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(REGO, José Lins do. Riacho Doce. Rio de Janeiro. Nova Aguilar, 1976. pp. 137-139)
(REGO, José Lins do. Riacho Doce. Rio de Janeiro. Nova Aguilar, 1976. pp. 137-139)
(REGO, José Lins do. Riacho Doce. Rio de Janeiro. Nova Aguilar, 1976. pp. 137-139)
(REGO, José Lins do. Riacho Doce. Rio de Janeiro. Nova Aguilar, 1976. pp. 137-139)
(REGO, José Lins do. Riacho Doce. Rio de Janeiro. Nova Aguilar, 1976. pp. 137-139)
(REGO, José Lins do. Riacho Doce. Rio de Janeiro. Nova Aguilar, 1976. pp. 137-139)
Read the following passage of “The Dinner”, by Clarice Lispector, and answer question.
“I leaned over my meal, lost. When I finally managed to confront him from the depths of my pallid face, I observed that he, too, was leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table, his head between his hands. And obviously he could bear it no longer. His bushy eyebrows were touching. His food must have lodged just below his throat under the stress of his emotion, for when he was able to continue, he made a visible effort to swallow, dabbing his forehead with his napkin. I could bear it no longer, the meat on my plate was raw… and I really could not bear it another minute. But he – he was eating.
The waiter brought a bottle in a bucket of ice. I noted every detail without being capable of discrimination. The bottle was different, the waiter in tails, and the light haloed the robust head of Pluto which was now moving with curiosity, greedy and attentive. For a second the waiter obliterated my view of the elderly gentleman and I could only see his black coattails hovering over the table as he poured red wine into the glass and waited with ardent eyes – because here was a surely man who would tip generously, one of those elderly gentlemen who still command attention… and power. The elderly gentleman, who now seemed larger, confidently took a sip, lowered his glass, and sourly considered the taste in his mouth. He compressed his lips and smacked them with distaste, as if the good were also intolerable. I waited, the waiter waited, and we both leaned forward in suspense. Finally he made a grimace of approval. The waiter curved his shiny head in submission to the man’s words of thanks and went off with lowered head, while I sighed with relief.
He now mingled gulps of wine with the meat in his great mouth and his false teeth
ponderously chewed while I observed him… in vain. Nothing more happened. The
restaurant appeared to radiate with renewed intensity under the tinkling of glass and
cutlery; in the brightly lit dome of the room the whispered conversation rose and fell
in gentle waves; the woman in the large hat smiled with half closed eyes, looking
slender and beautiful as the waiter carefully poured the wine into her glass. But now
he was making another gesture.”
Read the following passage of “The Dinner”, by Clarice Lispector, and answer question.
“I leaned over my meal, lost. When I finally managed to confront him from the depths of my pallid face, I observed that he, too, was leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table, his head between his hands. And obviously he could bear it no longer. His bushy eyebrows were touching. His food must have lodged just below his throat under the stress of his emotion, for when he was able to continue, he made a visible effort to swallow, dabbing his forehead with his napkin. I could bear it no longer, the meat on my plate was raw… and I really could not bear it another minute. But he – he was eating.
The waiter brought a bottle in a bucket of ice. I noted every detail without being capable of discrimination. The bottle was different, the waiter in tails, and the light haloed the robust head of Pluto which was now moving with curiosity, greedy and attentive. For a second the waiter obliterated my view of the elderly gentleman and I could only see his black coattails hovering over the table as he poured red wine into the glass and waited with ardent eyes – because here was a surely man who would tip generously, one of those elderly gentlemen who still command attention… and power. The elderly gentleman, who now seemed larger, confidently took a sip, lowered his glass, and sourly considered the taste in his mouth. He compressed his lips and smacked them with distaste, as if the good were also intolerable. I waited, the waiter waited, and we both leaned forward in suspense. Finally he made a grimace of approval. The waiter curved his shiny head in submission to the man’s words of thanks and went off with lowered head, while I sighed with relief.
