LUGARESEOIMIRANDA2020

23 de Abril 2020

Día del libro "LUGARES"

EOI MIRANDA DE EBRO

LUGARES

Ahora que no podemos salir siempre nos quedan lugares que descubrir en los libros de los idiomas que estudiamos. Elige el tuyo y envíanos una foto, un dibujo, un video, un "book nook", un marcapáginas, un tweet, una frase original para que sepamos que sigues ahí y que volveremos a vernos pronto en la escuela. lugareseoimiranda2020@gmail.com Publicaremos una selección de los mejores trabajos ilustrando estos textos en nuestra página web y redes sociales.

DEPARTAMENTOS

INGLÉS

EUSKERA

ITALIANO

FRANCÉS

ALEMÁN

DEPARTAMENTO DE ALEMÁN

EINE FRAU, EIN MANN

Tanners Party Na prima. Ich gehe durch den Korridor. Schöne Wohnung, denke ich, richtig luxuriös. Auch die Party ist gut. Eine Menge Leute, und alle amüsieren sich. In der Küche gibt es Sekt und Drinks, im Wohnzimmer Salsa und im Garten frische Luft. Alles lacht und trinkt, raucht und redet, und einige tanzen. Solo oder zu zweit. Wie die Profis. Die Musik ist wahnsinnig laut, aber absolut klasse. Wirklich eine tolle Atmosphäre. Plötzlich steht eine attraktive Frau mit einem Tablett auf der Hand vor mir. ,,Einen Gin Tonic? ", fragt sie. ,,Nein, danke", antworte ich, sehr nett, aber jetzt nicht".

Leonhard Thoma

A1

DAS IDEAL PAAR

Frühstück Der Blick auf die Straβe. Drauβen die groβe Kreuzung, die Tristesse eines Wintermorgens, der Stress, der Lärm, die Hektik. Diese rastlose Menschenmenge, durch das Hotelfenster ganz nah und doch so fern. Und hier drinnen, diese angenehme Wärme und diese herrliche Ruhe. Wie gemütlich! Herr Posen beiβt in sein Croissant. Er weiβ, er ist privilegiert. Die Serviererin kommt mit zwei Kannen in der Hand. ,,Guten Moorgen! Kaffee?", fragt sie lächelnd. ,,Ja, bitte", antwortet Herr Posen.

Leonhard Thoma

A2

DIE UNENDLICHE GESCHICHTE

Eine Herrscherin, ein Drache, ein Königreich in Gefahr… Game of thrones? Nein. Michael Ende hatte alles viel früher erfunden. Es handelt sich um kein Epos, die ein utopisches Mittelalter darstellt, sondern um eine Erzählung, die als Kinderliteratur eingestuft wurde. Das Reich Phantasien verschwindet, weil die Menschen immer weniger ihre Vorstellungskraft nutzen. Und wie sieht dieses Reich Phantasien, das sich in Gefahr befindet, aus? Phantasien beinhaltet alle Landschaften, Gegenstände und Wesen, die die Menschheit irgendwann sich vorgestellt hat.

Michael Ende

B1/B2

Viele Leute mögen Superhelden. Aber dieses von mir empfohlene Buch beschäftigt sich mit den Taten eines Superschurken. Paris, Ende des 18. Jahrhundert. Hinter einem übelriechenden Fischstand auf einem Pariser Marktplatz wird der Protagonist unserer Geschichte geboren. Er hat eine ganz besondere Gabe: einen absoluten Geruchssinn, der ihm ermöglicht, in einer Welt, die ihn ausnutzen und sogar vernichten möchte, zu überleben. Das Buch präsentiert ein ungewöhnliches, von der Gabe des Protagonisten geprägtes Bild der Hauptstadt Frankreichs vor der Revolution des Jahres 1789, und später, im Laufe der Erzählung, des Südosten des Landes.

DAS PARFUM

Patrick Süskind

C1

DEPARTAMENTO DE euskera

PAPER TXORIAK

Metroa eta berrogeita hamar zentimetro ozta-ozta (justu-justu) neurtzen ditu besoak gora luzatuta, begiak itsasoaren kolore urdinekoak dauzka eta barre egiteko izan litekeen erarik zalapartatsuena. Maistra jubilatua da eta ezinezkoa lortzeko ahaleginetan dabil.

