TALKING BOOKS
Mr Holden
will be presenting
“The Pickwick Papers”
by Charles Dickens
on
Thursday, 4th December
at lunchtime (1:15’)
in the Library
Thursday 4 December 2014
Friday 7 November 2014
Tuesday 21 October 2014
Monday 6 October 2014
Monday 22 September 2014
Wednesday 26 March 2014
Thursday 20 March 2014
Monday 10 March 2014
Talking Books
This week Wednesday, 12 March, Kosta Makris, Grade 8, will be presenting "The Runaway King"by Jennifer A. Nielsen, in the library at lunch time.
Tuesday 25 February 2014
Friday 31 January 2014
In our 9A group, we focused on The Gothic Tradition in the first part of this term. The Gothic Tradition traditionally involves elements of horror and romance.
As a class we analysed "The Eyes of the Poor" by Charles Baudelaire. As a homework task, our pupils were asked to rewrite the piece from the point of view of the lady.
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE- The Eyes of the Poor
Oh! You want to know why I hate you today. It will undoubtedly be less easy for you to understand than it will be for me to explain, for you are, I believe, the most beautiful example of feminine impermeability one could ever encounter.
We had spent together a long day that had seemed short to me. We had indeed promised that we would share all of our thoughts with one another, and that our two souls would henceforth be one — a dream that isn’t the least bit original, after all, if not that, dreamed of by all men, it has been realized by none.
In the evening, a bit tired, we wanted to sit down in front of a new café that formed the corner of a new boulevard, still strewn with debris and already gloriously displaying its unfinished splendors. The café was sparkling. The gaslight itself sent forth all the ardor of a debut and lit with all its force walls blinding in their whiteness, dazzling sheets of mirrors, the gold of the rods and cornices, chubby-cheeked page-boys being dragged by dogs on leashes, laughing ladies with falcons perched on their wrist, nymphs and goddesses carrying on their heads fruits, pies, and poultry, Hebes and Ganymedes presenting in out-stretched arms little amphoras filled with Bavarian cream or bi-colored obelisks of ice cream — all of history and all of mythology at the service of gluttony.
Right in front of us, on the sidewalk, a worthy man in his forties was standing, with a tired face, a greying beard, and holding with one hand a little boy and carrying on the other arm a little being too weak to walk. He was playing the role of nanny and had taken his children out for a walk in the night air. All in rags. The three faces were extraordinarily serious, and the six eyes contemplated fixedly the new café with an equal admiration, but shaded differently according to their age.
The father’s eyes said: “How beautiful it is! How beautiful it is! You’d think all the gold in this poor world was on its walls.” — The eyes of the little boy: “How beautiful it is! How beautiful it is! But it’s a house only people who aren’t like us can enter.” — As for the eyes of the smaller child, they were too fascinated to express anything other than a stupid and profound joy.
Song-writers say that pleasure makes the soul good and softens the heart. The song was right this evening, as regards me. Not only was I moved by this family of eyes, but I also felt a little ashamed of our glasses and our carafes, which were larger than our thirst. I turned my gaze toward your’s, dear love, to read my thoughts there; I plunged into your so beautiful and so bizarrely gentle eyes, into your green eyes, inhabited by Caprice and inspired by the Moon, and then you said to me: “I can’t stand those people over there, with their eyes wide open like carriage gates! Can’t you tell the head-waiter to send them away?”
So difficult is it to understand one another, my dear angel, and so incommunicable is thought, even between people in love!”
Here is Emily Holden's response:
I cannot understand you. You have been so cold to me, ever since that beautiful, beautiful day.
It had been a long day, but it had been lovely all the same. We had promised one another to share our thoughts, to be in love forever, one person instead of two. Oh, how romantic it had been! Oh what a glorious day it was! I'm so glad I spent it with you!
However, by evening, I was exhausted, and in desperate need of rest. We found a wonderful little cafe, resting on the edge of a newly-built road. A sweet place - but nothing particularly special. Good enough though. It obviously wasn't completely finished (there was a thin layer of debris hanging over it all) but I was so exhausted, I barely noticed. It had lovely cornices: all to do with gastronomy, portraying immortal beings enjoying their gluttony, practically glowing thanks to the glittering lights all around them.
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, there appeared a terrifyingly dirty, horrid monster that could barley be classified as a man, and two equally disgusting pieces of vermin attached to him. He towered over us, my love, staring hungrily at everything: the food, the cornices, the glittering lights. The children had the same look in their own orbs, gloating at everything as if they were about to devour it all. How perfectly horrid!
I turned to you, my love, and you looked at me at the same second. I felt so grateful you were with me; I don't know what those horrible beings might have done if you hadn't been there with me! The family of vermin would have been better suited in a rubbish heap; not a delicate place like this.
Their gazes loomed over us until I finally couldn't stand it. "I can't stand those people, with their eyes like wide open gates," I told you in all earnestness. "Couldn't you ask the manager to get rid of them?"
In the end, they did leave. But the coldness, the stiffness in your manner was barely concealable. I can't understand it. Was it because I ate a tad too much?
