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现代大学英语精读1课文

现代大学英语精读1课文
现代大学英语精读1课文

Unit One

Half a Day

I walked alongside my father, clutching his right hand. All my clothes were new: the black shoes, the green school uniform, and the red cap. They did not make me happy, however, as this was the day I was to be thrown into school for the first time.

My mother stood at the window watching our progress, and I turned towards her from time to time, hoping she would help. We walked along a street lined with gardens, and fields planted with crops: pears, and date palms.

"Why school ?" I asked my father. "What have I done ?"

"I'm not punishing you, " he said, laughing. "School's not a punishment. It's a place that makes useful men out of boys. Don' t you want to be useful like your brothers?"

I was not convinced. I did not believe there was really any good to be had in tearing me away from my home and throwing me into the huge, high-walled building.

When we arrived at the gate we could see the courtyard, vast and full of boys and girls. "Go in by yourself, " said my father, "and join them. Put a smile on your face and be a good example to others. "

I hesitated and clung to his hand, but he gently pushed me from him. "Be a man, " he said. "Today you truly begin life. You will find me waiting for you when it's time to leave. "

I took a few steps. Then the faces of the boys and girls came into view. I did not know a single one of them, and none of them knew me. I felt I was a stranger who had lost his way. But then some boys began to glance at me in curiosity, and one of them came over and asked, "Who brought you?"

"My father, " I whispered.

"My father's dead, " he said simply.

I did not know what to say. The gate was now closed. Some of the children burst into tears. The bell rang. A lady came along, followed by a group of men. The men began sorting us into ranks. We were formed into an intricate pattern in the great courtyard surrounded by high buildings; from each floor we were overlooked by a long balcony roofed in wood.

"This is your new home, "said the woman. "There are mothers and fathers here, too. Everything that is enjoyable and beneficial is here. So dry your tears and face life joyfully. "

Well, it seemed that my misgivings had had no basis. From the first moments I made many friends and fell in love with many girls. I had never imagined school would have this rich variety of experiences.

We played all sorts of games. In the music room we sang our first songs. We also had our first introduction to language. We saw a globe of the Earth, which revolved and showed the various continents and countries. We started learning numbers, and we were told the story of the Creator of the universe. We ate delicious food, took a little nap, and woke up to go on with friendship and love, playing and learning.

Our path, however, was not totally sweet and unclouded. We had to be observant and patient. It was not all a matter of playing and fooling around. Rivalries could bring about pain and hatred or give rise to fighting. And while the lady would sometimes smile, she would often yell and scold. Even more frequently she would resort to physical punishment.

In addition, the time for changing one' s mind was over and gone and there was no question of ever returning to the paradise of home. Nothing lay ahead of us but exertion,

struggle, and perseverance. Those who were able took advantage of the opportunities for success and happiness that presented themselves.

The bell rang, announcing the passing of the day and the end of work. The children rushed toward the gate, which was opened again. I said goodbye to friends and sweethearts and passed through the gate. I looked around but found no trace of my father, who had promised to be there. I stepped aside to wait. When I had waited for a long time in vain, I decided to return home on my own. I walked a few steps, then came to a startled halt. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these cars invade it? And when did all these people come to rest on its surface? How did these hills of rubbish find their way to cover its sides? And where were the fields that bordered it? High buildings had taken over, the street was full of children, and disturbing noises shook the air. Here and there stood conjurers showing off their tricks or making snakes appear from baskets. Then there was a band announcing the opening of a circus, with clowns and weight lifters walking in front.

Good God! I was in a daze. My head spun. I almost went crazy. How could all this have happened in half a day, between early morning and sunset? I would find the answer at home with my father. But where was my home? I hurried towards the crossroads, because I remembered that I had to cross the street to reach our house, but the stream of cars would not let up. Extremely irritated, I wondered when I would be able to cross.

I stood there a long time, until the young boy employed at the ironing shop on the corner came up to me.

He stretched out his arm and said, "Grandpa, let me take you across."

Unit Two

Going Home

They were going to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, and they got on the bus at 34th Street, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags. They were dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the grey, cold spring of New York vanished behind them. Vingo was on the bus from the beginning.

As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a plain brown suit that did not fit him. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he chewed the inside of his lip a lot. He sat in complete silence and seemed completely unaware of the existence of the others.

Deep into the night, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's restaurant and everybody got off the bus except Vingo. The young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain; maybe he had run away from his wife; he could be an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls became so curious that she decided to engage him in a conversation. She sat down beside him and introduced herself. "We're going to Florida," the girl said brightly. "You going that far?"

"I don't know," Vingo said.

"I've never been there," she said. " I hear it's beautiful."

"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.

"You live there?"

"I was there in the Navy, at the base in Jacksonville".

"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig from the bottle. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others as Vingo nodded in sleep.

In the morning they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they got back on the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again. After a while, slowly and painfully, he began to tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the last four years, and now he was going home.

"Are you married?"

"I don' t know."

"You don't know?" she said.

"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife. I said, 'Martha, I understand if you can't stay married to me.' I said I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. Get a new guy—she's a wonderful woman, really something—and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write to me or anything, and she didn't. Not for three-and-a-half years."

"And you're going home now, not knowing?"

"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through I wrote her again. I told her that if she had a new guy, I understood. But, if she didn't, if she would take me back she should let me know. We used to live in Brunswick, and there' s a great oak tree just as you come into town. I told her if she would take me back, she should tie a yellow ribbon to the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it, no ribbon and I'd understand and keep going on through."

"Wow," the girl said. "Wow."

She told the others, and soon all of them were caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took the window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment. Then it was 10 miles, and then five, and the bus became very quiet.

Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances, shaking clenched fists in triumph and exaltation. All except Vingo.

Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree through his misty eyes. The tree was covered with yellow ribbons, 30 of them, 50 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome, blowing and billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat, holding himself tightly, and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.