José Antonio Sarasola

A1/A2

DONOSTIAKO BADIAREN DESKRIBAPENA “Jaikitzerakoan, udaberria leihoko kristalean barrena: Urguleko zuhaitzen berdea ikusten duzu han, hiriaren beste aldera. Aquariumeko terrazan bandera ñimiño batzuk haize epelean kulunkari, honantzago, Miramarreko jauregian gainetik, badiako ur bare geldiak eta irlaren silueta lodikote lodia”.

ABUZTUAREN 15EKO BAZKALONDOA

J.A. ARRIETA

B1

GAROA (Bizkaieratik moldatua)

Hura zen gizona hura! Zazpi oin eta erdi bai luze, makalaren irudira zuzen, pagorik lodiena bezain zabal, arte gogorra bezala trinko, gorosti hezearen antzera zimel. Horrelakoa zen Joanes nik ezagutu nuenean. Sendoak zeuden oraindik artzain zaharraren beso zaintsuak, txit azkarrak bere oinak, zindoak bere bular-hauspoak... Argiak ziren Joanesen begi gozoak... Ernaiak ziren Joanesen belarriak.

Txomin Agirre

B2

"Bonbardaketez mintzatu zen lehenik. “Hasieran jolas bat baino ez zen, haurrok gustuko izaten genuen Bilborantz zetozen hegazkinei begira geratzea”. Baina gero konturatu ziren ez zeudela olgetarako. Behin, lantegietako sirenak hoska hasi eta Mallona eskaileretako babeslekura zihoazela, Lezamako trenaren tunela baitzen garain hartan bonbardaketen aurkako babeslekua, auzoko emakume batek buelta eman zuen. Mantuko haurra zuen besoetan. “Sutan utzi dut lapikoa”. Ai ama, etxera bueltatu behar zen sua itzaltzera. Hegazkinen orroa baretu zenean, babeslekutik atera eta konturatu ziren andre haren etxea suntsituta zegoela, lurrarekin berdindu zutela. Hilik zetzan emakumea, eta haurra zikin hondakin artean, intzirika, aulki baten zurezko hanka gorputzean sartuta zuela, eta hala ere bizirik".

"Mussche" Bilbo hiria, umeak eta gerla zibilaren bonbardaketak

Kirmen Uribe

C1

Ibilera hura ehunka aldiz egina zuen, eta inolako estropezurik gabe eraman zituen bandejak okindegiraino. Berehala, hurbiltzearekin batera, irinaren usaina sentitu zuen, eta honen gainetik bigarren usain bat, berak arratsalde hartan bertan labean erretako ogiarena... Okindegia hogeita hamar metro karratuko gela bakarra zen, eta labea bere hondarrean zegoen, ateaz bestaldeko hormari erantsita. Irin zakuak eta irina nahasteko tresneria labearen atetila inguruan pilatzen ziren, eta hantxe kokatzen zen baita ere, zeharka jarria Karlosek ogi-orea egiteko erabiltzen zuen marmolezko mahaia.

GIZONA BERE BAKARDADEAN

Bernado Atxaga

C1

DEPARTAMENTO DE francés

LE HORLA

8 mai Quelle belle journée ! J´aime la Normandie, j´aime cette maison, comme je suis heureux de vivre ici ! De ma fenêtre, je vois les bateaux sur la Seine. Un très beau voilier brésilien passe devant chez moi. Il est magnifique ! À gauche, j´aperçois la ville de Rouen, les toits bleus, les clochers des églises et la cathédrale. Comme il fait bon, ce matin ! Je suis heureux. 12 mai Aujourd´hui, j´ai un peu de fièvre et je suis triste. Pourquoi est-ce que certains jours, quand nous nous réveillons, nous sommes gais et d´autres tristes ? Est-ce à cause de la forme des nuages ou de la couleur du ciel ? Non, en vérité, il n´y a pas d´explication ! Nos sens sont faibles. Nous ne voyons pas ce qui est tout petit. Nous sommes incapables, par exemple, de voir les habitants d´une goutte d´eau. Pourquoi n´avons-nous pas un autre sens pour découvrir les choses merveilleuses et minuscules qui nous entourent ?