Next we have Alessandro Gressani's response:
One of the best days of my life had just ended. We swore loyalty to each other and that all our thoughts and feelings would be shared between us. After having walked all day through the most spectacular streets and corners of the City of Lights, we decided to stop in a rather dirty boulevard still undergoing its construction; and sat at a café. The café was very well furnished, with golden cornices and large mirrors; and the food was elegantly served in jars and beautifully decorated plates. It was a place worthy for people of our status. However, as most things in life, there was a clearly indecent side to this. Just there, on the road, so close to our table, an old, filthy man, with an unrestrained beard and a child in his hands, had suddenly appeared. Another child, slightly older, stood at his side, pulling at what probably was his father’s rags. I can’t imagine the lack of hygiene of those people – they shouldn’t be allowed near us, God knows what inhumane diseases they carry. Their troubled facial expressions, their eyes staring intensely at us, looking for things to steal or ready to beg for some of the food that was being brought constantly to our table.
Their gaze felt as if it could bore holes through us, till I eventually could not endure it for a second longer and I implored, "I can't stand those people over there, with their eyes wide open like carriage gates! Can't you tell the head-waiter to send them away?
I’m terribly surprised and filled with indignation, at the thought that you my very love had done nothing at all to send those creatures away from us, but limited yourself to stare into my eyes with an expression of loathing and disgust.
And finally Sadin Abdul- Fattah's piece:
I can’t understand you. You’re being so cold towards me, ever since that beautiful but ruined day... We had passed a short day that seemed long to me. We had shared many things possible and promised each other to unite our thoughts, even though they differ immensely, and to join our precious souls as one- even if that was a dream dreamt by all and achieved by none, I was sure that we could do it. Once I got tired you took me to a new, quite average, café nearby town. I would have preferred something fancier, but you clearly thought that it was luxurious enough, so we stayed. The café was quite a sight, but I’d seen much better. They did have beautiful, elegant and polite waiters, offering ripe fruits, little jars of sweetmeats and even Swiss chocolate- which honestly was a credit to them , because only extremely fancy restaurants and café’s offer them; and I absolutely love them.
Then, all of a sudden, right in front of us, on the roadway stood an unworthy man of forty-odd with a disgusting beard: he looked tired and dirty, as he held a little boy’s hand with grimy, calloused fingers, while on the other hand he carried a weak, emaciated baby. They were all in rags. The three faces were strikingly solemn, and all six scrawny eyes were staring at the café in awe. Their eyes cried “how beautiful and amazing”. They were filled with joy. One would think all the world’s gold was here-it was merely a café! Didn’t they feel ashamed? Coming here where they don't belong and ruining my evening with their desperate eyes. I was suddenly grateful that I didn’t know them, for I would be embarrassed by their needy eyes. They were making me uncomfortable and annoyed so I said to you ‘I can’t stand these people, with their eyes like wide open gates. Couldn’t you ask the manager to get rid of them?’
That’s when I saw the pity in your eyes for them. That’s how difficult it is to understand each other, my love, that’s how much our thoughts are incongruous, despite being in love. And that’s when your cruelty and coldness began towards me…
Tuesday 28 January 2014
9A Narrative Compositions
Here are three narrative compositions from our 9A group.
The topic was:
WRITE A STORY ABOUT A MOMENT OF SUCCESS OR FAILURE.
Here is Alex Petropoulos' composition:
I carefully treaded through the African bush, my sharp eyes telling me to swerve left or right, when I spotted an unwelcoming thorn bush, or a vicious scorpion with its stinger languorously hanging above it, just waiting for the right moment to, in a blink of an eye, proceed with its malicious intentions and inject me with its callous poison. My legs screamed with pain, as they made their way up the gentle incline, begging for rest, after having spent days tracking the herd of gazelle that get me what I so desperately desired.
My name is Max Baobab. It was my thirteenth name-day and as being part of the Shaka Zulu tribe, this meant that today was the last day for me to complete the sacred trials of manhood; wrestling a member of my tribe, weaving a basket using nothing more than a fistful of long grass, and finally tracking down and killing a gazelle. Three tasks that could only be completed by a boy with strength, cunning and endurance.
As I approached the peak of the hill, I could sense my prey getting near. My heart and breathing rate rapidly increased as I neared my target. Years of hard work had led to this moment. I would finally be treated as an equal among men. The slightest distraction at this moment could ruin my life forever. I didn’t know whether it was the scalding heat or my nerves, but I found myself sweating all over.
As I looked over the hill, lying on my stomach as not to frighten the animals, I saw my target. At the foot of the hill was a watering hole, holding an elephant, two buffaloes and, most importantly, a herd of gazelle. The watering hole itself was surrounded by almost horizontal cliffs on all sides but mine. Finally, the gods were on my side.
After a final look, I began my descent. At first it was a gradual one, but it rapidly picked up speed. Within seconds I was hurtling down the hill, with the wind in my hair and a feeling of invincibility. But suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something. The world seemed to freeze around me as I realised what I had seen. A silver wire, no thicker than a fishing line, was suspended at foot height, and I was headed right for it.
