ANGL

 
 
 
CONCOURS  GÉNÉRAL  DES  LYCÉES  
—  
 
 
SESSION  2017  
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COMPOSITION EN LANGUE ANGLAISE
 
(Classes  de  terminale  toutes  séries  générales  et  technologiques)  
 
 
 
 
Durée  :  5  heures  
 
 
 
 
L’usage  de  tout  dictionnaire  est  interdit  
 
 
 
 
 
Consignes  aux  candidats  
 
-­‐  Ne  pas  utiliser  d’encre  claire  
-­‐  N’utiliser  ni  colle,  ni  agrafe  
-­‐  Numéroter  chaque  page  en  bas  à  droite  (numéro  de  page  /  nombre  total  de  pages)  
-­‐  Sur  chaque  copie,  renseigner  l’en-­‐tête  +  l’identification  du  concours  :  
 
Concours  /  Examen  :  CGL                                                              Section/Spécialité/Série  :  ANGLA          
Epreuve  :  00101                                                                                  Matière  :  ANGL                                                                            Session  :  2017  
 

 
 
 
 
 
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 It is better to marry than to burn, says Corinthians I, chapter seven, verse nine.
Good advice. Of course, Corinthians also informs us that we should not muzzle the ox while it is
treading out the grain – so, go figure.
By February 1975, Clara had deserted the church and all its biblical literalism for Archibald Jones, but
5 she was not yet the kind of carefree atheist who could laugh near altars or entirely dismiss the teachings of
St Paul. The second dictum wasn't a problem – having no ox, she was excluded by proxy. But the first was
giving her sleepless nights. Was it better to marry? Even if the man was a heathen? There was no way of
knowing: she was living without props now, sans safety net. More worrying than God was her mother.
Hortense was fiercely opposed to the affair, on grounds of colour rather than of age, and on hearing of it
10 had promptly ostracized her daughter one morning on the doorstep.
Clara still felt that deep down her mother would prefer her to marry an unsuitable man rather than live
with him in sin, so she did it on impulse and begged Archie to take her as far away from Lambeth as a
man of his means could manage – Morocco, Belgium, Italy. Archie had clasped her hand and nodded and
whispered sweet nothings in the full knowledge that the furthest a man of his means was going was a
15 newly acquired, heavily mortgaged, two-storey house in Willesden Green. But no need to mention that
now, he felt, not right now in the heat of the moment. Let her down gently, like.
Three months later Clara had been gently let down and here they were, moving in. Archie scrabbling
up the stairs, as usual cursing and blinding, wilting under the weight of boxes which Clara could carry
two, three at a time without effort; Clara taking a break, squinting in the warm May sunshine, trying to get
20 her bearings. She peeled down to a little purple vest and leant against her front gate. What kind of a place
was this? That was the thing, you see, you couldn't be sure. Travelling in the front passenger seat of the
removal van, she'd seen the high road and it had been ugly and poor and familiar (though there were no
Kingdom Halls or Episcopalian churches), but then at the turn of a corner suddenly roads had exploded in
greenery, beautiful oaks, the houses got taller, wider and more detached, she could see parks, she could
25 see libraries. And then abruptly the trees would be gone, reverting back into bus-stops as if by the strike of
some midnight bell; a signal which the houses too obeyed, transforming themselves into smaller, stairless
dwellings that sat splay opposite derelict shopping arcades, those peculiar lines of establishments that
include, without exception,
one defunct sandwich bar still advertising breakfast
30 one locksmith uninterested in marketing frills (KEYS CUT HERE)
and one permanently shut unisex hair salon, the proud bearer of some unspeakable pun (Upper
Cuts or Fringe Benefits or Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow).
It was a lottery driving along like that, looking out, not knowing whether one was about to settle down
for life amongst the trees or amidst the shit. Then finally the van had slowed down in front of a house, a
35 nice house somewhere midway between the trees and the shit, and Clara had felt a tide of gratitude roll
over her. It was nice, not as nice as she had hoped but not as bad as she had feared; it had two small
gardens front and back, a doormat, a doorbell, a toilet inside ... And she had not paid a high price. Only
love. Just love. And whatever Corinthians might say, love is not such a hard thing to forfeit, not if you've
never really felt it. She did not love Archie, but had made up her mind, from that first moment on the
40 steps, to devote herself to him if he would take her away. And now he had; and, though it wasn't Morocco
or Belgium or Italy, it was nice – not the promised land – but nice, nicer than anywhere she had ever been.
Clara understood that Archibald Jones was no romantic hero. Three months spent in one stinking room
in Cricklewood had been sufficient revelation. Oh, he could be affectionate and sometimes even charming,
he could whistle a clear, crystal note first thing in the morning, he drove calmly and responsibly and he
45 was a surprisingly competent cook, but romance was beyond him, passion, unthinkable. And if you are
saddled with a man as average as this, Clara felt, he should at least be utterly devoted to you – to your
beauty, to your youth – that's the least he could do to make up for things. But not Archie. One month into
their marriage and he already had that funny glazed look men have when they are looking through you. He
had already reverted back into his bachelorhood: pints with Samad Iqbal, dinner with Samad Iqbal,

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50 Sunday breakfasts with Samad Iqbal, every spare moment with the man in that bloody place, O'Connell's,
in that bloody dive. She tried to be reasonable. She asked him: Why are you never here? Why do you
spend so much time with the Indian? But a pat on the back, a kiss on the cheek, he's grabbing his coat, his
foot's out the door and always the same old answer: Me and Sam? We go way back. She couldn't argue
with that. They went back to before she was born. No white knight, then, this Archibald Jones. No aims,
55 no hopes, no ambitions. A man whose greatest pleasures were English breakfasts and DIY. A dull man.
An old man. And yet ... good. He was a good man. And good might not amount to much, good might not
light up a life, but it is something. She spotted it in him that first time on the stairs, simply, directly, the
same way she could point out a good mango on a Brixton stall without so much as touching the skin.
These were the thoughts Clara clung to as she leant on her garden gate, three months after her wedding,
60 silently watching the way her husband's brow furrowed and shortened like an accordion, the way his
stomach hung pregnant over his belt, the whiteness of his skin, the blueness of his veins, the way his
'elevens' were up – those two ropes of flesh that appear on a man's gullet (so they said in Jamaica) when
his time was drawing to a close. Clara frowned. She hadn't noticed these afflictions at the wedding.

Zadie Smith, White Teeth, 2000.

I. Questions

1. The portrait of a man: what portrayal of Archibald Jones is provided and how?
2. Focalisation and point of view: how does focalisation influence the way the story is narrated?
3. How does Clara relate to her cultural and religious heritage?
4. “They lived happily ever after…” Comment using examples from English-language literature, theatre
and film.

II. Translation

Translate into French from “It was a lottery driving along like that …” (line 33) down to “…nicer than
anywhere she had ever been” (line 41).

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I M P R I M E R I E N A T I O N A L E – 17 0401 – D’après documents fournis