He now mingled gulps of wine with the meat in his great mouth and his false teeth
ponderously chewed while I observed him… in vain. Nothing more happened. The
restaurant appeared to radiate with renewed intensity under the tinkling of glass and
cutlery; in the brightly lit dome of the room the whispered conversation rose and fell
in gentle waves; the woman in the large hat smiled with half closed eyes, looking
slender and beautiful as the waiter carefully poured the wine into her glass. But now
he was making another gesture.”
Read the following passage of “The Dinner”, by Clarice Lispector, and answer question.
“I leaned over my meal, lost. When I finally managed to confront him from the depths of my pallid face, I observed that he, too, was leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table, his head between his hands. And obviously he could bear it no longer. His bushy eyebrows were touching. His food must have lodged just below his throat under the stress of his emotion, for when he was able to continue, he made a visible effort to swallow, dabbing his forehead with his napkin. I could bear it no longer, the meat on my plate was raw… and I really could not bear it another minute. But he – he was eating.
The waiter brought a bottle in a bucket of ice. I noted every detail without being capable of discrimination. The bottle was different, the waiter in tails, and the light haloed the robust head of Pluto which was now moving with curiosity, greedy and attentive. For a second the waiter obliterated my view of the elderly gentleman and I could only see his black coattails hovering over the table as he poured red wine into the glass and waited with ardent eyes – because here was a surely man who would tip generously, one of those elderly gentlemen who still command attention… and power. The elderly gentleman, who now seemed larger, confidently took a sip, lowered his glass, and sourly considered the taste in his mouth. He compressed his lips and smacked them with distaste, as if the good were also intolerable. I waited, the waiter waited, and we both leaned forward in suspense. Finally he made a grimace of approval. The waiter curved his shiny head in submission to the man’s words of thanks and went off with lowered head, while I sighed with relief.
He now mingled gulps of wine with the meat in his great mouth and his false teeth
ponderously chewed while I observed him… in vain. Nothing more happened. The
restaurant appeared to radiate with renewed intensity under the tinkling of glass and
cutlery; in the brightly lit dome of the room the whispered conversation rose and fell
in gentle waves; the woman in the large hat smiled with half closed eyes, looking
slender and beautiful as the waiter carefully poured the wine into her glass. But now
he was making another gesture.”
Read the following passage of “The Dinner”, by Clarice Lispector, and answer question.
“I leaned over my meal, lost. When I finally managed to confront him from the depths of my pallid face, I observed that he, too, was leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table, his head between his hands. And obviously he could bear it no longer. His bushy eyebrows were touching. His food must have lodged just below his throat under the stress of his emotion, for when he was able to continue, he made a visible effort to swallow, dabbing his forehead with his napkin. I could bear it no longer, the meat on my plate was raw… and I really could not bear it another minute. But he – he was eating.
The waiter brought a bottle in a bucket of ice. I noted every detail without being capable of discrimination. The bottle was different, the waiter in tails, and the light haloed the robust head of Pluto which was now moving with curiosity, greedy and attentive. For a second the waiter obliterated my view of the elderly gentleman and I could only see his black coattails hovering over the table as he poured red wine into the glass and waited with ardent eyes – because here was a surely man who would tip generously, one of those elderly gentlemen who still command attention… and power. The elderly gentleman, who now seemed larger, confidently took a sip, lowered his glass, and sourly considered the taste in his mouth. He compressed his lips and smacked them with distaste, as if the good were also intolerable. I waited, the waiter waited, and we both leaned forward in suspense. Finally he made a grimace of approval. The waiter curved his shiny head in submission to the man’s words of thanks and went off with lowered head, while I sighed with relief.
He now mingled gulps of wine with the meat in his great mouth and his false teeth
ponderously chewed while I observed him… in vain. Nothing more happened. The
restaurant appeared to radiate with renewed intensity under the tinkling of glass and
cutlery; in the brightly lit dome of the room the whispered conversation rose and fell
in gentle waves; the woman in the large hat smiled with half closed eyes, looking
slender and beautiful as the waiter carefully poured the wine into her glass. But now
he was making another gesture.”