Guy de Maupassant

A1/A2

CITATIONS SUR LA LECTURE

« Lire c’est voyager, voyager c’est lire » (Victor Hugo) « Lire c’est manger et boire. Un esprit qui ne lit pas maigrit comme le corps qui ne mange pas » (Victor Hugo) « La lecture est une porte ouverte sur le monde » (Français Mauriac) « La lecture est le voyage pour lequel tu n’as pas besoin de prendre un train » (Francis de Croisset) « La meilleure manière de voyager, c’est encore de lire un bon livre » (Jules Claretie) « Lire, c’est voyager n’importe où, n’importe quand » « Un livre est un outil de liberté » (Jean Guéhenno) « Je n’ai jamais aussi bien voyagé qu’à bord d’un bon roman » « La lecture est une porte ouverte sur un monde enchanté » (François Mauriac)

B1

CONQUES est un village introuvable. Les routes qui y mènent imposent une lenteur dont le monde n´a plus goût. C´est un village-oreille où, je le percevais par la fenêtre laissée entrouverte, les bruits de la vie domestique bondissent en cascade par-dessus les toits enchevêtrés. L´opéra des voix familières, un cliquetis d´assiettes dans une cuisine : le parfait accompagnement pour la vie éternelle. Quelques cubes de pierre du onzième siècle montés comme un jeu d´enfant, avec des vitraux crayonnés de gris. Les pèlerins agglutinés aux pierres chaudes comme des abeilles à une plaque. Un peu de naïveté mais rien de cette modernité dont nous feignons de ne pas savoir qu´elle est la haine de l´intériorité. Le corps cherche le repos, et l´âme l´aventure. Quand un lieu satisfait cette demande, on peut le qualifier de paradisiaque : une caravane de gitan. Une maison de thé japonaise. La chambre 14, j´aurais pu y passer ma vie. Pour le vide qu´elle abritait. Pour le bois qui faisait sa chair. Pour cette fenêtre ouverte sur les siècles. Pour les vitraux au souffle jaune. D´ailleurs, j´y suis resté. Je t´écris à partir de mon absence au monde, à moi et à tout. Je t´écris, logé dans l´abbatiale de ton cœur. C´est toi qui parles.

LA NUIT DU COEUR

Christian Bobin

B2.1B2.2

Aimer quelqu´un c´est le lire. C´est savoir lire toutes les phrases qui sont dans le cœur de l´autre, et en le lisant le délivrer. C´est déplier son cœur comme un parchemin et le lire à haute voix, comme si chacun était à lui-même un livre écrit dans une langue étrangère. Il y a plus de texte écrit sur un visage que dans un volume de la Pléiade et, quand je regarde un visage, j´essaie de tout lire, même les notes en bas de page. Je pénètre dans les visages, comme on s´enfonce dans un brouillard, jusqu´à ce que le paysage s´éclaire dans ces moindres détails. Nos propres actes nous resten indéchiffrables. C´est peut-être pourquoi les enfants aiment tant qu´on leur raconte sans fin tel épisode de leur enfance. Lire ainsi l´autre c´est favoriser sa respiration, c´est à dire le faire exister.

LA LUMIÈRE DU MONDE

Christian Bobin

B2/C1

II. LA PLACE DE GRÈVE Les personnes qui, comme nous, ne passent jamais sur la place de Grève sans donner un regard de pitié et de sympathie à cette pauvre tourelle étranglée entre deux masures du temps de Louis XV, peuvent reconstruire aisément dans leur pensée l'ensemble d'édifices auquel elle appartenait, et y retrouver entière la vieille place gothique du quinzième siècle. C'était, comme aujourd'hui, un trapèze irrégulier bordé d'un côté par le quai, et des trois autres par une série de maisons hautes, étroites et sombres. Le jour, on pouvait admirer la variété de ses édifices, tous sculptés en pierre ou en bois, et présentant déjà de complets échantillons des diverses architectures domestiques du moyen âge, en remontant du quinzième au onzième siècle, depuis la croisée qui commençait à détrôner l'ogive, jusqu'au plein cintre roman qui avait été supplanté par l'ogive, et qui occupait encore, au−dessous d'elle, le premier étage de cette ancienne maison de la Tour−Roland, angle de la place sur la Seine, du côté de la rue de la Tannerie. La nuit, on ne distinguait de cette masse d'édifices que la dentelure noire des toits déroulant autour de la place leur chaîne d'angles aigus. Car c'est une des différences radicales des villes d'alors et des villes d'à présent, qu'aujourd'hui ce sont les façades qui regardent les places et les rues, et qu'alors c'étaient les pignons.

