Q 1. You have studied ‘nostalgia’ in Language and ‘Treasure Island’ in Literature. Read the
following excerpt about a grown up sharing his/her childhood memories about watching
Treasure Island on TV. Imagine that you are the grown up and complete it. What do you
remember about it? Try to maintain a tone that is nostalgic. Quote the fondest memories
from the serial (you will use your reading but portray it as the serial) and relate it to some
effect it had on your personality back then. For e.g, you tried to copy a character or did
something that suggested that you were inspired by the T.V serial at that age.
Answers
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Fortune Island and cherished recollections:
It was 1988. I was then eight years of age, and, around then, we didn't have a TV. The BBC was serializing Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island on Sunday evenings, and I used to go to my companion, Kevin's home to watch it. Also, a short time later, we used to play at being privateers. What's more, I took out the book from the youngsters' segment of the library in Kirkcaldy (where we were inhabiting the time), and exciting both to the story and furthermore to the distinctive delineations that rejuvenated a creative world that has remained with me since.
My conciliatory sentiments for exhausting all of you with a touch of personal history, since one's wistfulness is for the most part of no intrigue yet to anybody however one's self. Yet, on the off chance that the facts confirm that encounters of one's youth shape what one becomes as a grown-up, at that point, I have almost certainly that my youth submersion in the inventive universe of Treasure Island has formed me.
Not that I've become a privateer, obviously, nor yet that I have driven a brave life: I have consistently been truly bashful, and dismiss in fear even from a portion of the more gutsy rides in Thorpe Park. Be that as it may, the creative mind does, all things considered, exist to fill the holes in one's very own understanding, and no story increasingly poses a threat in my creative mind, even now, then treasures Island.
There is numerous a book I delighted in as a youngster, yet which are difficult to appreciate as a grown-up, not even with all the moderating components managed by sentimentality. Fortune Island, in any case, needs no relieving factor by any means: just, there has not been a superior experience story composed. From the extremely opening passage, where Captain Billy Bones thumps on the entryway of the motel run by Jim's dad, I am snared. What's more, from that point onward, it is one experience after another.
Dr Livesey, and the remainder of these refined men had requested that I record the entire points of interest about Treasure Island, from the earliest starting point as far as possible, holding nothing back except for the direction of the island, and that simply because there is still fortune not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the time of effortlessness 17__ and return to when my dad kept the Admiral Benbow motel and the earthy colored old sailor with the sabre cut previously took up his housing under our rooftop.
I recollect him as though it were yesterday, as he came trudging to the hotel entryway, his ocean chest following behind him in a hand-pushcart—a tall, solid, overwhelming, nut-earthy colored man, his hesitate braid falling over the shoulder of his grimy blue coat, his hands worn out and scarred, with dark, broken nails, and the saber cut across one cheek, a filthy, irate white. I recollect him looking round the spread and whistling to himself as he did as such, and afterwards breaking out in that old ocean tune that he sang so frequently a short time later.