Unit Three

Message of the Land

Yes, these are our rice fields. They belonged to my parents and forefathers. The land is more than three centuries old. I'm the only daughter in our family and it was I who stayed with my parents till they died. My three brothers moved out to their wives' houses when they got married. My husband moved into our house as is the way with us in Esarn. I was then eighteen and he was nineteen. He gave me six children. Two died in infancy from sickness. The rest, two boys and two girls, went away as soon as we could afford to buy jeans for them. Our oldest son got a job as a gardener in a rich man's home in Bangkok but later an employment agency sent him to a foreign land to work. My other son also went far away.

One of our daughters is working in a textile factory in Bangkok, and the other has a job in a store. They come home to see us now and then, stay a few days, and then they are off again. Often they send some money to us and tell us that they are doing well. I know this is not always true. Sometimes, they get bullied and insulted, and it is like a knife piercing my heart. It's easier for my husband. He has ears which don't hear, a mouth which doesn't speak, and eyes that don't see. He has always been patient and silent, minding his own life.

All of them remain my children in spite of their long absence. Maybe it's fate that sent them away from us. Our piece of land is small, and it is no longer fertile, bleeding year after year and, like us, getting old and exhausted. Still my husband and I work on this land. The soil is not difficult to till when there is a lot of rain, but in a bad year, it's not only the ploughs that break but our hearts, too.

No, we two haven't changed much, but the village has. In what way? Only ten years ago, you could barter for things, but now it's all cash. Years ago, you could ask your neighbors to help build your house, reap the rice or dig a well. Now they'll do it only if you have money to pay them. Plastic things replace village crafts. Men used to make things with fine bamboo pieces, but no longer. Plastic bags litter the village. Shops have sprung up, filled with colorful plastic things and goods we have no use for. The young go away to towns and cities leaving us old people to work on the land. They think differently, I know, saying that the old are old-fashioned. All my life, I have never had to go to a hairdresser, or to paint my lips or nails. These rough fingers and toes are for working in the mud of our rice fields, not for looking pretty. Now young girls put on jeans, and look like boys and they think it is fashionable. Why, they are willing to sell their pig or water buffalo just to be able to buy a pair of jeans. In my day, if I were to put on a pair of trousers like they do now, lightning would strike me.

I know, times have changed, but certain things should not change. We should offer food to the monks every day, go to the temple regularly. Young people tend to leave these things to old people now, and that's a shame.

Why, only the other day I heard a boy shout and scream at his mother. If that kind of thing had happened when I was young, the whole village would have condemned such an ungrateful son, and his father would surely have given him a good beating.

As for me, I wouldn't change, couldn't change even if I wanted to. Am I happy or unhappy? This question has never occurred to me. Life simply goes on. Yes, this bag of bones dressed in rags can still plant and reap rice from morning till dusk. Disease, wounds, hardship and scarcity have always been part of my life. I don't complain.

The farmer: My wife is wrong. My eyes do see—they see more than they should. My ears

do hear—they hear more than is good for me. I don't talk about what I know because I know too much. I know for example, greed, anger, and lust are the root of all evils.

I am at peace with the land and the conditions of my life. But I feel a great pity for my wife.

I have been forcing silence upon her all these years, yet she has not once complained of anything.

I wanted to have a lot of children and grandchildren around me but now cities and foreign lands have attracted my children away and it seems that none of them will ever come back to live here again. To whom shall I give these rice fields when I die? For hundreds of years this strip of land has belonged to our family. I know every inch of it. My children grew up on it, catching frogs and mud crabs and gathering flowers. Still the land could not tie them down or call them back. When each of them has a pair of jeans, they are off like birds on the wing.

Fortunately, my wife is still with me, and both of us are still strong. Wounds heal over time. Sickness comes and goes, and we get back on our feet again. I never want to leave this land. It's nice to feel the wet earth as my fingers dig into the soil, planting rice, to hear my wife sighing, "Old man, if I die first, I shall become a cloud to protect you from the sun." It's good to smell the scent of ripening rice in November. The soft cool breeze moves the sheaves, which ripple and shimmer like waves of gold. Yes, I love this land and I hope one of my children comes back one day to live, and gives me grandchildren so that I can pass on the land's secret messages to them.

Unit Four

The Boy and the Bank Officer

I have a friend who hates banks with a special passion. "A bank is just a store like a candy store or a grocery store", he says . "The only difference is that a bank's goods happen to be money, which is yours in the first place. If banks were required to sell wallets and money belts, they might act less like churches."

I began thinking about my friend the other day as I walked into a small, over lighted branch office on the West Side. I had come to open a checking account.

It was lunchtime and the only officer on duty was a fortyish black man with short, pressed hair, a pencil mustache, and a neatly pressed brown suit. Everything about him suggested a carefully dressed authority.

This officer was standing across a small counter from a young white boy who was wearing a V-necked sweater, khakis, and loafers. He had sandy hair, and I think I was especially aware of him because he looked more like a kid from a prep school than a customer in a West Side bank. The boy continued to hold my attention because of what happened next.

He was holding an open savings-account book and wearing an expression of open dismay. "But I don't understand," he was saying to the officer. "I opened the account myself, so why can't I withdraw any money?"

"I've already explained to you," the officer told him, "that a fourteen-year-old is not allowed to withdraw money without a letter from his parents."

"But that doesn't seem fair," the boy said, his voice breaking. "It's my money, I put it in. It's my account."

"I know it is," the officer said, "but those are the rules. Now if you'll excuse me."

He turned to me with a smile. "May I help you, sir?"

I didn't think twice. "I was going to open a new account," I said, "but after seeing what's going on here, I think I've changed my mind."

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Look," I said. "If I understand what's going on here correctly, what you're saying is that this boy is old enough to deposit his money in your bank but he's not old enough to withdraw it. And since there doesn't seem to be any question as to whether it's his money or his account, the bank's so-called policy is clearly ridiculous."

"It may seem ridiculous to you," he replied in a voice rising slightly in irritation, "but that is the bank's policy and I have no other choice but to follow the rules".

