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Aufgaben zu Text II

Aufgaben zu Text II (literarisch)

1

Outline the information on Kya and her meeting with Tate.

30 %

2

Analyse the role nature plays in this text. Focus on the author’s use of language.

30 %

3

Choose one of the following tasks:

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3.1

“‘You okay?’

Her throat tightened against a sob. She nodded but couldn’t speak.

‘You lost?’

She bobbed her hand again. Wasn’t going to cry like a girl.” (ll. 49-52)

Using the quotation as a starting point, assess the role of gender stereotypes in Western societies.

or

3.2

You are on a work placement at The Northern Echo, a local newspaper in the north-east of England. You have been asked to contribute an article about human interaction to the opinion section.

Taking the message of the cartoon as a starting point, comment on the importance of social contact.

Comic: Mann mit Einkaufskorb steht vor einer Self‑Service‑Kasse.Comic: Mann mit Einkaufskorb steht vor einer Self‑Service‑Kasse.

from: https://www.cartoonstock.com/cartoon?searchID=CS570316

100 %

Text II (literarisch)

A Boat and a Boy

The following passage is set in the marshes of North Carolina in 1952.

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[B]eing only seven and a girl, she’d never taken the boat out by herself. It floated there, tied by a
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single cotton line to a log. Gray grunge, frayed fishing tackle, and half-crushed beer cans covered
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the boat floor. Stepping in, she said out loud, “Gotta check the gas like Jodie said, so Pa won’t
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figure I took it.” She poked a broken reed into the rusted tank. “’Nough for a short ride, I reckon.”
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Like any good robber, she looked around, then flicked the cotton line free of the log and poled
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forward with the lone paddle. The silent cloud of dragonflies parted before her.
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Not able to resist, she pulled the starter rope and jerked back when the motor caught the first
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time, sputtering and burping white smoke. Grabbing the tiller, she turned the throttle too far, and
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the boat turned sharply, the engine screaming. She released the throttle, threw her hands up, and
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the boat eased to a drift, purring.
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When in trouble, just let go. Go back to idle.
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Accelerating now more gently, she steered around the old fallen cypress, putt, putt, putt
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beyond the piled sticks of the beaver lodge. Then, holding her breath, she steered toward the
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lagoon entrance, almost hidden by brambles. Ducking beneath the low-hanging limbs of giant
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trees, she churned slowly through thicket for more than a hundred yards, as easy turtles slid from
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water-logs. […]
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Kya tooled along, a tiny speck of a girl in a boat, turning this way and that as endless estuaries
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branched and braided before her. […]
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As she rounded a stand of tall grass, suddenly the ocean’s face – gray, stern, and pulsing –
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frowned at her. Waves slammed one another, awash in their own white saliva, breaking apart on
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the shore with loud booms – energy searching for a beachhead. Then they flattened into quiet
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tongues of foam, waiting for the next surge.
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The surf taunted her, daring her to breach the waves and enter the sea, but without Jodie, her
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courage failed. Time to turn around anyway. Thunderheads grew in the western sky, forming huge
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gray mushrooms pressing at the seams.
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There’d been no other people, not even distant boats, so it was a surprise when she entered
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the large estuary again, and there, close against the marsh grass, was a boy fishing from another
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battered rig. […]
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Squishing her lips tight, she thought, What am I gonna do? I gotta go right by him.
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From the corner of her eye, she saw he was thin, his golden curls stuffed under a red baseball
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cap. Much older than she, eleven, maybe twelve. Her face was grim as she approached, but he
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smiled at her, warm and open, and touched the brim of his hat like a gentleman greeting a fine lady
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in a gown and bonnet. She nodded slightly, then looked ahead, increasing the throttle and passing
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him by.
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All she could think of now was getting back to familiar footing, but somewhere she must have
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turned wrong, for when she reached the second string of lagoons, she couldn’t find the channel
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that led home. Round and round, near oak knees and myrtle thickets, she searched. A slow panic
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eased in. […]
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Another few minutes of creek brought a bend and the large estuary ahead, and on the other
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side, the boy in his boat. Egrets took flight, a line of white flags against the mounting gray clouds.
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She anchored him hard with her eyes. Afraid to go near him, afraid not to. Finally, she turned
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across the estuary.
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He looked up when she neared.
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“Hey,” he said.
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“Hey.” She looked beyond his shoulder into the reeds.
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“Which way you headed, anyhow?” he asked. “Not out, I hope. That storm’s comin’.”
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“No,” she said, looking down at the water.
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“You okay?”
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Her throat tightened against a sob. She nodded but couldn’t speak.
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“You lost?”
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She bobbed her head again. Wasn’t going to cry like a girl.
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“Well, then. I git lost all the time,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, I know you. You’re Jodie Clark’s
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sister.”
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“I used ta be. He’s gone.”
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“Well, you’re still his . . .” But he let it drop.
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“How’d you know me?” She threw a quick, direct look at his eyes.
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“Oh, I’ve been fishin’ with Jodie some. I saw you a couple a’ times. You were just a little kid.
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You’re Kya, right?”
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Someone knew her name. She was taken aback. Felt anchored to something; released from
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something else.
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“Yeah. You know my place? From here?”
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“Reckon I do. It’s ’bout time anyhow.” He nodded at the clouds. “Follow me.” He pulled his line,
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put tackle in the box, and started his outboard. As he headed across the estuary, he waved, and
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she followed. Cruising slowly, he went directly to the right channel, looked back to make sure she’d
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made the turn, and kept going. He did that at every bend to the oak lagoons. As he turned into the
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dark waterway toward home, she could see where she’d gone wrong, and would never make the
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mistake again.
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He guided her – even after she waved that she knew her way – across her lagoon, up to the
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shore where the shack squatted in the woods. She motored up to the old waterlogged pine and
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tied up. He drifted back from her boat, bobbing in their contrary wakes.
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“You okay now?”
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“Yeah.”
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“Well, storm’s comin’, I better git.”
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She nodded, then remembered how Ma taught her. “Thank ya.”
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“All right, then. My name’s Tate ’case ya see me again.”
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She didn’t respond, so he said, “Bye now.”
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[…] The calmness of the boy. She’d never known anybody to speak or move so steady. So
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sure and easy. Just being near him, and not even that close, had eased her tightness. For the first
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time since Ma and Jodie left, she breathed without pain; felt something other than the hurt. She
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needed this boat and that boy.

Delia Owens, Where the crawdads sing,

copyright © 2017 by Delia Owens, Penguin Random House LLC

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