OCR AS Level English Language and Literature (EMC)
The language of literary texts (H074/02)
Oxford Cambridge and RSA
May 2026 – Morning
AS Level English Language and Literature (EMC)
H074/02 The language of literary texts
Time allowed: 1 hour 30 minutes
You must have:
• the OCR 12‑page Answer Booklet
INSTRUCTIONS
• Use black ink.
• Write your answer to each question in the Answer Booklet. The question numbers must
be clearly shown.
• Fill in the boxes on the front of the Answer Booklet.
• Answer one question in Section A and one in Section B.
INFORMATION
• The total mark for this paper is 50.
• The marks for each question are shown in brackets [ ].
• This document has 24 pages.
ADVICE
• Read each question carefully before you start your answer.
, 2
Section A
The language of prose
Charlotte Brontë: Jane Eyre
F Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby
Chinua Achebe: Things Fall Apart
Arundhati Roy: The God of Small Things
Ian McEwan: Atonement
Jhumpa Lahiri: The Namesake
Answer one question from this section on your chosen prose text.
You should spend about 45 minutes on this section.
1 Charlotte Brontë: Jane Eyre
Write about the ways in which Charlotte Brontë tells the story in this extract.
In your answer you should:
• explore the narrative techniques used in the extract
• consider the extract in the context of the novel as a whole and its genre. [25]
I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any rate, I started wide awake on
hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I
had kept my candle burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I rose and sat up
in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.
I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward tranquillity was broken. The clock,
far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber‑door was touched; as if fingers had
swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside. I said, ‘Who is there?’ Nothing
answered. I was chilled with fear.
All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the kitchen‑door chanced to be left
open, not unfrequently found his way up to the threshold of Mr Rochester’s chamber: I had seen him
lying there myself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence composes the
nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the
return of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached
my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow‑freezing incident enough.
This was a demoniac laugh – low, suppressed, and deep – uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole
of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin‑laugher
stood at my bedside – or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and could see nothing;
while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My
first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry out, ‘Who is there?’
Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third‑storey
staircase: a door had lately been made to shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was
still.
‘Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?’ thought I. Impossible now to remain
longer by myself: I must go to Mrs Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt and
opened the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on the matting
in the gallery. I was surprised at this circumstance: but still more was I amazed to perceive the air
quite dim, as if filled with smoke; and, while looking to the right hand and left, to find whence these
blue wreaths issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of burning.
, 3
Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr Rochester’s, and the smoke rushed
in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the
laugh: in an instant, I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains
were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.
‘Wake! wake!’ I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smoke had stupefied
him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer;
fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up,
deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water‑jug, baptized the
couch afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.
Turn over
, 4
2 F Scott Fizgerald: The Great Gatsby
Write about the ways in which F Scott Fitzgerald tells the story in this extract.
In your answer you should:
• explore the narrative techniques used in the extract
• consider the extract in the context of the novel as a whole and its genre. [25]
‘Well, that’s funny,’ I exclaimed.
‘What’s funny?’
She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and
opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was
standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were
on a wire, and disappeared into the living room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my
own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living room I heard a sort of choking
murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note:
‘I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.’
A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall so I went into the room.
Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained
counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the
face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy,
who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair.
‘We’ve met before,’ muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted
with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the
pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and set it back in
place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand.
‘I’m sorry about the clock,’ he said.
My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up a single commonplace
out of the thousand in my head.
‘It’s an old clock,’ I told them idiotically.
I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor.
‘We haven’t met for many years,’ said Daisy, her voice as matter‑of‑fact as it could ever be. ‘Five
years next November.’
The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them
both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the
demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray.
The language of literary texts (H074/02)
Oxford Cambridge and RSA
May 2026 – Morning
AS Level English Language and Literature (EMC)
H074/02 The language of literary texts
Time allowed: 1 hour 30 minutes
You must have:
• the OCR 12‑page Answer Booklet
INSTRUCTIONS
• Use black ink.
• Write your answer to each question in the Answer Booklet. The question numbers must
be clearly shown.
• Fill in the boxes on the front of the Answer Booklet.
• Answer one question in Section A and one in Section B.
INFORMATION
• The total mark for this paper is 50.
• The marks for each question are shown in brackets [ ].
• This document has 24 pages.
ADVICE
• Read each question carefully before you start your answer.
, 2
Section A
The language of prose
Charlotte Brontë: Jane Eyre
F Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby
Chinua Achebe: Things Fall Apart
Arundhati Roy: The God of Small Things
Ian McEwan: Atonement
Jhumpa Lahiri: The Namesake
Answer one question from this section on your chosen prose text.
You should spend about 45 minutes on this section.
1 Charlotte Brontë: Jane Eyre
Write about the ways in which Charlotte Brontë tells the story in this extract.
In your answer you should:
• explore the narrative techniques used in the extract
• consider the extract in the context of the novel as a whole and its genre. [25]
I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any rate, I started wide awake on
hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I
had kept my candle burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I rose and sat up
in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.
I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward tranquillity was broken. The clock,
far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber‑door was touched; as if fingers had
swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside. I said, ‘Who is there?’ Nothing
answered. I was chilled with fear.
All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the kitchen‑door chanced to be left
open, not unfrequently found his way up to the threshold of Mr Rochester’s chamber: I had seen him
lying there myself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence composes the
nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the
return of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached
my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow‑freezing incident enough.
This was a demoniac laugh – low, suppressed, and deep – uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole
of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin‑laugher
stood at my bedside – or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and could see nothing;
while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My
first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry out, ‘Who is there?’
Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third‑storey
staircase: a door had lately been made to shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was
still.
‘Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?’ thought I. Impossible now to remain
longer by myself: I must go to Mrs Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt and
opened the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on the matting
in the gallery. I was surprised at this circumstance: but still more was I amazed to perceive the air
quite dim, as if filled with smoke; and, while looking to the right hand and left, to find whence these
blue wreaths issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of burning.
, 3
Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr Rochester’s, and the smoke rushed
in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the
laugh: in an instant, I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains
were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.
‘Wake! wake!’ I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smoke had stupefied
him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer;
fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up,
deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water‑jug, baptized the
couch afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.
Turn over
, 4
2 F Scott Fizgerald: The Great Gatsby
Write about the ways in which F Scott Fitzgerald tells the story in this extract.
In your answer you should:
• explore the narrative techniques used in the extract
• consider the extract in the context of the novel as a whole and its genre. [25]
‘Well, that’s funny,’ I exclaimed.
‘What’s funny?’
She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and
opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was
standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were
on a wire, and disappeared into the living room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my
own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living room I heard a sort of choking
murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note:
‘I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.’
A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall so I went into the room.
Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained
counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the
face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy,
who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair.
‘We’ve met before,’ muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted
with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the
pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and set it back in
place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand.
‘I’m sorry about the clock,’ he said.
My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up a single commonplace
out of the thousand in my head.
‘It’s an old clock,’ I told them idiotically.
I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor.
‘We haven’t met for many years,’ said Daisy, her voice as matter‑of‑fact as it could ever be. ‘Five
years next November.’
The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them
both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the
demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray.