The boy had stood hopefully next to me during this exchange, but now I was just as helpless. Suddenly I noticed that the open savings book he continued to grasp showed a balance of about $100. It also showed that there had been a series of small deposits and withdrawals.

I had my opening.

"Have you withdrawn money before by yourself?" I asked the boy.

"Yes," he said.

I moved in for the kill.

"How do you explain that?" I zeroed in on the officer. "Why did you let him withdraw money before, but not now?"

He looked annoyed. "Because the tellers were not aware of his age before and now they are. It's really very simple".

I turned to the boy with a shrug. "You're really getting cheated," I said. "You ought to get your parents to come in here and protest."

The boy looked destroyed. Silently, he put his savings book in a rear-pocket and walked out of the bank.

The officer turned to me. "You know," he said, "you really shouldn't have interfered."

"Shouldn't have interfered?" I shouted. "Well, it damn well seemed to me that he needed someone to represent his interests."

"Someone was representing his interests," he said softly.

"And who might that be?"

"The bank."

I couldn't believe what this idiot was saying. "Look," I concluded, "we're just wasting each other's time. But maybe you'd like to explain exactly how the bank was representing that boy's interests?"

"Certainly," he said. "We were informed this morning that some neighborhood bully has been shaking this boy down for more than a month. The other guy was forcing him to take money out every week and hand it over. The poor kid was apparently too scared to tell anyone. That's the real reason he was so upset. He was afraid of what the other guy would do to him. Anyway, the police are on the case and they'll probably make an arrest today."

"You mean there is no rule about being too young to withdraw money from a savings account?"

"Not that I ever heard of. Now, sir, what can we do for you?"

Lesson Five

Angels on a Pin

Some time ago, I received a call from Jim, a colleague of mine, who teaches physics. He asked me if I would do him a favor and be the referee on the grading of an examination question. I said sure, but I did not quite understand why he should need my help. He told me that he was about to give a student a zero for his answer to a physics question, but the student protested that it wasn't fair. He insisted that he deserved a perfect score if the system were not set up against the student. Finally, they agreed to take the matter to an impartial instructor. And I was selected.

I went to my colleague's office and read the examination question. It said: "Show how it is possible to determine the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer." The student had answered: "Take the barometer to the top of the building, tie a long rope to it, lower the barometer to the street, and then bring it up and measure the length of the rope. The length of the rope will be the height of the building."

I laughed and pointed out to my colleague that we must admit the student really had a pretty strong case for full credit since he had indeed answered the question completely and correctly. On the other hand, I could also see the dilemma because if full credit were given to him it could mean a high grade for the student in his physics course. A high grade is supposed to prove competence in the course, but the answer he gave did not show his knowledge on the subject. "So, what would you do if you were me?" Jim asked. I suggested that the student have another try at answering the question. I was not surprised that my colleague agreed, but I was surprised that the student did, too.

I told the student that I would give him six minutes to answer the question. But I warned him that this time his answer should show some knowledge of physics. He sat down and picked up his pen. He appeared to be thinking hard. At the end of five minutes, however, I noticed that he had not put down a single word. I asked him if he wished to give up, but he said no. He had not written anything down because he had too many possible answers to this problem. He was just trying to decide which would be the best one. I excused myself for interrupting him and asked him to go on. In the next minute, he dashed off his answer, which read: "Take the barometer to the top of the building and lean over the edge of the roof. Drop the barometer and time its fall with a stopwatch. Then, using the formula S = 1 /2 at2, calculate the height of the building."

At this point, I asked my colleague if he would give up. He nodded yes, and I gave the student almost full credit.

When I left my colleague's office, I recalled that the student had said that he had other answers to the problem. I was curious, so I asked him what they were. "Oh, yes," said the student. "There are many ways of getting the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer. For example, you could take the barometer out in a sunny day and measure the height of the barometer, the length of its shadow, and the length of the shadow of the building, and by the use of a simple proportion, determine the height of the building. The beauty of this method is that you don't have to drop the barometer and break it."

"Fine," I said. "Any more?"

"Yes," said the student. "There is a very basic measurement method that people will like, because it is so simple and direct. In this method, you take the barometer and walk up the stairs. As you climb the stairs, you mark off the length of the barometer along the wall. You then count the number of marks, and this will give you the height of the building in barometer units. The only trouble with this method is that it doesn't require much knowledge of physics." "Of course, if you prefer a more sophisticated method, a method that will really show some knowledge of physics, you can tie the barometer to the end of a rope, swing it as a pendulum and determine the value of'g' at the street level and at the top of the building. From the difference between the two values of'g' the height of the building can, in principle, be worked out."

Finally, he concluded that while there are many ways of solving the problem, "Probably the best and the most practical in a real-life situation is to take the barometer to the basement and knock on the superintendent's door. When the superintendent answers, you speak to him as follows: Mr. Superintendent, I have here a fine barometer. If you will tell me the height of this building, I will gladly give you this barometer!"

At this point, I asked the student if he really didn't know the expected answer to this question. He smiled and admitted that he did, but said he was fed up with standard answers to standard questions. He couldn't understand why there should be so much emphasis on fixed rules rather than creative thinking. So he could not resist the temptation to play a little joke with the educational system, which had been thrown into such a panic by the successful launching of the Russian Sputnik.

At that moment I suddenly remembered the question: How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? We teachers are always blaming the students for giving wrong answers. Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we are always asking the right questions.

Unit Six

The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street (Act I)

It is Maple Street, a quiet, tree-lined, residential street in a typical American town. The houses have front porches where people sit and talk to each other across their lawns. STEVE BRAND polishes his car parked in front of his house. His neighbor, DON MARTIN, leans against the fender, watching him. A Good Humor man rides a bicycle and is just stopping to sell some ice cream to a couple of kids. Two women gossip on the front lawn. Another man waters his lawn.

