| Primer for Non-Native Speakers |
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I. This is an apple. What is it? A table. Some bread and tea. II. And this? This is a ruble, a rue, a wish I could sell you exactly what I feel. A double negative: if you can't not speak, then write. Sit and eat the peeled apple in your hand. III. I understand X, but cannot speak Y. Possessive phrases: he has, she has, I don't have. Look, I lack, says my language. IV. My language— A heavy winter coat, tight in the shoulders. Sour apples, plucked by the breeze. Dirt stars, smudges on knees. V. My camera is broken. Can you sing? Where can I hang my coat? VI. The titmouse chitter before song. The mad clap and wingstutter of lifting pigeons, an asthmatic's wheeze. VII. A line at the beer kiosk— discourse in the past perfect, the present imperfect. Questions in the future indefinite. VIII. He missed his love. He brought with him. The sun already set. He wound up at the station. An inopportune time. "They beat you because of your face, not because of your passport." IX. I have a few questions of a personal nature: Where is the toilet? How many acts in this play? What is the rate of exchange? Where does this street lead? When is my turn? You come after the speaker from Bulgaria. Who is speaking now? Could you speak even slower? X. Prepositions governing the accusative, the simple superlative of adjectives. The Moscow Metro is a most punctual subway. It is also most busy. I've lost my reflexive pronoun many times among the babushkas, bags, dacha bicycles, drunks and dogs. XI. Would you like to see Yury Gagarin's spaceship? Would you like to visit the Exhibition of the National Economic Achievements of the U.S.S.R.? At the metro entrance, babushkas scolding other people's children, someone selling fresh eggs, pickled cukes, kittens in a coat, and where the blast of cold meets the metro heat, the wordless pleading of a blind pensioner. XII. Reticence of winter streets. XIII. The constant stress of simple comparative: ours, yours, ours, yours. XIV. And in a dark stairwell, smell of drying urine, the light bulb stolen again this week. XV. And in a dark stairwell, a stone-drunk body. Iambic steps now running up stairs, the swear of a slammed door. XVI. And in a dark stairwell, a cry— she's just learned the language of rigormortis, then teaches the drunk the declensions of an outraged woman's fists. XVII. If anyone asks for me, I'm in Chapter Ten. XVIII. This is a label. What is it? A libel, a labia, a lust, alleluia. XIX. And this? A table. Some bread and a plea. XX. Please. What is it? You are wanted on the phone. There is no dial tone. The telephone is out of order. I'll be waiting for your call. XXI. Goodbye, dear friends. I wish you every success. Have a safe journey. Please, stay. XXII. Let me introduce myself. I feel sick. How much must I pay for excess baggage? |