PHRASAL VERBS IN VIRGINIA WOOLF’S FICTION: THE WAVES: Page 9
Publicat el 8 de juliol de 2014 per ealonso
THE WAVES: Page 9
There are two phrasal verbs on this page:
To trail away:
meaning: if someone’s voice or words trail away they gradually become silent
Text: “Now you trail away” said Susan
USE: movement from a given place, removal(towards absence).
to tip up:
meaning: to turn up a container upside down so that the thing inside it come out.
Text: “.., when I tip the basin up”
USE: upward
wall! We are in a hostile country. We must escape to the beech wood. We must hide under the trees. I turned a twig as we came. There is a secret path. Bend as low as you can. Follow without looking back. They will think we are foxes. Run!
“Now we are safe. Now we can stand upright again. Now we can stretch our arms in this high canopy, in this vast wood. I hear nothing. That is only the murmur of the waves in the air. That is wood-pigeon breaking cover in the top of the beech trees. The pigeon beats the air; the pigeon beats the air with wooden wings.”
“Now you TRAIL AWAY said Susan, “making phrases. Now you mount like an air-ball’s string, higher and higher through the layers of the leaves, out of reach. Now you lag. Now you tug at my skirts, looking back, making phrases. You have escaped me. Here is the garden. Here is the hedge. Here is Rhoda on the path rocking petals to and fro in her brown basin.”
“All my ships are white! said Rhoda. “I do not want red petals of hollyhocks or geranium. I want white petals that float when I TIP THE BASIN UP. I have a fleet now swimming from shore to shore. I will drop a twig in as a raft for a drowning sailor. I will drop a stone in and see bubbles rise from the depths of the sea. Neville has gone and Susan has gone ; Jinny is in the kitchen garden picking currants with Louis perhaps. I have a short time alone, while Miss Hudson spreads our copybooks on the schoolroom table. I have a short space of freedom. I hace picked all the fallen petals and made them swim. I have put raindrops in some. I will plant a lighthouse here, a head of Sweet Alice. And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves.. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks ans stalactites swing gree chains. The waves rise: their crests curl; look at the lights on the mastheads. They have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship, which mounts the wave and sweeps before the gale and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and the creepers …”
“Where is Bernard?” said Neville. “He has my knife. We were in the tool-shed making boats, and Susan came past the door. And Bernard dropped his boat and went after her taking my knife, the sharp one that cuts the keel. He is like a dangling wire, a broken bell-pull, always twangling. He is like the seaweed hung outside the window, damp now, now dry. He leaves me in the lurch; he follows Susan; and if Susan cries he will take my knife and tell her stories. The big blade is an emperor; the broken blade a Negro. I hate damgling things; I hate dampish things. I hate wandering and mixing things together.
“Now we are safe. Now we can stand upright again. Now we can stretch our arms in this high canopy, in this vast wood. I hear nothing. That is only the murmur of the waves in the air. That is wood-pigeon breaking cover in the top of the beech trees. The pigeon beats the air; the pigeon beats the air with wooden wings.”
“Now you TRAIL AWAY said Susan, “making phrases. Now you mount like an air-ball’s string, higher and higher through the layers of the leaves, out of reach. Now you lag. Now you tug at my skirts, looking back, making phrases. You have escaped me. Here is the garden. Here is the hedge. Here is Rhoda on the path rocking petals to and fro in her brown basin.”
“All my ships are white! said Rhoda. “I do not want red petals of hollyhocks or geranium. I want white petals that float when I TIP THE BASIN UP. I have a fleet now swimming from shore to shore. I will drop a twig in as a raft for a drowning sailor. I will drop a stone in and see bubbles rise from the depths of the sea. Neville has gone and Susan has gone ; Jinny is in the kitchen garden picking currants with Louis perhaps. I have a short time alone, while Miss Hudson spreads our copybooks on the schoolroom table. I have a short space of freedom. I hace picked all the fallen petals and made them swim. I have put raindrops in some. I will plant a lighthouse here, a head of Sweet Alice. And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves.. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks ans stalactites swing gree chains. The waves rise: their crests curl; look at the lights on the mastheads. They have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship, which mounts the wave and sweeps before the gale and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and the creepers …”
“Where is Bernard?” said Neville. “He has my knife. We were in the tool-shed making boats, and Susan came past the door. And Bernard dropped his boat and went after her taking my knife, the sharp one that cuts the keel. He is like a dangling wire, a broken bell-pull, always twangling. He is like the seaweed hung outside the window, damp now, now dry. He leaves me in the lurch; he follows Susan; and if Susan cries he will take my knife and tell her stories. The big blade is an emperor; the broken blade a Negro. I hate damgling things; I hate dampish things. I hate wandering and mixing things together.
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