At this moment one of the boys, TOMMY, looks up and listens to the sound of a tremendous roar from overhead. A flash of light plays on his face, then moves down the street past lawns and porches and rooftops, and then disappears. STEVE BRAND, the man who has been polishing his car, stands there speechless, staring upwards. He looks at DON MARTIN, his neighbor from across the street.

Steve: What was that? A meteor?

Don: That's what it looked like. I didn't hear any crash, though, did you?

Steve: Nope, I didn't hear anything except a roar.

Mrs. Brand (from her porch): Steve? What was that?

Steve: Guess it was a meteor, honey. Came awful close, didn't it?

Mrs. Brand: Much too close!

(People stand on their porches, watching and talking in low tones. We see a MAN screwing in a light bulb on a front porch, then getting down off the stool to turn on the switch and finding that nothing happens. A MAN working on an electric power mower plugs in the plug. He turns on the switch, on and off, but nothing happens. Through the window of a front porch a WOMAN is seen dialing her phone.)

Woman: Operator, operator, something's wrong with the phone, operator!

(MRS. BRAND comes out on the porch.)

Mrs. Brand (calling): Steve, the power's off. I had the soup on the stove, and the stove just stopped working.

Woman: Same thing over here. I can't get anybody on the phone, either. The phone seems to be dead.

First Voice: Electricity's off.

Second Voice: Phone won't work.

Third Voice: Can't get a thing on the radio.

Fourth Voice: My power mower won't move, won't work at all.

(PETE VAN HORN, a tall, thin man, is seen standing in front of his house.)

Van Horn: I'11 cut through the back yard . . . see if the power' s still on on Cherry Street. I'll be right back!

Steve: Doesn't make sense. Why should the power and the phone line go off all of a sudden?

Don: Maybe it's an electrical storm or something.

Charlie: That doesn't seem likely. Sky's just as blue as anything. Not a cloud. No lightning. No thunder. No nothing. How could it be a storm?

Woman: I can't get a thing on the radio. Not even the portable.

Charlie: Well, why don't you go downtown and check with the police, though they'll probably think we're crazy or something. A little power failure and right away we get all excited.

Steve: It isn't just the power failure, Charlie. If it was, we'd still be able to get a broadcast on the portable.

(There's a murmur of reaction to this. STEVE walks over to his car.)

Steve: I'll run downtown. We'll get this all straightened out. (STEVE gets into his car, turns the key. The engine is dead. He then gets out of the car.)

Steve: I don't understand it. It was working fine before—

Don: Out of gas?

Steve (shakes his head): I just had it filled up.

Woman: What does it mean?

Charlie: It's just as if. . . as if everything had stopped. ( Then he turns toward STEVE.) We'd better walk downtown.

Steve: OK, Charlie. ( He turns to look back at the car.) It couldn't be the meteor. A meteor couldn't do this.

(He and CHARLIE exchange a look. Then they start to walk away from the group. TOMMY, a serious-faced young boy tries to stop them.)

Tommy: Mr. Brand...you'd better not!

Steve: Why not?

Tommy: They don't want you to.

(STEVE and CHARLIE exchange a grin. STEVE looks back toward the boy.)

Steve: Who doesn't want us to?

Tommy (jerks his head in the general direction of the distant horizon): Them!

Steve: Them?

Charlie: Who are them?

Tommy (very intently): Whoever was in that thing that came by overhead. I don't think they want us to leave here.

(STEVE walks over to the boy. He kneels down in front of him. He forces his voice to remain gentle. He reaches out and holds the boy.)

Steve: What do you mean? What are you talking about?

Tommy: They don't want us to leave. That's why they shut everything off.

Steve: What makes you say that? Whatever gave you that idea?

Woman (from the crowd): Now isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard?

Tommy (persistently): It's always that way, in every story I ever read about a ship landing from outer space.

Woman (to the boy's mother, SALLY,): From outer space yet! Sally, you'd better get that boy of yours up to bed. He's been reading too many comic books or seeing too many movies or something!

Salty: Tommy, come over here and stop that kind of talk.

Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. We 'll be right back. And you 'll see. That wasn't any ship or anything like it. That was just a... a meteor or something. (He turns to the group, now trying to sound optimistic although he obviously doesn't feel that way himself.) Meteors can do some crazy things. Like sun spots.

Don: Sure. They raise Cain with radio reception all over the world. And this thing, being so close-why, there's no telling the sort of stuff it can do. (He wets his lips, smiles nervously.) Go ahead, Charlie. You and Steve go into town and see if that isn't what's causing it all.

(STEVE and CHARLIE again continue to walk away down the sidewalk. The people watch silently. TOMMY stares at them, biting his lips and finally calling out again.)

Tommy: Mr. Brand!

(The two men stop again.)

Tommy: Mr. Brand. . .please don't leave here.

(STEVE and CHARLIE stop once again and turn toward the boy. There's a murmur in the crowd, a murmur of irritation and concern.)

Tommy: You might not even be able to get to town. It was that way in the story. Nobody could leave, except—

Steve: Except who?

Tommy: Except the people they'd sent down ahead of them. They looked just like humans. And it wasn't until the ship landed that—(The boy suddenly stops again, conscious of his parents staring at him and of the sudden quietness of the crowd.)

Sally: Tommy, please, son, don't talk that way—

Man: The kid shouldn't talk that way... and we shouldn't stand here listening to him. Why, this is the craziest thing I ever heard of.

(STEVE walks toward the boy.)

Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. What about the people that they sent out ahead?

Tommy: That was the way they prepared things for the landing. They sent people who looked just like humans... but they weren't.

(There's laughter at this, but it's a laughter that comes from a desperate attempt to lighten

the atmosphere.)

Charlie (rubs his jaw nervously): I wonder if Cherry Street's got the same deal we got. (He looks past the houses.) Where is Pete Van Horn, anyway? Didn't he get back yet?

(Suddenly there's the sound of a car's engine starting to turn over. LES GOODMAN is at the wheel of his car.)

Sally: Can you get it started, Les?

(GOODMAN gets out of the car, shaking his head.)

Goodman: No.

