Книга - Фразовые глаголы для подготовки к ЕГЭ по английскому языку

Фразовые глаголы для подготовки к ЕГЭ по английскому языку
Роман Зинзер


Фразовые глаголы для подготовки к ЕГЭ по английскому языку – учебное пособие с самыми важными и частыми фразовыми глаголами английского языка. В книге мы объясняем, как их переводить и использовать, чтобы получить высокий балл на ЕГЭ.





Предисловие







Начну с банальности. Фразовые глаголы – это сам глагол (to go, to fly, to run, to cook) плюс предлог или наречие (in, out, back, across…) В русском языке фразовых глаголов нет, потому что в русском используются приставки и суффиксы (в английском они тоже есть, но это другая история). Зачем нужны фразовые глаголы?

А зачем в русском нужны приставки и суффиксы? Чтобы делать новые слова. Например, берем глагол «бежать» добавляем приставки и получается: забежать, убежать, перебежать, сбежать, выбежать, набежать, вбежать. Все глаголы образованы от слова «бежать» при помощи приставок. В английском все то же самое, только при помощи предлогов и наречий: забежать – to run in, убежать – to run away, перебежать – to run across, выбежать – to run out. Логика здесь простая: предлог in придает смысл движения внутрь, out – наружу, on – активизация чего-либо (to turn on – включить), off – прекратить, деактивировать что-то, прекратить связь (to turn off – выключить), back – назад, across – движение поперек, through – через, away – движение вдаль. Об этом мы еще поговорим подробнее.

Но есть много но. Не всегда предлоги и наречия придают новому глаголу понятный, логичный смысл. То бишь не всегда in – это что-то внутрь (to turn in – сдавать, выдавать. И где тут внутрь?), не всегда – out – это наружу и так далее. Часто логика работает, но часто и нет. И это большая проблема. И поэтому фразовые глаголы сложно учить, запоминать и переводить в тексте.

Что еще важно?

Фразовый глагол обычно состоит из двух слов (бывает и в три, и в четыре слова): из самого глагола и предлога/наречия. В большинстве случаев фразовый глагол неразделяемый, то есть и глагол, и предлог/наречие идут один за другим:





I looked for my wallet – я искал мой кошелек, she loves to eat out – она любит есть по ресторанам…



Иногда фразовый глагол надо разделить. Тогда между самим глаголом и предлогом/наречием будет стоять объект, над которым совершается это самое действие.





Например:





I put the coat on and went outside – я надел пальто и вышел. They called me up and invited to visit them – они позвонили мне и пригласили зайти.



Правила о том, где фразовый глагол разделяется, а где нет, есть, но они звучат сложно, и в голове все равно не останутся. Гарантирую. Поэтому лучший способ – выучить самые нужные фразовые глаголы и запомнить, какие из них разделяются, а какие нет.

Теперь о том, как учить фразовые глаголы. Выберите десяток фразовых глаголов и с каждым из них придумайте и напишите два-три предложения (да, можно прямо подряд из этой книжки). На неделю этого хватит. Покажите ваши предложения учителю, если он имеется, чтобы он поправил ваши ляпы, и вы не запоминали всяких неправильностей. На следующей неделе возьмите еще десять глаголов и придумайте примеры с ними. Потом вернитесь к первому десятку и повторите его. Прочитайте ваши примеры. И так каждую неделю. Не надо учить больше десяти глаголов в неделю.

Да, и вот, что еще важно. Чем бредовей и дебильней будет ваш пример, тем лучше он запомнится. Не надо придумывать примеров типа: «Катя названивала Маше» – тоска это зеленая, а не пример. А вот: «Катя названивала Маше, чтобы узнать рецепт любовного зелья» осядет в голове лучше.

Запомнили? Сделаете? Киваете головой? Ха, конечно, сделаете вы! Будем честны, понятно же, что писанина примеров с фразовыми глаголами – это слишком рутинно и скучно, чтобы этим заниматься. Лучше уж вы будете долбить тесты ЕГЭ по английскому из раза в раз, из раза в раз, а фразовые глаголы.., может, повезет и вы проскочите. Может быть.