NOTRE DAME DE PARIS

Victor Hugo, 1831

C1

DEPARTAMENTO DE inglés

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

Robert Frost

A1

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

Robert Frost

Liliana Ximena López Reyes A1 (Original Painting)

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

Robert Frost

Sonia Araico A1(Original Painting)

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

Robert Frost

Mariana Figueroa Rodríguez (Original Painting) A1

There were some hills around me, so I decided to build myself a little house on one of them. I walked to the top of the highest hill and looked down. I was very unhappy, because I saw then that I was on an island. There were two smaller islands a few miles away, and after that, only the sea. Just the sea, for mile after mile after mile. After a time, I found a little cave in the side of a hill. In front of it, there was a good place to make a home. So, I used the ship’s sails, rope, and pieces of wood, and after a lot of hard work I had a very fine tent. The cave at the back of my tent was a good place to keep my food, and so I called it my “kitchen”. That night, I went to sleep in my new home.

THE LIFE AND STRANGE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

Daniel Defoe(Oxford Bookworms Library – Stage 2)

A2

THE LIFE AND STRANGE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

Daniel Dafoe

Sonia Araico A1(Original Drawing)

THE LIFE AND STRANGE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

Julio Lorenzo Arlanzón

That's English

At last she was inside the secret garden! It was the loveliest, most exciting place she had ever seen. There were old rose trees everywhere, and the walls were covered with climbing roses. She looked carefully at the grey branches. Were the roses still alive? She was inside the wonderful garden, in a world of her own. It seemed very strange and silent, but she did not feel lonely at all.

THE SECRET GARDEN

Frances Hodgson Burnett

B1/B2

Suddenly she saw the house, tucked away behind the trees almost in the shadow of the hill. It was a bare earth house in the traditional style; brown mud walls, a few glassless windows, with a knee-height wall around the yard. A previous owner, a long time ago, had painted designs on the wall, but neglect and the years had scaled them off and only their ghosts remained … She opened the door and eased herself out of the van. The sun was riding high; its light prickled at her skin. They were too far west here, too close to the Kalahari Desert, and her unease increased. This was not the comforting land she had grown up with; this was the merciless Africa, the waterless land.

THE Nº 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY

Alexander McCall Smith

B1

HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE

As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and set off towards the Quidditch pitch in the dusk. He’d never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of seats were raided in stands around the pitch so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the pitch were three golden poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles through, except that they were fifty feet high.

J.K. Rowling

B2.1

Halfway up the slope, guarded by a group of tall, slim, cypress-trees, nestled a small strawberry-pink villa, like some exotic fruit lying in the greenery. The cypress-trees undulated gently in the breeze, as if they were busily painting the sky a still brighter blue for our arrival. The villa was small and square, standing in its tiny garden with an air of pink-faced determination. Its shutters had been faded by the sun to a delicate creamy-green, cracked and bubbled in places. The garden, surrounded by tall fuchsia hedges, had the flower beds worked in complicated geometrical patterns, marked with smooth white stones. The white cobbled paths, scarcely as wide as a rake’s head, wound laboriously round beds hardly larger than a big straw hat, beds in the shape of stars, half-moons, triangles, and circles all overgrown with a shaggy tangle of flowers run wild. Roses dropped petals that seemed as big and smooth as saucers, flame-red, moon-white, glossy, and unwrinkled; marigolds like broods of shaggy suns stood watching their parent’s progress through the sky.

MY FAMILY AND OTHER ANIMALS

Gerald Durrell

B2.1

MY FAMILY AND OTHER ANIMALS

Gerald Durrell

Flowers, colors, smells. Small stone walls. Nostalgic memories of childhood. Wooded paths that lead to old houses, rickety by the passing of time, but with that fresh scent and intense feeling of what is kind and loved, as well as distant and lost.

Juan Carlos ArtigueB2

The house with its lighted windows—every room seemed to be lit—had stood out from all the others like a place in which something festive was happening. Marit gazed at things in the room, the photographs with their silver frames, the lamps, the large books on Surrealism, landscape design, or country houses that she had always meant to sit down with and read, the chairs, even the rug with its beautiful faded color. She looked at it all as if she were somehow noting it, when in fact it all meant nothing. Susanna’s long hair and freshness meant something, though she was not sure what. Certain memories are what you long to take with you, she thought, memories before Walter, from when she was a girl. Home, not this one but the original one with her childhood bed, the window on the landing out of which she had watched the swirling storms of long-ago winters, her father bending over her to say good night, the lamplight in which her mother was holding out a wrist, trying to fasten a bracelet. That home. The rest was less dense. The rest was a long novel so like your life; you were going through it without thinking and then one morning it ended: there were bloodstains.