(As he walks toward the group, he stops suddenly. Behind him, the car engine starts up all

by itself. GOODMAN whirls around and stares at it. His eyes go wide, and he runs over to his car. The people stare toward the car.)

Man: He got the car started somehow. He got his car started!

Woman: How come his car just started like that?

Sally: All by itself. He wasn't anywhere near it. It started all by itself.

(DON approaches the group: He stops a few feet away to look toward GOODMAN's car and then back toward the group.)

Don: And he never did come out to look at that thing that flew overhead. He wasn't even interested. (He turns to the faces in the group.) Why? Why didn't he come out with the rest of

us to look?

Charlie: He was always an oddball. Him and his whole family.

Don: What do you say we ask him?

(The group suddenly starts toward the house.)

Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!

(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start

to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)

Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of

the people.)

Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power,

no radio. Nothing except one car—yours!

(The people pick this up, and their murmuring becomes a loud chant filling the air with demands for action.)

Goodman: Wait a minute now. You keep your distance—all of you. So I've got a car that starts by itself—well, that's weird—I admit it. But does that make me a criminal or something?

I don't know why the car works—it just does!

(This stops the crowd, and GOODMAN, still backing away, goes up the steps and then stops to face the mob.)

Goodman: What's it all about, Steve?

Steve (quietly): Seems that the general impression holds that maybe the people in one

family aren't what we think they are. Monsters from outer space or something. Different from us. You know anybody that might fit that description around here on Maple Street?

Goodman: What is this, a practical joke or something?

(Suddenly the engine of the car starts all by itself again, runs for a moment, and stops. The people once again react.)

Goodman: Now that's supposed to make me a criminal, huh? The car engine goes on and off? (He looks around at the faces of the people.) I just don't understand it... any more than any of you do! (He wets his lips, looking from face to face.) Look, you all know me. We've lived here five years. Right in this house. We're no different from any of you!

Woman: Well, if that's the case, Les Goodman, explain why—(She stops suddenly.)

Goodman (softly): Explain what?

Steve: (cutting in): Look, let's forget this—

Charlie: Go ahead; let her talk. What about it? Explain what?

Woman (a little reluctantly): Well... sometimes I go to bed late at night. A couple of times... I'd come out here on the porch and I'd see Mr. Goodman here standing out in front of his house... looking up at the sky. (She looks around at the circle of faces.) That's right, looking up at the sky as if... as if he were waiting for something.

Goodman: She's crazy. Look, I can explain that. Please... I can really explain that. She's making it up anyway.

(He takes a step toward the crowd, and they back away. He walks down the steps after them, and they continue to back away. He's suddenly and completely left alone. He looks like a man caught in the middle of a menacing circle.)

Unit seven

Mandela's Garden

In early 1977, the authorities announced the end of manual labor and arranged some type of work for us to do in the courtyard, so we could spend our days in our section. The end of manual labor was liberating. I could now spend the day reading, writing letters, discussing issues with my comrades, or preparing legal documents. The free time also allowed me to pursue what became two of my favorite hobbies on Robben Island: gardening and tennis.

To survive in prison, one must develop ways to take satisfaction in one's daily life. One can feel fulfilled by washing one's clothes so that they are particularly clean, by sweeping a hallway so that it is empty of dust, by organizing one's cell to save as much space as possible. Just as one takes pride in important tasks outside of prison, one can find the same pride in doing small things inside prison.

"Almost from the beginning of my sentence on Robben Island, I asked the authorities for permission to start a garden in the courtyard. For years, they refused without offering a reason. But eventually they gave in, and we were able to cut out a small garden on a narrow patch of earth against the far wall.

The soil in the courtyard was dry and rocky. The courtyard had been constructed over a garbage dump, and in order to start my garden, I had to remove a great many rocks to allow the plants room to grow. At the time, some of my comrades joked that I was a miner at heart, for I spent my days in a wasteland and my free time digging in the courtyard.

The authorities supplied me with seeds. I at first planted tomatoes, chilies, and onions—hardy plants that did not require rich earth or constant care. The early harvests were poor, but they soon improved. The authorities did not regret giving permission, for once the garden began to flourish, I often provided the warders with some of my best tomatoes and onions.

While I have always enjoyed gardening, it was not until I was behind bars that I was able to tend my own garden. My first experience in the garden was at Fort Hare where, as part of the university's manual labor requirement, I worked in one of my professors' gardens and enjoyed the contact with the soil as an alternative to my intellectual labors. Once I was in Johannesburg studying and then working, I had neither the time nor the space to start a garden.

I began to order books on gardening. I studied different gardening techniques and types of fertilizers. I did not have many of the materials that the books discussed, but I learned through trial and error. For a time, I attempted to grow peanuts, and used different soils and fertilizers, but finally I gave up. It was one of my few failures.

A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the owner of the small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom.

In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of my life. Leaders must also look after their gardens; they, too, plant seeds, and then watch, cultivate, and harvest the results. Like gardeners, leaders must take responsibility for what they cultivate; they must mind their work, try to drive back enemies, save what can be saved, and eliminate what cannot succeed.

I wrote Winnie two letters about a particularly beautiful tomato plant, how I made it grow from a tender seedling to a strong plant that produced deep red fruit. But then, either through some mistake or lack of care, the plant began to wither and decline, and nothing I did would bring it back to health. When it finally died, I removed the roots from the soil, washed them, and buried them in a corner of the garden.

I told her this small story at great length. I do not know what she read into that letter, but when I wrote it I had a mixture of feelings: I did not want our relationship to go the way of that plant, and yet I felt that I had been unable to nourish many of the most important relationships in my life. Sometimes there is nothing one can do to save something that must die.

Unit Eight

My personal Manager

I'm getting a great idea," Carlos said to me. We were standing on the steps outside Galeton High. It was one of those golden days in late October. "Why not let me be your manager? I can promise you'll soon be cool, pretty, and popular."

"You sound like a soap commercial, " I said.