Ладно. Упрощу задачу. Прочитайте внимательно и вдумчиво эту книжку и смотрите глупые американские сериалы. Полгода смотрите, год смотрите. Там куча фразовых глаголов, кое-что вы запомните, что-то вы поймете и время не пройдет даром.

И последняя нотация. Знание и использование фразовых глаголов – признак того, что английский вы знаете хорошо и на разговорном уровне. Можно выучить какие угодно сложные времена и пихать их в каждое первое предложение, но именно фразовые глаголы говорят вашему читателю/слушателю/собеседнику в вашу пользу. В вашем эссе на ЕГЭ обязательно должны быть фразовые глаголы, если вы хотите получить высокий балл. Минимум два на весь текст. Лучше 4-6. И без фразовых глаголов вам в сто крат сложнее будет понимать тексты к заданиям ЕГЭ, а значит и правильно отвечать на вопросы к этим текстам. Не верите? Сейчас я вам докажу. Ниже вы увидите несколько текстов к заданиям ЕГЭ прошлых лет, которые я выбрал абсолютно случайно (честно-честно). Жирным выделены разделяемые и неразделяемые фразовые глаголы. Они есть в каждом тексте. Хотите, прочтите эти тексты, а если лень, то просто обратите внимание как много фразовых глаголов в них.



Текст номер один:



Hazlitt’s Hotel





I took a cab to Hazlitt’s Hotel on Frith Street. I like Hazlitt’s because it’s intentionally obscure – it doesn’t have a sign or a plaque or anything at all to betray its purpose – which puts you in a rare position of strength with your cab driver. Let me say right now that London cab drivers are without question the finest in the world. They are trustworthy, safe and honest, generally friendly and always polite. They keep their vehicles spotless inside and out, and they will put themselves to the most extraordinary inconvenience to drop you at the front entrance of your destination. There are really only a couple of odd things about them. One is that they cannot drive more than two hundred feet in a straight line. I’ve never understood this, but no matter where you are or what the driving conditions, every two hundred feet a little bell goes off in their heads and they abruptly lunge down a side street. And when you get to your hotel or railway station or wherever it is you are going, they like to drive you all the way around it so that you can see it from all angles before alighting.

The other distinctive thing about them, and the reason I like to go to Hazlitt’s, is that they cannot bear to admit that they don’t know the location of something they feel they ought to know, like a hotel, which I think is rather sweet. To become a London cab driver you have to master something titled The Knowledge – in effect, learn every street, hospital, hotel, police station, cricket ground, cemetery and other notable landmarks in this amazingly vast and confusing city. It takes years and the cabbies are justifiably proud of their achievement. It would kill them to admit that there could exist in central London a hotel that they have never heard of. So what the cabbie does is probe. He drives in no particular direction for a block or two, then glances at you in the mirror and in an overcasual voice says, “Hazlitt’s – that’s the one on Curzon Street, innit, guv? Opposite the Blue Lion?” But the instant he sees a knowing smile of demurral forming on your lips, he hastily says, “No, hang on a minute, I’m thinking of the Hazelbury. Yeah, the Hazelbury. You want Hazlitt’s, right?” He’ll drive on a bit in a fairly random direction. “That’s this side of Shepherd’s Bush, innit?” he’ll suggest speculatively.

When you tell him that it’s on Frith Street, he says. “Yeah, that the one. Course it is. I know it – modern place, lots of glass”.

“Actually, it’s an eighteenth-century brick building.”

“Course it is. I know it.” And he immediately executes a dramatic U-turn, causing a passing cyclist to steer into a lamppost (but that’s all right because he has on cycle clips and one of those geeky slip stream helmets that all but invite you to knock him over). “Yeah, you had me thinking of the Hazelbury” the driver adds, chuckling as if to say it’s a lucky thing he sorted that one out for you, and then lunges down a little side street off the Strand called Running Sore Lane or Sphincter Passage, which, like so much else in London, you had never noticed was there before.



