Hotel California My first thought: I was going crazy. Twenty-four hours of silence (vacuum, remember); was I hallucinating noises now? I heard it again. It was a fine bell, reminiscent of ancient stone churches and the towering cathedrals I'd seen in documentaries. And accompanying the bell, I saw a light. Now, there were two things here that made ridiculously small amounts of sense. First, the whole in-a-vacuum why's-there-a-bell thing. Second, I was floating in the dark remnants of my broken ship, and any conceivable light sources were not within view; starlight is a distinctly different color and significantly less bright. These signals were the heralds of my saviors. The first words they said to me meant nothing. I wasn't listening; I didn't care; I was going to live; I was going to keep breathing. Next to those, nothing else mattered. The recycled air tasted sweet in my mouth, and all thoughts that crossed my mind were cheap metaphors about life-giving substances and how breathing was like sex, only better. (I reserved the right to revise this opinion later.) When I was done mentally exclaiming over my impossible rescue, I looked around. The ship, it was odd and old, either so outdated or so heavily modified that I couldn't tell what make it was, and somehow, the crew standing around me fit the same description, a singularly atypical amalgamation of folk. And me, I guess I was one more piece in their puzzle. I was one more scrap to weld onto the rest, one more stranded survivor who was found. I was now one of them. 

Question: "Why did the writer think he was going crazy?"

Answer: "He saw a light"

Is this answer correct?

OPTIONS:
- no
- yes
no
Hotel California Min första tanke: Jag höll på att bli galen. Tjugofyra timmars tystnad (vakuum, kom ihåg); hallucinerade jag ljud nu? Jag hörde det igen. Det var en fin klocka, som påminde om antika stenkyrkor och de höga katedraler jag sett i dokumentärer. Och med klockan såg jag ett ljus. Det var två saker här som gjorde löjligt små mängder vett. Först, hela in-a-vacuum varför är-det-en-klocka-grej. För det andra svävade jag i de mörka resterna av mitt trasiga skepp, och alla tänkbara ljuskällor var inte inom synhåll; stjärnljuset är en tydligt annorlunda färg och betydligt mindre ljus. Dessa signaler var mina frälsares härolder. De första orden de sa till mig betydde ingenting. Jag lyssnade inte, jag brydde mig inte, jag skulle överleva, jag skulle fortsätta andas. Bredvid dem spelade inget annat någon roll. Den återvunna luften smakade sött i min mun, och alla tankar som slog mig var billiga metaforer om livgivande ämnen och hur andningen var som sex, bara bättre. (Jag förbehåller mig rätten att revidera detta yttrande senare.) När jag var färdig med att utropa mentalt över min omöjliga räddning, såg jag mig omkring. Skeppet, det var underligt och gammalt, antingen så föråldrat eller så kraftigt modifierat att jag inte kunde se vad som gjorde det, och på något sätt passade besättningen omkring mig samma beskrivning, en singularly atypisk blandning av människor. Och jag antar att jag var en bit till i deras pussel. Jag var en skrot till att svetsa ihop på resten, en till strandad överlevande som hittades. Jag var nu en av dem. Fråga: Varför trodde författaren att han höll på att bli galen? Svar: "Han såg ett ljus" Stämmer detta svar? ALTERNATIV: - nej - ja
Hotel California My first thought: I was going crazy. Twenty-four hours of silence (vacuum, remember); did I hallucinate sounds now? I heard it again. It was a fine watch, reminiscent of ancient stone churches and the tall cathedrals I've seen in documentaries. And with the clock, I saw a light. There were two things here that made ridiculously small amounts of sense. First, the whole in-a-vacuum why is-it-a-clock thing. Secondly, I soared in the dark remains of my broken ship, and all possible light sources were not within sight; starlight is a distinctly different color and far less light. These signals were the heralds of my saviors. The first words they said to me meant nothing. I didn't listen, I didn't care, I would survive, I would keep breathing. Next to them, nothing else mattered. The recovered air tasted sweet in my mouth, and all the thoughts that struck me were cheap metaphors about life-giving substances and how breathing was like sex, just better. (I reserve the right to revise this opinion later) When I finished proclaiming mentally over my impossible salvation, I looked around. The ship, it was strange and old, either so obsolete or so heavily modified that I could not see what was doing it, and somehow the crew around me suited the same description, a singularly atypical mix of people. And I guess I was another piece in their puzzle. I was another scrap to weld on the rest, another stranded survivor found. I was now one of them. Question: Why did the author think he was going crazy? Answer: "He saw a light" Is this the answer? ALTERNATIVE: - no - yes
nt
nt