1.Read the following lines from the poem "At the Tourist Centre in Boston"
is this a manufactured hallucination, a cynical fiction, a lure for export only?
Which of the following words best describes the speaker's tone?
It is C ...
To determine the speaker's tone in the given lines from the poem "At the Tourist Centre in Boston," we need to consider the emotions and attitude conveyed by the words used.
In this case, the speaker is questioning the authenticity and purpose of something, possibly a tourist attraction or an experience offered at the tourist center. The words used, such as "manufactured hallucination," "cynical fiction," and "lure for export only," suggest skepticism, doubt, and a critical attitude.
The best word to describe the speaker's tone would be "skeptical" or "doubtful." This indicates that the speaker is questioning the true nature and value of whatever they are referring to.
To arrive at this conclusion, I analyzed the words used in the lines and inferred the emotions and attitude they convey. By paying attention to the specific language and context, you can often determine the tone of a speaker or writer.
Please* correction.
@Ms.Sue
the 6th sentence
(Whose dream is this, I would like to know:
is this a manufactured
hallucination, a cynical fiction, a lure
for export only?)
I guesses B because he sound lost and interested because he wants to know what going on. But I'm not sure if my answer is correct since I see people guessing C and D. I don't see how he's irate or is mocking, that's why I need help to understand if I'm incorrect or not because I'm also confused and stuck on this question. Can you ease help.
The answer is mocking
confused
interested***
irate
mocking
(I think the answer is interested please correct me if I'm wrong.)
Which lines?
This poem was written by Canadian Margaret Atwood (the "centre" gives it away).
There is my country under glass,
a white relief-
map with red dots for the cities,
reduced to the size of a wall
and beside it 10 blownup snapshots
one for each province,
in purple-browns and odd reds,
the green of the trees dulled;
all blues however
of an assertive purity.
Mountains and lakes and more lakes
(though Quebec is a restaurant and Ontario the empty
interior of the parliament buildings),
with nobody climbing the trails and hauling out
the fish and splashing in the water
but arrangements of grinning tourists-
look here, Saskatchewan
is a flat lake, some convenient rocks
where two children pose with a father
and the mother is cooking something
in immaculate slacks by a smokeless fire,
her teeth white as detergent.
Whose dream is this, I would like to know:
is this a manufactured
hallucination, a cynical fiction, a lure
for export only?
I seem to remember people,
at least in the cities, also slush,
machines and assorted garbage. Perhaps
that was my private mirage
which will just evaporate
when I go back. Or the citizens will be gone,
run off to the peculiarly-
green forests
to wait among the brownish mountains
for the platoons of tourists
and plan their old red massacres. 1968