Лингвостилистические особенности детективного жанра на примере произведений Дж. Хедли Чейза

Рассмотрев теоретические предпосылки лингвостилисти ческого анализа детективного романа Дж. Хедли Чейза «Нет орхидей для мисс Блэндиш» и проведя анализ, можно сделать следующие выводы:
1. Лингвостилистический анализ является новым видом анализа, рождённым на стыке лингвистики как науки и стилистики текста. Лингвистический анализ художественного текста изучает способы организации и связи языковых фактов в нем. Стилистический же анализ изучает приемы авторского использования языковых средств для достижения поставленных им целей эмоционально-экспрессивного возд ействия на читателя. Также мы в нашей работе придерживаемся классификации стилистических приемов и фигур И.Р. Гальперина, которая базируется на уровнях языка. Автор выделяет: фонетические, лексические и синтаксические стилистические п ...

Введение
Глава 1. Теоретические предпосылки исследования
1.1. Лингвостилистический анализ художественного текста и его принципы
1.2. Определение детектива как жанра
1.2.1. Разновидности детективного жанра
Глава 2. Лингвостилистические особенности детективного жанра на примере произведений Дж. Хедли Чейза
2.1. Жизненный путь и творчество Дж. Хедли Чейза
2.2. Лингвостилистические особенности детективного произведения на примере произведений Дж. Хедли Чейза
Заключение
Список использованной литературы
Приложение………………………………………………………………………40

Детектив сегодня является одним из самых популярных жанров массовой литературы. Росту читательского интереса к детективу как жанру литературы способствует и манипулирование читательским интересом в рамках трансмедийной культуры. Так, на основе детективной литературы создаются другие продукты массовой культуры, такие как телесериалы и кинофильмы. Авторы детективов периодически становятся героями газетных и журнальных публикаций, участниками телевизионных ток-шоу и прочих телепередач.
В нашей стране наиболее значительными работами, в которых детектив рассматривается как тип литературы, существующей всерьёз, являются исследования таких авторов, как А.Г. Адамов, 1980; Г.А. Анджапаридзе, 1999; А.З. Вулис, 1986; Е.В. Жаринов, 1991; Я.К. Маркулан, 1976; В.Б. Смире нский, 2000; Ю.К. Щеглов, 199 2. Зарубежные учёные также проявляют интерес к анализу детектива: Х.Л. Борхес, 1978; Буало-Нарсежак, 1964; Т. Кёстхейи, 1989; М. Пристман, 1988; М. Роделл, 1954; Дж. Скэгз, 2005; Ц. Тодоров, 1977; П. Хайсмит, 1986.
Тем не менее , детективный рассказ в настоящее время изучен всё ещё фрагментарно, в основном, в рамках литературоведческой проблематики, не систематизированы основные лингвистические параметры этого вида нарративного текста, до сих пор идут бесконечные споры вокруг опр еделения жанра, его специфики и морфологии.
Мы в нашей работе рассматриваем лингвостилистические особенности детективного жанра на примере произведений Дж. Хедли Чейза.
Цель данной курсовой работы – выделить лингвостилистические особенности детективного жа нра на примере произведений Дж. Хедли Чейза.
Объектом исследования нашей курсовой работы являются детективные романы Х. Чейза.
Предметом исследования являются лингвистические и стилистические средства этих произведений.
В соответствии с проблемой, предмет ом и целью исследования были поставлены следующие задачи:
рассмотреть принципы лингвостилистического анализа;
дать определение детективу как литературному жанру;
рассмотреть жизненный путь автора и особенности творческого пути;
проанализировать употреблени е лингвистических и стилистических средств в создании образов автора.
Методы исследования – теоретический анализ литературы по данной теме, сравнение, наблюдение, лингвостилистический анализ.
Материалом анализа являются детективы Дж. Хедли Чейза.
Данная ра бота может быть использована как исходный материал для дальнейших исследований по изложенным в ней проблемам, т.к. вопросы, лингвостилистики детективного жанра в английском языке очень важны.

