, soft as the wind.
She put her gun to her shoulder, but even then pursed her mouth, knowing it was nonsense
to pretend to fire. So she began to walk slowly after him, in the direction he had gone,
slowly, pertinaciously. She expected to find him. In her heart she was determined to find
him. What she would do when she saw him again she did not consider. But she was
determined to find him. So she walked abstractedly about on the edge of the wood, with
wide, vivid dark eyes, and a faint flush in her cheeks. She did not think. In strange
mindlessness she walked hither and thither.
At last she became aware that Banford was calling her. She made an effort of attention,
turned, and gave some sort of screaming call in answer. Then again she was striding off
towards the homestead. The red sun was setting, the fowls were retiring towards their
roost. She watched them, white creatures, black creatures, gathering to the barn. She
watched them spellbound, without seeing them. But her automatic intelligence told her
when it was time to shut the door.
She went indoors to supper, which Banford had set on the table. Banford chatted easily.
March seemed to listen, in her distant, manly way. She answered a brief word now and
then. But all the time she was as if spellbound. And as soon as supper was over, she rose
again to go out, without saying why.
Analisi dello stesso testo in italiano e inglese; gli studenti analizzano lo stile, arrivando a
capire qual è il testo originale
Saltammo fuori nella notte calda, selvaggia, sentendo un indiavolato sax¬tenore che faceva
ululare il suo strumento dall'altra parte della strada, in questo modo: 'Ii-iah! Ii-iah! Ii-iah!'
mentre delle mani battevano a tempo e la gente urlava: 'Dài, dài, dài!' D già s'era messo a
correre attraverso la strada col pollice per aria, urlando: 'Suona, amico, suona!' Un gruppo
di negri con l'abito del sabato sera si scalmanavano davanti all'ingresso. Era una sala col
pavimento coperto di segatura e un piccolo palco per l'orchestra sul quale i suonatori
stavano ammucchiati col cappello in capo, suonando sopra le teste della gente, un luogo
fantastico; ogni tanto pazze donne sfasciate andavano in giro in accappatoio, nei vicoli si
sentiva uno sbatacchiar di bottiglie. Nel retro del locale in un corridoio oscuro dietro i
gabinetti insozzati decine di uomini e di donne stavano appoggiati al muro bevendo e
sputando alle stelle ... vino e whisky. Il sax-tenore col cappello stava suonando sull'onda di
un meraviglioso soddisfacente motivo improvvisato, una frase ripetuta che si alzava e
ricadeva e andava da 'Iiiah' fino a un più indiavolato 'Ii-di-li-iah!' e imperversava al suono
della cascata scrosciante della batteria incrinata, martellata da un grosso negro brutale dal
collo taurino cui non importava un corno di niente fuorché di castigare i suoi logori
tamburi, 'crak, ta-ra-ta-bum, crak!'
Out we jumped into the warm, mad night, hearing a wild tenorman bawling horn across
the way, going 'EE-YAH! EE-YAH! EE-YAH!' and hands clapping to the beat and folks
yelling, 'Go, go, go!' D was already racing across the street with his thumb in the air,
yelling, 'Blow, man, blow!' A bunch of colored men in Saturday-night suits were whooping
it up in front. It was a sawdust saloon with a small bandstand on which the fellows huddled
with their hats on, blowing over people's heads, a crazy pIace; crazy floppy women
wandered around sometimes in their bathrobes, bottles clanked in alleys. In back of the
joint in a dark corridor beyond the splattered toilets scores of men and women sto od
against the wall drinking wine-spodiodi and spitting at the stars - wine and whisky. The
behatted tenorman was blowing at the peak of a wonderfully satisfactory free idea, a rising
and falling riff that went from 'EE-yah!' to a crazier 'EE-de-Iee-yah!' and blasted along to
the rolling crash of butt-scarred drums hammered by a big brutal Negro with a bullneck
who didn't give a damn about anything but punishing his busted tubs, crash, rattle-tiboom, crash.