Lerninhalte in Englisch

Aufgabe II

Aufgabenstellung

1.

Describe the situation presented in the excerpt.

(30 %)
2.

Analyze how Alice’s emotional state is presented. Focus on the use of language and its effect.

(30 %)
3.

Choose one of the following tasks:

(40 %)
3.1

Comment on the influence of social media on personal lives. Refer to the text at hand and materials studied in class, such as the play seven methods of killing kylie jenner.

or

3.2

Together with students from your British partner school you are taking part in a project on “Media in the 21st Century.” You have been asked to contribute an article for the project’s website. Using the message of the cartoon as a starting point, write the article in which you discuss the benefits and dangers of social media as a source of information.

Ein Paar sitzt auf einer Couch und liest Zeitungen mit den Titeln
Created with ChatGPT
(Hinweis: Diese Abbildung dient als inhaltlich vergleichbare Alternative zur in der Prüfung eingesetzten Darstellung.)

Material

Text: Excerpt from Olivia Sudjic, Sympathy (2017)

Alice has recently moved from England to New York and has come across the online presence of Mizuko, a Japanese writer living in New York.

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I wasn’t with her when the fever started. I didn’t even know she was sick. I’d known
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nearly everything about her until then, and could have recalled the smallest detail of
3
any given day, whether she’d spent it with me or not. For months her presence, and
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telepresence, had given shape to my new life in New York. Now, with the stroke of a
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finger, it had gone.
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Unfollow. Intended as a symbolic gesture only, […] assuming that I’d still have a level
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of public access. I’d observed her this way long before we met, but it appeared that
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her privacy had been altered since then. Very recently, I guessed. I was alarmed by
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her inhibition or what it meant she had to hide. Before, anyone could find her. Just
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by typing her name they would get an instant synopsis of her life: the neat grid of her
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pictures, captioned with her thoughts and feelings, tagged with a location and
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timestamped. Anyone could track her progress through the city, or slip backwards
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into her past, to her vacations and graduations. I can’t have been the only one who’d
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done it so successfully. But now I was locked out. A white wall had descended, blank
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except for a padlock symbol.
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More than her physical absence, it was this whiteout that was disorienting. There was
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little to suggest that time was passing. No news of her mornings or meals, no filtered
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sunsets or stars. As darkness fell in my world, the light from hers tormented me,
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remaining the same bright hospital white. I butted my index finger repeatedly against
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the wall, but her defiant little mouth, just visible in the porthole containing her profile
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picture, turned my symbolic gesture back towards me […]. There was nothing I could
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depress except Follow or Back. I couldn’t decide which, so I waited, hoping that the
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unhappy choice would be taken away. Sometimes I would cover the glare with the
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palm of my hand, cancelling her light completely by squeezing my knuckles together.
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I’d count out sixty Mississippis and then flare them open again, hoping with this
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expansive motion to have magically sprung the lock, or to discover that the wall was
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only a temporary measure and she’d now restored her previous settings. When she
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did not, I tried more inventive routes. Rather than typing in her name, like any fool, I
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interrogated other names I knew – the names of her friends – pressing on every back
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door I could think of for a glimpse of where she was and who she was with, hoping to
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find her sheltering in one of their pictures. Not one of them had seen her, or if they
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had, they were hiding the fact. Or she was hiding somewhere in that labyrinth of
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other people’s lives, but behind the lens itself.
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It didn’t take long for my resolve to weaken; then, after I’d admitted defeat, tapping
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Follow again, the time spent waiting for her to approve my request passed impossibly
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slowly. For whole minutes I convinced myself that it was the best thing to have
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happened, that this was in fact the only way out: to know nothing more about her
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from now on. It was useless, however. I knew too much already, and for long hours
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in between those minutes I tortured myself with grim fantasies – what was happening
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behind the wall as I waited for reentry.
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Follow, once white, was now an arresting grey, the word replaced by Requested. I felt
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this new word did not convey proper urgency. For a start, I did not like the past tense.
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I glared at the word as I lay in bed, certain that my envoy was not requesting hard
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enough. I wondered how I might take back control of the situation. When we had
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spent rare nights apart before, I’d kept our message thread open, in order to watch
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her name waxing on- and offline in the grey bar at the top of the screen, pressing it
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every so often to keep it lit. By doing this I’d felt as though I had her next to me, as if
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she lay beside me breathing, but trying that trick then felt more like lying beside a
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corpse for comfort.
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When I wasn’t watching the white wall, I watched the grey bar. At least there time
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moved on. It didn’t tell the actual time, but how long had passed since she’d gone
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off-grid. I wanted to breathe in the same atmosphere as her. I opened the windows
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as many inches as I could, felt the currents of air that moved between the tall
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buildings, and imagined liquefying them, creating a hydraulic system between us, so
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that I could position and push her finger down just by levering mine above the button.
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Once, I felt sure I’d seen her status morph from last seen to online and from online to
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the pendulous typing: a sign of life, like steam on a mirror. Then I had blinked hard,
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and again the grey bar, the headstone above the message thread, confirmed that she
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was not.
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I waited for her to appear for so long that occasionally I had to turn over, onto my
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front, and lower my device-holding hand to the floor to steer the blood into my
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fingers. If I managed to fall asleep, my mind pinballed through possible encounters,
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following her to every intersection of the Upper West Side. […]
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My intelligence came later, from the doorman in the building where she lived on West
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113th. He reported that by the time she’d arrived at the hospital, two blocks away,
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as a walk-in with a high fever, a parasite had bored into her brain. He explained that
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it had all begun, like most things covertly bent on death, with “flulike symptoms,” and
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the first doctor had dismissed her on that basis. Sent her off to buy a stronger version
69
of Theraflu. When she made her second trip, it was by ambulance.


(995 words)
Quelle: Olivia Sudjic. Sympathy. 2017. Boston: Mariner, 2018. 1-4.

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