Текст номер два:



Sisters



‘Dear Kathy! Chance made us sisters, hearts made us friends.’ This quote is at the center of a collage of photographs – covering our twenty-something years – that now hangs in my office. My sister, Susie, made it for me as a wedding present. It probably cost very little to make (she is a starving college student, after all), but it means more to me than any of the more ‘traditional’ wedding presents my husband and I received from family and friends last June. Whenever I look at the collage, it reminds me of my sister and what a true friend she is.

Susie and I weren’t always close friends. Far from it, in fact. We shared a room for nearly fifteen years when we were younger, and at the time I thought I couldn’t have asked for a worse roommate. She was always around! If we argued and I wanted to go to my room to be alone, she’d follow me right in. If I told her to go away, she’d say right back, ‘It’s my room, too! And I can be here if I want to.’ I’d consult my mother and she usually agreed with Susie. I suppose being three years younger has its benefits.

When we were kids, she’d ‘borrow’ my dolls without asking. (And no toy was safe in her hands.) When we got older, Susie quit borrowing my toys and started borrowing my clothes. That was the final straw. I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged my parents to let me have a room of my own – preferably one with a lock on the door. The answer was always a resounding ‘no.’ ‘Please?!’ I’d beg. My parents would just shake their heads. They didn’t agree with each other on much, but for some reason they had a united front on this issue.

To crown it all, she had this habit of doing everything I did. Choirs, rock bands, sports teams, dance studios: There was no place where I was safe. ‘She looks up to you,’ my mom would say. I didn’t care. I just wanted a piece of my life that didn’t involve my little sister. When I complained to my mother, she’d just smile and say, ‘One day you’ll want her around.’ Sure.

It’s strange how mothers have this habit of being right about everything. When I was sixteen and my sister was thirteen, we went through a series of life-changing events together that would forever change our relationship. First, my parents announced that they were divorcing. My dad packed up and moved to an apartment in New Hampshire – more than a half hour drive away from our cozy house in Massachusetts. He bought me my first car and I often went with Susie to his place when we missed him a lot. During those trips we started discussing our troubles and making plans about how to reunite the family again. But a year later, our father met his future second wife and moved again; this time to Indiana. This meant we could only see him once or twice a year, as opposed to once every few weeks. That was hard.

Yet those few months changed my relationship with my sister forever. We started having more heart-to-heart talks as opposed to silly fights. Over time, she became my most cherished friend. It’s not uncommon for us to have three-hour-long telephone conversations about everything or about nothing—just laughing over memories from childhood or high school.

She’s the only person who’s been through all of the tough stuff that I’ve been through, and the only person who truly understands me. Susie and I have shared so much. She’s been my roommate, my friend, and my partner in crime. We’ve done plays together, gone to amusement parks, sang, and taken long road trips together. We’ve laughed until our sides hurt, and wiped away each others’ tears.

Even though distance separates us now, we’re closer than ever. Sisters share a special bond. They’ve seen all of your most embarrassing moments. They know your deepest, darkest secrets. Most importantly, they love you unconditionally. I’m lucky to be able to say that my little sister is my best friend. I only wish everyone could be so fortunate.



Третий текст:



Llandudno



Llandudno is truly a fine and handsome place, built on a generously proportioned bay and lined along its broad front with a huddle of prim but gracious nineteenth- century hotels that reminded me in the fading light of a lineup of Victorian nannies. Llandudno was purpose-built as a resort in the mid-1800s, and it cultivates a nice old-fashioned air. I don’t suppose that Lewis Carroll, who famously strolled this front with little Alice Liddell in the 1860s, would notice a great deal of change today.