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Brennan and Fenner were bending over a large-scale map spread out on a desk in the Operations Room at Headquarters when a police officer came over.
"Mr. Blandish is asking for you, sir."
Brennan made an impatient movement.
"I'll handle him," Fenner said, and leaving the room, he followed the officer to one of the waiting rooms.
John Blandish was standing by the window, looking out across the lights of the city. He turned as Fenner came in.
"I got your message," he said curtly. His face was grey and drawn. "What's happening?"
"We're pretty sure your daughter is alive," Fenner said, joining him at the window. "She has been kept at the Paradise Club these past three months. We broke in there not an hour ago. There's evidence she was kept a prisoner there."
Blandish's face hardened.
"What evidence?"
"A suite of rooms; a locked door; women's clothes."
"Where is she then?"
"Grisson got her out of the club just before the raid. She was dressed in a man's suit. Later we had a report that Grisson raided a farmhouse and took a woman's dress. Since then we've lost them for a moment, but we know more or less which way he is heading. He can't get away. Every road is sealed off. As soon as it is light enough we'll have aircraft searching. It's just a matter of time."
Blandish turned away and stared out of the window.
"Alive... after all this time," he murmured. "I had hoped for her sake she was dead."
Fenner didn't say anything. There was a long pause, then Blandish asked without turning, "Have you anything else to tell me?"
Fenner hesitated. Blandish turned: his eyes were bleak.
"Don't keep anything from me," he said harshly. "Have you anything else to tell me?"
"They have been drugging her," Fenner said, "and Grisson has been living with her. He is a pathological case. She'll need special care when we find her, Mr. Blandish. I've been talking to the M.O. He doesn't want her exposed to any past contacts until he has had a chance to look at her. I'm putting this badly. Perhaps you'd better talk to him. He thinks you shouldn't be there when we do get her. He thinks it would be better for you to wait at home and for us to bring her to you. She'll need some hours to get over the shock of being free and it would be better for this to happen among strangers. Another thing: Grisson won't surrender. We'll have to kill him. It's going to be a tricky business with her with him. You realize..."
"All right, all right," Blandish said impatiently. "You've made your point. I'll wait for her at home." He started for the door, paused and went on, "I understand it was you who found the clue that started the hunt for this man. I'm not forgetting our bargain. When she is returned, you'll get your money. I'll be waiting at my house. Arrange to keep me informed how the hunt is going and when she is found."
"I'll fix that," Fenner said.
Blandish nodded and went out.
Fenner shook his head, then waiting a few seconds to allow Blandish time to get clear, he returned to the Operations room.
He told Brennan what he had said to Blandish and the Chief nodded.
"You're right," he said. "We've just had another lead on this punk." He put his finger on the map. "Ten minutes ago he was here with the girl. He badly wounded a State trooper who spotted the girl and even spoke to her. They got away but we know which way they are heading. We've tightened the cordon. We've called on the Army to help. It can't be long now. I've got the local radio and television network to interrupt their programs warning everyone in the district to look out for the car."
Fenner sat on the edge of the desk. He was surprised that the prospects of making thirty thousand dollars wasn't giving him the bang it should. He kept thinking of the Blandish girl and what she had suffered at the hands of Grisson.
"You've got a sweet job on your hands when you do finally corner this rat," he said. "As she'll be with him, you won't be able to blast him out."
"I'll worry my head about that when we have cornered him," Brennan said. He accepted a cup of coffee from a police officer.
"Are you still holding Anna Borg?" Fenner asked, taking a cup of coffee from the tray.
"Only until I've got Grisson, then I'm turning her loose. We've got nothing on her," Brennan said. "We sure have made a clean sweep of the Grisson gang. Phew! That old woman! I'll remember her as long as I live. I thought we'd never cut her down. Even with five slugs in her, she kept on shooting until the goddamn gun was empty. I'm glad Slim isn't like her. It's my bet once the pressure's on, he'll crack. I'm relying on that."