Here is Max Pogoriler's composition:
The huge wave swept over the deck, nearly sweeping Jeff into the ferocious blackness of the Atlantic Ocean.The waves battered the small yacht ,showing no mercy and Jeff wondered if now,on the last leg of his trip he was going to disappear into the infinite depths of this unforgiving stretch of water.He had no radio contact since rounding the Cape, in a fearsome storm almost a week ago.If he were to die now he would be totally alone.As another gigantic wave engulfed his already sorely tried boat, Jeff crouched down holding tightly onto the icy cold railings.His destiny was now out of his hands.
Weeks before, on leaving San Fransisco, full of self-confidence, Jeff could never have predicted such a turn of events.He knew and had always known, that sailing around the world single-handedly for a fourteen year-old was something that had been never achieved before.He had been preparing with his father for years for this moment. There had been times when he had thought that he was ready,but as his father constantly reminded him, Rome was not built in a day.A few more weeks of preparation would make all the difference between success and failure.
On this dark night, drenched to the skin, with the cold wind whipping his face, it was hard to remember the good moments.There had been many.Unforgettable moments when he had seen nature at its most marvelous, being accompanied by a school of whales, seeing schools of dolphins leaping in and out of the water, and the magical sunrises and sunsets.There had been times when he had felt like he was the only person on Earth.Of course there had been many close shaves, like nearly being run over by a twenty-four storey cruise liner in the early hours of the morning in the Pacific Ocean.There had been storms near Australia, in shark-infested waters, and the times he had encountered pirates off the coast of Africa. But this storm was the mother of all storms.
Suddenly, there was a loud ripping sound, as if the boat was being torn apart.Jeff peered into the darkness and realised that the last two sail roes,the only things that kept together the sail and the boat, had snapped.He was in grave danger of losing his sail. He struggled to the front of the yacht, but it was too late.His heart sank as he helplessly watched his sail keel over into the water. His chances of survival were at an all time low. His yacht, now commanded by the ocean, helplessly drifted into the vast blackness of what seemed like a never ending night.
It was only a month later that the search party found the only remaining piece of his yacht drifting of the coast of Cuba.
Here is Lucas Petropoulos' composition:
Kitabu was a boy who lived in an African tribe in Kenya. He was 15 years old, squat, with brown eyes, brown skin and sported a black bush of hair. Kitabu’s father was the leader of the tribe. His family were highly respected by his fellow people. Their family had been on the throne for generations, something they were very proud of. When the time would come for the son to succeed the father on the throne, Kitabu would be crowned king. What an honour it would be for Kitabu to have the pride to take charge of his clan, to lead them for many years. How Kitabu dreamed of standing in front of his clan, with his head held high, his beautifully crafted machete, carried down by the generations of his family. There was only one problem.
Kitabu was a runt. Most boys his age were physically much taller, broader and stronger than him. They were so big he could barely lift his head up in their presence, instead consigned to forever standing in their shadow. As far as the people were concerned, Kitabu could never be a leader for for the throne. And then there was the initiation.
The initiation was a special tournament in which the victors were granted their manhood. Usually, you would become a man at 13, but Kitabu had failed his last two initiations, so he was 15. He was determined not to be carried off in shame, as a failure.
Today was the big day. Kitabu felt good. He had been preparing for this all year. The day flashed by in a blur. His mother looked at him with anxious blue eyes as she kissed him and wished him well for the initiation. Breakfast was simple: he ate a banana and he carefully drank down a scolding cup of tea.
Kitabu’s heart pounded like a lion's. There he was, by himself, in the arena where the initiations took place. As he entered the sun-baked arena, the crowd hushed silent. The beat of a drum soon engulfed the arena. But all Kitabu could hear was the beat of his heart. Through the bars of the opposite side of the arena, a rich growl was heard, followed by two dark crimson eyes. Those eyes said one thing: kill!
Kitabu’s heart leapt. He boldly took out his sword out and held it high, much to the delighted roar of the crowd. Then, in a flash, the gates were opened, and out came a two hundred kilo lion. It sent shivers down Kitabu’s spine. For a while both stood stationary, both staring into each other’s eyes. That was until Kitabu’s father caught his son’s eyes. The moment Kitabu’s eyes darted away, the lion pounced. Kitabu dodged it, and retaliated with a sharp twist of his sword, missing the lion by inches.
The lion quickly took advantage of this miss, coming down and clamping down on Kitabu’s thigh. Everyone in the arena winced. Kitabu screamed, as his sword helplessly clattered to the floor. However, to everyone’s surprise, just when the lion went in for the kill, Kitabu’s other leg kicked the belly of the lion. The lion yelped in surprise and backed off, and Kitabu seized his chance and drove the sword through the lion’s merciless heart. There was one last desperate moan from the lion, then it dropped. Kitabu, faint, fell to his knees. The crowd erupted. He had done it! This time last year, he had been carried off in disgrace, to the crowd’s boos, but today he was a hero. He caught his father’s eye. And as soon as he saw the broad smile on his face and the glint in his eye, he knew he had done his father proud.
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