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could you help me to make a stylistic analysis of this passage. Find stylistic devices




4. They were at a function at the Century Plaza Hotel. Table for twelve. His table. No, her table. He paid. She invited.

He was seated between Susan and her good friend, Paige Wheeler. He liked Paige. She had a sense of humor, which is more than could be said for most of Susan’s “Good friends”.

The other guests included Paige’s husband, Ryder, a film producer who had no conversation except “the industry”. And an assortment of Susan’s attendants. Her hairdresser, her interior designer, and her dentist. And of course her children. Gemma, Miss High and Mighty. And Nathan – “mustn’t-soil-my-hands-with-a-day’s-work-now-that-I’ve-graduated-from-college.” (J.C.)

5. As much as she loved her son, she was glad Kevin wasn’t with her. Every mother needs a break sometimes, and she was looking forward to taking it easy while she was here. No evening soccer games or swim meets, no MTVblaring in the background, no homework to help with, no waking up in the middle of the night to comfort him when he got leg cramps. (N.S.)

6. As he got older, he grew even more sympathetic toward the Africans. I tried to talk to him.

“Of course you did. You tried to straighten him out, didn’t you?”

“I tried to explain things to him.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the need to keep the races separate. There’s nothing wrong with separate but equal schools. Nothing wrong with laws prohibiting miscegenation. Nothing wrong with keeping the Africans in their place.”

“Where’s their place?”

“Under control. Let ’em run wild, and look at what’s happened. Crime, drugs, AIDS, illegitimate births, general breakdown in the moral fabric of society.” (J.G.)

7. Lee was struggling with a pasta dish when he entered her apartment. The table was set with china and silver and fresh flowers. The recipe was baked manicotti, and things were not going well in the kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week she’d confessed to being a lousy cook, and now she was proving it. Pots and pans were scattered along the countertops. Her seldom used apron was covered with tomato sauce. She laughed as they (she and her nephew) kissed each other on the cheeks and said there was a frozen pizza if matters got worse. “You look awful,” she said, suddenly staring at his eyes.

“It was a rough night.”

“You smell like alcohol.”

“I had two bloody marys for breakfast. And I need another one now.”

“The bar’s closed.”

She picked up a knife and stepped to a pile of vegetables. A zucchini was the next victim. “What did you do up there?”

“Got drunk with the FBI man. Slept on the floor next to his washer and dryer.”

“How nice.” (J.G.)

8. He sat in the rocker again, this time alone, trying once again to fathom the evening that had just passed. Thinking about it. Replaying it. Seeing it again. Hearing it again. Running it by in slow motion. He didn’t feel like playing his guitar now, didn’t feel like reading. Didn’t know what he felt. (N.S.)

09:58 AM Nov 13 2011 |