To my consternation, the town was packed with weekending pensioners. Buses from all over were parked along the side streets, every hotel I called at was full, and in every dining room I could see crowds – veritable oceans – of nodding white heads spooning soup and conversing happily. Goodness knows what had brought them to the Welsh seaside at this bleak time of year.

Farther on along the front there stood a clutch of guesthouses, large and virtually indistinguishable, and a few of them had vacancy signs in their windows. I had eight or ten to choose from, which always puts me in a mild fret because I have an unerring instinct for choosing badly. My wife can survey a row of guesthouses and instantly identify the one run by a white-haired widow with a fondness for children, and sparkling bathroom facilities, whereas I can generally count on choosing the one run by a guy with a grasping manner, and the sort of cough that makes you wonder where he puts the phlegm. Such, I felt, would be the case tonight.

All the guesthouses had boards out front listing their many amenities -COLOUR TV, HOSPITALITY TRAYS, FULL CENTRAL HEATING, and the coyly euphemistic EN SUITE ALL ROOMS, meaning private bathrooms. One place offered satellite TV and a trouser press, and another boasted CURRENT FIRE CERTIFICATE – something I had never thought to look for in a B&B. All this heightened my sense of unease and doom. How could I possibly choose intelligently among such a variety of options?

I selected a place that looked reasonable enough from the outside – its board promised a color TV and coffee making facilities, about all I require these days for a Saturday night – but from the moment I set foot in the door I knew it was a bad choice. I was about to turn and flee when the owner emerged from a back room and stopped my retreat with an unenthusiastic “Yes?” A short conversation revealed that a single room with breakfast was for ?19.50. It was entirely out of the question that I would stay the night in such a dismal place at such an exorbitant price, so I said:

“That sounds fine,” and signed in. Well, it’s so hard to say no.

My room was everything I expected it to be – cold and cheerless with laminated furniture, grubbily matted carpet, and those mysterious ceiling stains that bring to mind a neglected corpse in the room above. There was a tray of coffee things but the cups were disgusting, and the spoon was stuck to the tray.

The bathroom, faintly illuminated by a distant light activated by a length of string, had curling floor tiles and years of accumulated dirt packed into every corner. I peered at the yellowy tile around the bath and sink and realized what the landlord did with his phlegm. A bath was out of the question, so I threw some cold water on my face, dried it with a towel that had the texture of shredded wheat, and gladly took my leave.



И последний текст:



Reunion



The last time I saw my father was in Grand Central Station. I was going from my grandmother’s in the Adirondacks to a cottage on the Cape that my mother had rented, and I wrote my father that I would be in New York between trains for an hour and a half, and asked if we could have lunch together. His secretary wrote to say that he would meet me at the information booth at noon, and at twelve o’clock sharp I saw him coming through the crowd.

He was a stranger to me – my mother divorced him three years ago and I hadn’t been with him since – but as soon as I saw him I felt that he was my father, my flesh and blood, my future and my doom. I knew that when I was grown I would be something like him; I would have to plan my campaigns within his limitations. He was a big, good-looking man, and I was terribly happy to see him again.

He struck me on the back and shook my hand. “Hi, Charlie,” he said. “Hi, boy. I’d like to take you up to my club, but it’s in the Sixties, and if you have to catch an early train I guess we’d better get something to eat around here.” He put his arm around me, and I smelled my father the way my mother sniffs a rose. It was a rich compound of whiskey, after-shave lotion, shoe polish, woollens, and the rankness of a mature male. I hoped that someone would see us together. I wished that we could be photographed. I wanted some record of our having been together.

We went out of the station and up a side street to a restaurant. It was still early, and the place was empty. The bartender was quarrelling with a delivery boy, and there was one very old waiter in a red coat down by the kitchen door. We sat down, and my father hailed the waiter in a loud voice. “Kellner!” he shouted. “Garcon! You!” His boisterousness in the empty restaurant seemed out of place. “Could we have a little service here!” he shouted. Then he clapped his hands. This caught the waiter’s attention, and he shuffled over to our table.