"It's funny you should say that. It is pretty close to my aim in life. I'm going be a promotion man. I may be short, but I can promote big things."

"Like me."

Which is how little Carlos Herrera took me and turned me into, well—

The first time I saw Carlos I would never have believed he was going to change my life. I had my arms full of books and I was tearing into the classroom when I ran into something solid. It was Carlos.

He looked up at me.

"My, you're tall," he said.

Of course, the class began to laugh. Angry, I walked to my seat without a word.

I glanced back to see if Reed Harrington was laughing with the rest. That would be the last straw. But Reed was studying chemistry and did not seem to be aware of anything else. I didn't know why I considered Reed my friend. Maybe just because he was a good two inches taller than I. Anyway, every time I blew out my birthday candles and made a wish, it was for a date with Reed Harrington.

I came back to earth to see the cocky newcomer standing in front of Mr. McCarthy's desk. He was telling him that his name was Carlos Herrera and that he'd moved to Galeton from New York.

"Take that seat, " Mr. McCarthy told Carlos, pointing to the only empty one, in the back of the room.

Carlos grinned. "But I need a couple of dictionaries."

Again the class laughed, but now they were laughing with Carlos, not at him. He had been here only 10 minutes and already he had them on his side.

The bell rang for classes. As I stood up to go I saw Carlos coming toward me.

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," he said.

I looked straight ahead over the top of his black hair. "That's all right."

"I ought to know better." He was still blocking my way. "What's your name?"

"Karen Forbes."

"You probably heard me say, I'm Carlos Herrera." He held out his hand. Unwillingly, I shook hands with him. He looked up at me seriously with his brown eyes. "I don't see why you're so touchy."

I brushed by him and said sharply, "You wouldn't understand."

He followed me a few steps. "I'm just the one who should, Karen," he said. "You and I have a lot in common."

It was the school elections that made me think of Carlos again. They were held the last of October. Reed Harrington was voted president and Carlos vice-president. "How come?" I kept asking myself. "How come this shrimp who's only been in town for a little over a month gets to be so popular?"

So on that perfect October morning, I stopped Carlos and said, point blank, "It doesn't seem to bother you—being short, I mean."

He looked up at me. "Of course I mind being short. I get a stiff neck every day from looking up at people like you."

"I might have known I couldn't get a sensible answer from you." I started up the steps.

"Hey, don't go away. Please."

I stopped.

Carlos was through kidding. "Sure, it bothers me, being knee-high to a flea. But there isn't anything I can do about it. When I realized I was going to have to spend my life in this undersized skin, I just decided to make the best of it and concentrate on being myself."

"You seem to get along great," I admitted. "But what about me? No boy wants to date a girl taller than he is."

"The trouble with you is you're afraid to be yourself. You're smart. And you could be pretty. In fact, you might be more than pretty."

I felt myself turning red.

"I am getting a great idea," said carlos, and right then he suggested being my manager.

I wasn't sure. "W-e-ll—"

"Look," He almost fell off the steps in his eagerness, "Prize fighters have managers. And movie stars. Besides, what have you got to lose?"

I shrugged. "OK."

Soon after that, he had my new life planned. I was to let my hair grow, wear a fitted sweater and neat skirt, and lift my head and say "Hi" to everyone. I was to volunteer to work on the school paper and go out for dramatics.

"Dramatics! " I protested. "I can' t act. And anyway, they don't have parts for giants."

"You won't be alone," he told me. "I, too, am joining the Dramatics Club."

Four months went by—four months of being almost a puppet, with Carlos pulling the strings.

Then one day, he told me about his latest brain wave. It seemed my acting career was about to burst into flower with the lead part in a play Carlos had dug up. It was about a six-foot model who! falls in love with a jockey.

"You, I suppose, are the jockey," I said.

He grinned.

"No way, " I said. "That story has been done so many times it has lost its humor. The coach would never let us put on a play like that."

"That's where you're wrong, Karen," said Carlos. "It's all arranged and that plot is still funny."

"But I don't want to be funny," I groaned.

Carlos gave me a pleading look. "Karen, I've never asked you for a thing for myself, have I ?"

He hadn't.

"And now, I want you to do this for me. I want to play that jockey. And we can't do this play without you in it."

What could I do? He had given hours—months—to me. I knew it was the most foolish move of my life, but I said yes.

I could not put my heart into that play. It was pure nonsense from beginning to end. The tall model and the jockey were in every foolish situation ever invented.

The night of the play I felt lowest of all. I didn't see how I could go out on that stage and make a laughing stock of myself right in front of my parents and Reed Harrington.

"I can't do it," I groaned to Carlos.

He reached up and patted me on the back. "Stage fright. All the best actors have it. You'11 be fine."

I could see he could hardly wait for the curtains to open. His brown eyes, shining with eagerness. I had to go through with it for him.

"I'm with you, " I said, "to the end."

Carlos took my hand in both of his. "We'll celebrate after the play. OK, Karen?"

I managed to smile down at him. "It's a date."

The band stopped playing, and the curtains opened.

Carlos as the jockey and I, the model, were seated at a table. From our talk the audience could tell we were falling in love. There was no comedy yet. Then as we stood up the awful difference in our sizes became clear. There was a chuckle all over the auditorium. Carlos wanted to kiss me good-bye, but he couldn't reach my face. I bent over and he stood on tiptoe to give me a peck on the chin. A shout of laughter burst from hundreds of throats. I walked off the stage with an exaggerated model's walk. More laughs.

From then on I let loose and acted for all I was worth. Carlos was better than ever, and so was the rest of the cast. Again and again we had to hold up our lines while the people laughed.

As the curtains closed, Carlos threw his arms around my waist. "You were terrific!" he said. "Bend over and I'll give you a kiss."

The house lights went up and people began pouring backstage to congratulate US.

Mother and Dad were flushed and happy looking. "I'm proud of you, dear," Mother said. Mobs of my friends crowded around, but I was looking for one person who would tower above the others. At last he came.