Fenner sat down and put his feet up on the desk. "That girl haunts me," he said, frowning. "She's had a hell of a break. Imagine being locked up with that degenerate for four months."
"Yeah." Brennan finished his coffee. "But the drug they were giving her would turn her into a zombie. I'm more sorry for her right now. The effects of the drug must be wearing off. After an experience like this, I doubt if she'll ever be a hundred percent normal."
"Her old man thinks the same," Fenner said. "I could tell by the way he spoke. She'd be better off dead."
The two men continued to talk idly against the background of activity. Time passed. At twenty minutes past twelve, one of the police officers who had been listening to a continuous stream of information coming in over the short wave radio, suddenly scribbled on a pad and passed the message to Brennan.
"They've found Grisson's car: he's ditched it," Brennan said. "They found it at Pine Hill. Looks like he's taken to the woods." He bent over the map and Fenner, snapping upright, joined him. They studied the map. "Yeah: woods all around here and a couple of farms." He turned to one of his men. "See if you can find out if these two farms are on the telephone. If they are, call them and warn them Grisson might be heading their way."
The police officer grabbed a telephone and dialed information.
After some delay, he reported, "Waite's farm isn't on the telephone: that's the distant one. Hammond's farm is."
"Call Hammond and warn him."
"Can't we go out there now?" Fenner asked. "This sitting around is giving me the ants."
"I have close to two hundred men out there," Brennan said. "What good would we do? As soon as I know where he is holed up – then we'll go."
But it wasn't until five o'clock in the morning as the sun was coming up that the call they were waiting for came through.
The police officer said, "Grisson has been located at Waite's farm, sir," he said, speaking rapidly. "Waite spotted Grisson leaving one of the barns for water ten minutes ago. There's no doubt it's Grisson."
"How about the girl?" Brennan asked, coming over. "Here--give me the phone." He took the receiver. "Chief Brennan here. Let's have it."
"Sergeant Donaghue this end," a voice returned. "No sign of the girl yet, sir. We have the farm completely surrounded. He can't break out. Do we move in and get him?"
"You wait for me," Brennan said. "Kill him if he tries to break out, but otherwise, keep out of sight and wait for me. I'll be with you in under an hour." He slammed down the receiver, saying to the police officer, "Alert that helicopter. I'm on my way." He glanced at Fenner. "Do you want to come with me?"
"I'd like to see you try to stop me," Fenner said and he was first out of the room.
4
Slim woke with a start. His brain became instantly alert. His gun jumped into his hand as he half sat up, blinking in a pale beam of sunlight coming through one of the many chinks in the barn walls. For some moments he couldn't imagine where he was, then he remembered the long walk in the darkness through the woods, seeing the lights of the farmhouse, entering the barn, too weary to go further. He had had trouble in forcing Miss Blandish into the barn. She had been in such an exhausted state she could scarcely walk. He had dragged her up in the loft and pushed her down on the straw covered floor, then he had closed the trap door and had dragged straw across it.
It had been some time before he had fallen asleep. Now as he half sat up, his bones aching from the hard floor, he felt hungry and thirsty. He looked at his watch: it was close to five o'clock. Maybe they would have to stay up in the loft all day. They would have to have water. He looked over at where Miss Blandish lay sleeping, then he pulled aside the straw, opened the trap door and slid quickly down the ladder into the main part of the barn. He went out the door, gun in hand and studied the farmhouse some fifty yards away.
There was no sign of life. Soiled net curtains shielded all the windows. He stood watching for several minutes, then satisfied there was no one up, he moved cautiously into the open.
Old man Waite and his two sons who had been watching from behind the net curtains all night, stiffened at the sight of the tall thin figure in the shabby black suit who came out of the barn, gun in hand.
"That's him," Waite said. "Call the police, Harry. Hurry it up!"
Slim made for the water tank, bucket in hand. He dipped the bucket into the tank, then turning, he hurried back to the barn, unaware that the alarm had gone out and that police cars, packed with armed men, were already on the move towards the isolated farm.