“Were you clapping your hands at me?” he asked.

“Calm down, calm down,” my father said. “It isn’t too much to ask of you – if it wouldn’t be too much above and beyond the call of duty, we would like a couple of Beefeater Gibsons.”

“I don’t like to be clapped at,” the waiter said.

“I should have brought my whistle,” my father said. “I have a whistle that is audible only to the ears of old waiters. Now, take out your little pad and your little pencil and see if you can get this straight: two Beefeater Gibsons. Repeat after me: two Beefeater Gibsons.”

“I think you’d better go somewhere else,” the waiter said quietly.

“That,” said my father, “is one of the most brilliant suggestions I have ever heard. Come on, Charlie.”

I followed my father out of that restaurant into another. He was not so boisterous this time. Our drinks came, and he cross-questioned me about the baseball season. He then struck the edge of his empty glass with his knife and began shouting again. “Garcon! You! Could we trouble you to bring us two more of the same.”

“How old is the boy?” the waiter asked.

“That,” my father said, “is none of your business.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “but I won’t serve the boy another drink.”

“Well, I have some news for you,” my father said. “I have some very interesting news for you. This doesn’t happen to be the only restaurant in New York. They’ve opened another on the corner. Come on, Charlie.”

He paid the bill, and I followed him out of that restaurant into another…



Итак, по десятку фразовых глаголов на каждый текст. Поэтому их надо учить и знать.





Как мы поступим дальше? Я не хочу слыть занудой (в вашей жизни к 17 годам зануд и так уже было достаточно, да?) и сразу пичкать вас списком фразовых глаголов. Сначала я расскажу вам историю про двух девочек, двух мальчиков и одну собаку (если вы кошатник, то можете представить кота вместо собаки).



Итак, история будет такая. Жила-была девочка Катя. Училась Катя в 11 классе, была отличницей, умницей и красавицей. Серьезно, Катя была красивая как утренняя звезда, а пятерок у нее хватило бы, чтобы замостить Луну. Мама Кати работала в Газпроме, а папа работал в Лукойле. Как вы понимаете, у Кати было все хорошо. Понимали это и другие ее одноклассники и особенно Катю не любили, а скорее боялись и презирали. Еще бы! В том же классе учился Петя, балбес и двоечник, но симпатичный. Так случилось, что обалдуй Петя дружил с красивой и богатой Катей. Пете нравилась Катя, потому что она всем пацанам нравилась, а Кате нравился Петя потому, что он был весь такой неправильный, а в блогах Катя вычитала, что именно такой парень и должен быть у женщины-вамп, которой Кате мечталось стать.

Еще был Ваня, он учился в том же классе, что и два предыдущих героя. Ваня был бедный, скромный и не больно какой смазливый. Учился он, перебиваясь с четверки на тройку. Ваня тоже, как и все остальные в классе любил Катю, но понимал, что ничего ему тут не светит. Поэтому Ваня просто ходил на школьные уроки, ходил на дополнительные курсы по программированию и втихаря пускал слюни на Катю. Катя, понятное дело, интроверта Ваню не замечала.

Еще была Маша. Маша, как и Ваня была молчаливая, вся в себе и своих мечтах. Машу можно было бы назвать красивой, но в ней было килограмм пять лишнего веса, поэтому она была просто симпатичной тихушницей (кажется, так сейчас говорят? Или я отстал?) Училась Маша хорошо, но из кожи не лезла. Маше нравился Ваня, но так как Ваня наряду с остальными пацанами вздыхал только по Кате, то Маша никак не проявляла своей симпатии, а просто молча провожала Ваню взглядом. У Маши был лучший друг – большая овчарка Бублик и каждый день до и после уроков Маша гуляла с Бубликом, говорила с ним и делилась самым сокровенным. Бублик всегда внимательно слушал и соглашался с Машей с тем, что кругом одни идиоты и никто ее, Машу, не понимает, кроме пса Бублика.





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