"You're a real comedian," he said, taking my hand and looking me straight in the eyes. Then he cleared his throat. "I was wondering—that is, if you don't have something else planned, would you go out with me for something to eat?"

Here it was at last—my chance. But somehow, now that I had the chance, I knew there was something more important than going out with Reed.

"Thank you," I said, smiling at him. "Some other time I'd love to, but tonight I have a date with Carlos."

Unit Nine

Against All Odds

When Stephen Hawking returned to St. Albans for the Christmas vacation at the end of 1962, the whole of southern England was covered in a thick blanket of snow. In his own mind, he must have known that something was wrong. The strange clumsiness he had been experiencing had occurred more frequently. At the party he threw on New Year's Eve, he had difficulties pouring a glass of wine, and most of the liquid ended up on the tablecloth.

After a series of examinations, he was told that he had a rare and incurable disease called ALS. The disease affects the patient's nerves in the spinal cord and the parts of the brain which control motor functions. The body gradually wastes away, but the mind remains unaffected. Hawking just happened to be studying theoretical physics, one of the very few jobs for which the mind is the only real tool needed. This, however, gave little comfort to the twenty-one-year-old who, like everyone else, had seen a normal life ahead of him rather than a death sentence. The doctors had given him two years.

Hawking was deeply shocked by the news and experienced a time of deep depression. He shut himself away and listened to a great deal of loud music. He kept thinking, 'How could something like this happen to me? Why should I be cut off like this?' There seemed very little

point in continuing with his research because he might not live long enough to finish his PhD. For a while he quite naturally believed that there was nothing to live for. If he was going to die within a few years, then why bother to do anything now? He would live out his time span and then die. That was his fate.

It was not long, however, before he dragged himself out of his depression and back to work. In the hospital, he had seen a boy die of leukaemia in the bed opposite him, and it had not been a pretty sight. He realised that clearly there were people who were worse off than him. At least, his condition didn't make him feel ill. Whenever he felt like pitying himself, he remembered that boy.

He had had some recurring dreams. He dreamt that he was going to be put to death, which made him realise that there were a lot of worthwhile things he could do if he were to be set free. In another frequently occuring dream, he thought he could give up his life to save others: 'After all, if I were going to die anyway, it might as well do some good.'

There is little doubt that the appearance on the scene of a young woman was a major turning point in Hawking's life. This was Jane Wilde, whom he had first met at the party. After he came out of the hospital, the two of them began to see a lot more of one another, and a strong relationship developed. It was finding Jane that enabled him to break out of his depression.

As predicted, during his first two years at Cambridge, the effects of the disease rapidly worsened. He was beginning to experience great difficulty in walking and was forced to use a stick in order to cover just a few feet. With the support of walls and objects, as well as sticks, he would manage, painfully slowly, to move across rooms and open areas. There were many times when these supports were not adequate, and he would turn up in the office with a bandage around his head, having fallen heavily and received a nasty bump. Meanwhile, his speech rapidly became first slurred, and then very hard to follow, and even those close to him were having difficulty understanding what he was saying.

Nothing slowed him down, however; in fact, he was just hitting his stride. Work was progressing faster and better than it ever had before. Crazy as it may seem, ALS is simply not that important to him. Of course he has had to suffer the humiliations and obstructions facing all those in society who are not able-bodied, and naturally he has had to adapt to his condition and to live under exceptional circumstances. But the disease has not touched his mind, and so it has not affected his work. More than anyone else, Hawking himself would wish to downplay his disability and to give his full attention to science, for that is what is really important to him. Having come to terms with ALS and found someone in Jane with whom he could share his life on a purely personal level, he began to blossom. The couple became engaged, and the frequency of weekend visits increased. It was obvious to everyone that the two of them were truly happy and highly important to each other. Jane recalls, 'I wanted to find some purpose to my existence, and I suppose I found it in the idea of looking after him. But we were in love. 'For Hawking, his engagement to Jane was probably the most important thing that had ever happened to him: it changed his life and gave him something to live for. Without the help of Jane he almost certainly would not have been able to carry on or had the will to do so.

From this point on, his work went from strength to strength, and Sciama, his supervisor, began to believe that Hawking might, after all, manage to pull together the different threads of his PhD research. It was still touch and go, but a wonderful chance was just around the corner.

Unit Ten

The Green Banana

Although it might have happened anywhere, my encounter with the green banana started on a steep mountain road in the central area of Brazil. My ancient jeep was straining up through beautiful countryside when the radiator began to leak, and I was ten miles from the nearest mechanic. The over-heated engine forced me to stop at the next village, which consisted of a small store and a few houses that were scattered here and there. People came over to look. They could see three fine streams of hot water spouting from holes in the jacket of the radiator. "That's easy to fix," a man said. He sent a boy running for some green bananas. He patted me on the shoulder, assuring me that everything would work out. "Green bananas," he smiled. Everyone agreed.

We chattered casually while all the time I was wondering what they could possibly do to my radiator with their green bananas. I did not ask them, though, as that would show my ignorance, so I talked about the beauty of the land that lay before our eyes. Huge rock formations, like Sugar Loaf in Rio, rose up all around us. "Do you see that tall one right over there?" asked the man, pointing to a particularly tall, slender pinnacle of dark rock. "That rock marks the center of the world."

I looked to see if he was teasing me, but his face was serious. He, in turn, inspected me carefully, as if to make sure I grasped the significance of his statement. The occasion called for some show of recognition on my part. "The center of the world?" I repeated, trying to show interest if not complete acceptance. He nodded. "The absolute center. Everyone around here knows it."

At that moment the boy returned with an armful of green bananas. The man cut one in half and pressed the cut end against the radiator jacket. The banana melted into a glue against the hot metal, stopping the leaks instantly. I was so astonished at this that I must have looked rather foolish and everyone laughed. They then refilled me radiator and gave me extra bananas to take along in case my radiator should give me trouble again. An hour later, after using the green banana once more, my radiator and I reached our destination. The local mechanic smiled. "Who taught you about the green banana?" I gave him the name of the village. "Did they show you the rock marking the center of the world?" he asked. I assured him they had. "My grandfather came from there," he said. "The exact center. Everyone around here has always known about it."