He carried the bucket up into the loft, replaced the trap and set the bucket down. He wished he had been able to get food. He was hungry. He drank some of the water. Then he lay down.
Staring up at the roof of the barn, he tried to make up his mind what he was to do. He was regretting that he had ditched the car, but at the time it seemed the sensible thing to do. Everyone would be on the lookout for the Buick by now. But the long five mile walk through the woods now underlined the fact that he must have a car. Maybe there would, be a car on the farm he could take. He wondered how many people lived in the farmhouse. Maybe, later, they would go out into the fields and give him a chance to steal the car. He closed his eyes. An hour crawled by, and as the minutes passed, the tiny spot of panic in his mind gradually grew. He kept wondering what it would be like to die. What would happen to him when he was dead? This was something he couldn't understand. He couldn't believe he just snuffed out: something must happen to him, he thought, but what?
He heard Miss Blandish stir and he raised himself up on his arm. The girl was muttering to herself as she slowly came awake.
The sound of a distant aircraft came to him only half consciously as he watched the girl open her eyes.
They looked at each other. He saw her eyes widen and she shrank back, her hand going to her mouth.
"Don't make a noise!" he snarled. He had an instinctive feeling that she was about to scream. "Hear me? Don't make a noise! I'm not coming near you... just stay quiet."
She remained motionless, staring at him as the noise of the aircraft grew louder and louder and seemed finally to be immediately over the top of the barn.
Slim's heart suddenly gave a lurch. He realized the significance of the sound. He scrambled to his feet, pulled aside the truss of straw and lifted the trap door.
He paused to motion to the girl to stay where she was, then he slid down the ladder, ran across to the door and peered out.
He was in time to see a helicopter with the white star of the Army painted on it, settling down in the field at the back of the farmhouse.
He knew immediately his hiding place had been discovered and his gun jumped into his hand. He closed the barn door and dropped the heavy bar into its slot. Through a chink in the door he peered out into the farmyard.
It wasn't a well-kept farm and there was much litter, two old tractors, a farm car and a big truck cluttering up the place: all of which afforded good cover for anyone approaching the barn.
Suddenly he saw a policeman. The man made a quick, silent dash from the truck to one of the tractors. He moved so fast Slim had no time to get his gun up, but it told him as nothing else could that this was the end of his road.
From behind the shelter of the farmhouse, Brennan and Fenner climbed out of the helicopter. A big, rubbery-faced police sergeant and a tall, thin Army Lieutenant greeted them.
"He hasn't broken cover yet, sir," Sergeant Donaghue said. "We've got him trapped. The whole farm is surrounded. This is Lieutenant Hardy."
Brennan shook hands with the Lieutenant.
"Just where is he holed up?" he asked.
"This way, Chief," Donaghue said.
The four men walked across the field to the farmhouse. Brennan noted with approval the circle of armed men, well hidden, lying, rifles in hand, around the perimeter of the farm.
"Careful how you go here, sir," Donaghue said, pausing at the corner of the house. He edged around the side of the house until they could see the farmyard. He pointed to the big barn some fifty yards away. "He's in there."
Brennan studied the ground. The first thirty yards offered excellent cover, but the last twenty yards were bare and open.
"No idea if he has a Thompson, sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"He could do a hell of a lot of damage if he has. Still no sign of the girl?"
"No, sir."
"I'll give him a hail. Got a loudspeaker truck here?"
"It's coming up now, sir."
The men moved back. A few minutes later the loudspeaker truck bumped over the field and pulled up near them. Brennan took the microphone.
"Can you get some of your men behind those two tractors and the truck, Lieutenant?"
"Sure," Hardy said. "I would have got them there before but Donaghue said to wait." He turned to his sergeant and issued orders.
"No shooting," Brennan said. "If the girl's in there we can't take any chances."
"I understand."
Ten soldiers moved quietly out of the cover of the farmhouse. They dropped flat and began to crawl towards the tractors and the truck.