LAST NIGHT

James Salter, 2002

B2.2

LAST NIGHT

James Salter, 2002

María José UrueñaB2.2

LAST NIGHT

James Salter, 2002

Noemi Salinero B2.2 (Using the app procreate)

It was after an almost continuous thirty-six-hour session of work that Jerome Willing finally stepped out of his office, walked down the dark aisles between brown-linen-covered counters, nodded to the night-watchman, and shut the front door behind him. He crossed the street and turned to take a last affectionate survey of the building which sheltered his future. He was very tired, but as the looked at it he smiled to himself, a candid young smile of pride and satisfaction. It did not look to him like a four-storied brick front, but like a great door opened to the opportunity he had always longed for.

THE HOME MAKER

Dorothy Canfield Fisher

C1

The public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with livestock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken concourse of people trudging out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle.

OLIVER TWIST

Charles Dickens

C1

OLIVER TWIST

Charles Dickens

Sandra Frades C1

I only have found this photo about Smithfield market because this is the place where Oliver arose a tumult of sounds of people which caused him atonishment

HARD TIMES

It was a town of red brick, or of brick that would have been red if the smoke and ashes had allowed it; but as matters stood, it was a town of unnatural red and black … It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy madness.

Charles Dickens

C1

The sun was still red and large: the sky above cloudless and light blue glaze poured over baking clay: but close over the ground a dirty grey haze hovered. As they followed the lane towards the sea they came to a place where, yesterday, a fair-sized spring had bubbled up by the roadside. Now it was dry. But even as they passed some water splashed out, and then it was dry again, although gurgling inwardly to itself. But the group of children were hot, far too hot to speak to one another: they sat on their ponies as loosely as possible, longing for the sea. The morning advanced. The heated air grew quite easily hotter, as if from some enormous furnace from which it could draw at will. Bullocks only shifted their stinging feet when they could bear the soil no longer: even the insects were too lethargic to pipe; the basking lizards hid themselves and panted. It was so still you could have heard the least buzz a mile off. Not a naked fish would willingly move his tail. The ponies advanced because they must. The children ceased even to think.

A HIGH WIND IN JAMAICA

Richard Hughes

C1

DEPARTAMENTO DE italiano

VIAGGIO IN ITALIA

Le valli intorno a Firenze, nel Pistoiese, in Lucchesia e altrove, con i loro giochi d’olivi chiari e di cipressi scuri, hanno una veste incantevole che sa di pittura e di prospettiva artistica. Pure, ad osservarla bene, la dolcezza non è la più intima caratteristica della terra toscana, come invece dell’Umbria. Anche nelle parti più amene, quali le valli del Mugello ed il Chianti, sotto l’involucro grazioso si scopre una precisione, una purezza di contorni, uno scarno rigore di disegno: mentre l’occhio si incanta sulla dolcezza delle prime apparenze, scivola dentro l’anima una lezione più severa. .

Guido Piovene

A1

I PROMESSI SPOSI

Quel ramo del lago di Como, che volge a mezzogiorno, tra due catene non interrotte di monti, tutto a seni e a golfi, a seconda dello sporgere e del rientrare di quelli, vien, quasi a un tratto, a ristringersi, e a prender corso e figura di fiume, tra un promontorio a destra, e un’ampia costiera dall’altra parte; e il ponte, che ivi congiunge le due rive, par che renda ancor più sensibile all’occhio questa trasformazione, e segni il punto in cui il lago cessa, e l’Adda rincomincia, per ripigliar poi nome di lago dove le rive, allontanandosi di nuovo, lascian l’acqua distendersi e rallentarsi in nuovi golfi e in nuovi seni. .

Alessandro Manzoni,

A2

LE CITTÀ INVISIBILI

Il Gran Kan ha sognato una città, la descrive a Marco Polo: Il porto è esposto a settentrione, in ombra. Le banchine sono alte sull’acqua nera che sbatte contro le murate; vi scendono scale di pietra scivolose d’alghe. Barche spalmate di catrame aspettano all’ormeggio i partenti che s’attardano sulla calata a dire addio alle famiglie. I commiati si svolgono in silenzio ma con lacrime. Fa freddo; tutti portano scialli sulla testa. Un richiamo del barcaiolo tronca gli indugi; il viaggiatore si rannicchia a prua, s’allontana guardando verso il capannello dei rimasti; da riva già non si distinguono i lineamenti; c’è foschia... .

Italo Calvino, 1972

B1

¡Gracias por participar!

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