As a product of American education, I had never paid the slightest attention to the green banana, except to regard it as a fruit whose time had not yet come. Suddenly, on that mountain road, its time had come to meet my need. But as I reflected on it further, I realized that the green banana had been there all along. Its time reached back to the very origins of the banana. The people in that village had known about it for years. It was my own time that had come, all in relation to it. I came to appreciate the special genius of those people, and the special potential of the green banana. I had been wondering for some time about what educators like to call "learning moments," and I now knew I had just experienced two of them at once.

It took me a little longer to fully grasp the importance of the rock which the villagers

believed marked the center of the world. I had at first doubted their claim, as I knew for a fact that the center was located somewhere else in New England. After all, my grandfather had come from there. But gradually I realized the village people had a very reasonable belief and I agreed with them. We all tend to regard as the center that special place where we are known, where we know others, where things mean much to us, and where we ourselves have both identity and meaning: family, school, town and local region could all be our center of the world.

The lesson which gradually dawned on me was actually very simple. Every place has special meanings for the people in it, and in a certain sense every place represents the center of the world. The world has numerous such centers, and no one student or traveler can experience all of them. But once a conscious breakthrough to a second center is made, a life-long perspective and collection can begin.

The cultures of the world are full of unexpected green bananas with special value and meaning. They have been there for ages, ripening slowly, perhaps waiting patiently for people to come along to encounter them. In fact, a green banana is waiting for all of us if we would leave our own centers of the world in order to experience other places.

Unit Eleven

The Midnight Visitor

Ausable did not fit the description of any secret agent Fowler had ever read about. Following him down the corridor of the gloomy French hotel where Ausable had a room, Fowler felt disappointed. It was a small room on the sixth floor and hardly a setting for a romantic figure.

Ausable was, for one thing, fat. Very fat. And then there was his accent. Though he spoke French and German passably, he had never altogether lost New England accent he had brought to Paris from Boston twenty years ago.

"You are disappointed," Ausable said wheezily over his shoulder. "You were told that I was a secret agent, a spy, dealing in espionage and danger. You wished to meet me because you are a writer, young and romantic. You thought you would have mysterious figures in the night, the crack of pistols, drugs in the wine."

"Instead, you have spent a dull evening in a French music hall with a sloppy fat man who, instead of having messages slipped into his hand by dark-eyed beauties, gets only an ordinary telephone call making an appointment in his room. You have been bored!" The fat man chuckled to himself as he unlocked the door of his room and stood aside to let his frustrated guest enter.

"You are disillusioned," Ausable told him. "But take cheer, my young friend. Before long you will see a paper, a quite important paper for which several men and women have risked their lives, come to me in the next-to-last step of its journey into official hands. Some day soon that paper may well affect the course of history. There is drama in that thought, don't you think?" As he spoke, Ausable closed the door behind him. Then he switched on the light.

And as the light came on, Fowler had his first real thrill of the day. For halfway across the room, a small automatic pistol in his hand, stood a man.

Ausable blinked a few times.

"Max," he wheezed, "you gave me quite a start. I thought you were in Berlin. What are you doing in my room?"

Max was slender, not tall, and with a face that suggested the look of a fox. Except for the gun, he did not look very dangerous.

"The report," he murmured. "The report that is being brought to you tonight concerning some new missiles. I thought I would take it from you. It will be safer in my hands than in yours."

Ausable moved to an armchair and sat down heavily. "I'm going to raise the devil with the management this time; I am angry," he said grimly. "This is the second time in a month that somebody has gotten into my room off that confounded balcony!" Fowler's eyes went to the single window of the room. It was an ordinary window, against which now the night was pressing blackly.

"Balcony?" Max asked curiously. "No, I had a passkey. I did not know about the balcony. It might have saved me some trouble had I known about it."

"It's not my balcony," explained Ausable angrily. "It belongs to the next apartment." He glanced explanatorily at Fowler. "You see," he said, "this room used to be part of a large unit, and the next room through that door there used to be the living room. It had the balcony, which extends under my window now. You can get onto it from the empty room next door, and somebody did, last month. The management promised to block it off. But they haven't."

Max glanced at Fowler, who was standing stiffly a few feet from Ausable, and waved the gun with a commanding gesture. "Please sit down," he said. "We have a wait of half an hour, I think."

"Thirty-one minutes," Ausable said moodily. "The appointment was for twelvethirty. I wish I knew how you learned about the report, Max."

The little spy smiled evilly. "And we wish we knew how your people got the report. But, no harm has been done. I will get it back tonight. What is that? Who is at the door?"

Fowler jumped at the sudden knocking at the door. Ausable just smiled, "That will be the police," he said. "I thought that such an important paper should have a little extra protection. I told them to check on me to make sure everything was all right."

Max bit his lip nervously. The knocking was repeated.

"What will you do now, Max?" Ausable asked. "If I do not answer the door, they will enter anyway. The door is unlocked. And they will not hesitate to shoot."

Max's face was black with anger as he backed swiftly toward the window; with his hand behind him, he opened the window and put his leg out into the night. "Send them away!" he warned. "I will wait on the balcony. Send them away or I'll shoot and take my chances!"

The knocking at the door became louder and a voice was raised. "Mr. Ausable! Mr. Ausable!"

Keeping his body twisted so that his gun still covered the fat man and his guest, the man at the window swung his other leg up and over the window sill.

The doorknob turned. Swiftly Max pushed with his left hand to free himself and drop to the balcony. And then as he dropped, he screamed once, shrilly.

The door opened and a waiter stood there with a tray, a bottle and two glasses. "Here is the drink you ordered, sir." He set the tray on the table, uncorked the bottle, and left the room. White faced and shaking, Fowler stared after him. "But... but... what about... the police?"

大学英语精读第一册课文翻译

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