Shaking and sweating, Slim saw them as they crawled out into the open. The khaki uniforms, the steel helmets and the rifles turned him sick with panic. He lifted his gun and tried to get one of the soldiers in his sights, but the gun seemed to be jumping in his hand and snarling with frustrated fear and fury, he fired blindly. He saw the dust kick up about a yard from the nearest soldier who jumped up, bent double, and with two quick strides
was behind the truck and out of sight. The other soldiers, also moving with speed, reached their objectives and vanished.
Brennan grunted.
"If he had a Thompson he would have used it," he said to the Lieutenant. "It depends now on how many slugs he's got left. I'll give him a hail." He lifted the microphone. "Grisson! You're surrounded. Come on out with your hands in the air! Grisson! You haven't a chance! Come on out!"
The loud metallic voice echoed in the fresh morning air. Slim listened, his loose mouth closed in a bunched-up mess of wet lips. He yearned for a Thompson gun. He cursed himself for getting trapped like this.
He thought of Ma. Pete had said she had fought like a man. He would fight like a man too. He glanced at his gun. He had only five slugs left. Well, he'd take five of the punks with him. They would never get him alive.
Up in the loft, Miss Blandish first heard the shot, then the metallic voice. She realized the moment she had been dreading in a vague, half-conscious way for the past four months was approaching. In a little while she would be free, and the real misery and hell of her experience would begin.
She crawled to the open trap and looked down. She saw Slim standing with his back to her, peering through a chink in the barn door. His thin black back was tense. She saw the gun in his hand. She heard him muttering to himself. There was now silence outside. Her concentrated stare conveyed itself to him.
He turned slowly, and they looked at each other. He, standing by the door, sweating and shaking, and she, lying stretched on the floor, her head and shoulders framed by the trap, looking down at him. They stared at each other for a long time. His face was glistening in the dim light of the barn. His lips came off his teeth and he swore at her, calling her obscene names, hurling them at her in his panic and fear.
She listened, hoping he would eventually shoot her. With all the strength of her mind, she willed him to lift his gun and release a bullet into her, but he did nothing but curse her, glaring at her with his feverish, yellow eyes.
A sound outside made him jerk around. He saw a movement behind the farm cart and he fired. The bang of the gun echoed in the silence. He saw a puff of dust and white splinters of wood fly from the side of the cart.
Once more the loud metallic voice called to him to come out.
"Grisson! We're waiting! You can't get away! Come on out with your hands in the air!"
Panic now flooded his mind. His legs felt weak. His thin wolfish face began to crumple like a child's before it weeps. He slid down on his knees, letting his gun fall to the ground.
Miss Blandish watched him. For a moment she thought he had been shot, but when he began to moan to himself, she drew back, hiding her face in her hands.
Brennan, anxious to get it over, was giving orders to his men. Several soldiers and two police officers got behind the farm cart. Using it as a shield, they began pushing it across the yard towards the barn door.
Slim saw the cart coming. He staggered to his feet, snatched up his gun. In a frenzy of panic and despair, he threw up the bar holding the door in place, dragged open the door and ran out. He fired blindly at the advancing cart, standing in the hot sunshine, his face ghastly with terror.
Two machine guns opened up. Blood suddenly appeared on his dirty white shirt. His gun fell from his hand. The guns stopped as abruptly as they had started.
Brennan and Fenner watched him slowly collapse. His thin legs thrashed for a long moment, jerkily and convulsively, the way a snake dies. His back arched; his hands clawed at the dry dust, then he stiffened and went limp.
The two men, guns in hand, moved across the yard.
Fenner knew before he reached Slim that he was dead. He paused by him for a brief moment. The yellow eyes looked sightlessly up at him. The thin, white, upturned face seemed defenseless and bewildered. The loose mouth hung open. Fenner turned away with a grunt of disgust.
"That's the end of him," Brennan said, "and good riddance."
"Yeah," Fenner said. He drew in a deep breath, then walked slowly towards the barn.
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