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新标准大学英语综合教程3课文原文

新标准大学英语综合教程3课文原文
新标准大学英语综合教程3课文原文

We all listen to music according to our separate , for the sake of analysis, the whole listening process may become clearer if we break it up into its component parts, so to certain sense we all listen to music on three separate lack of a better terminology, one might name these: 1) the sensuous plane, 2) the expressive plane, 3) the sheerly musical only advantage to be gained from mechanically splitting up the listening process into these hypothetical planes is the clearer view to be had of the way in which we listen.

The simplest way of listening to music is to listen for the sheer pleasure of the musical sound is the sensuous is the plane on which we hear music without thinking, without considering it in any turns on the radio while doing something else andabsent-mindedly bathes in the kind of brainless but attractive state of mind is engendered by the mere sound appeal of the music.

The surprising thing is that many people who consider themselves qualified music lovers abuse that plane in go to concerts in order to lose use music as a consolation or an enter an ideal world where one doesn’t have to think of the realities of everyday course they aren’t thinking about the music allows them to leave it, and they go off to a place to dream, dreaming because of and apropos of the music yet never quite listening to it.

Yes, the sound appeal of music is a potent and primitive force, but you must not allow it to usurp a disproportionate share of your sensuous plane is an important one in music, a very important one, but it does not constitute the whole story.

The second plane on which music exists is what I have called the expressive , immediately, we tread on controversial have a way of shying away from any discussion of music’s expressive not Stravinsky himself proclaim that his music was an “object”, a “thing”, with a life of its own, and with no other meaning than its own purely musical existenceThis intransigent attitude of Stravinsky’s may be due to the fact that so many people have tried to read different meanings into so many knows it is difficult enough to say precisely what it is that a piece of music means, to say it definitely to say it finally so that everyone is satisfied with your that should not lead one to the other extreme of denying to music the right to be “expressive”.

Listen, if you can,to the 48 fugue themes of Bach’s Well-tempered to each theme, one after will soon realize that each theme mirrors a different world of will also soon realize that the more beautiful a theme seems to you the harder it is to find any word that will describe it to your complete , you will certainly know whether it is a gay theme or a sad will be able, on other words, in your own mind, to draw a frame of emotional feeling around your study the sad one a little closer.

Try to pin down the exact quality of its it pessimistically sad or resignedly sad; is it fatefully sad or smilingly sadLet us suppose that you are fortunate and can describe to your own satisfaction in so many words the exact meaning of your chosen is still no guarantee that anyone else will be need they important thing is that each one feels for himself the specific expressive quality of a theme or, similarly, an entire piece of if it is a great work of art, don’t expect it to mean exactly the same thing to you each time you return to it.

The third plane on which music exists is the sheerly musical the pleasurable sound of music and the expressive feeling that it gives off, music does exist in terms of the notes themselves and of their listeners are not sufficiently conscious of this third plane.

It is very important for all of us to become more alive to music on its sheerly musical all, an actual musical material is being intelligent listener must be prepared to increase his awareness of the musical material and what happens to must hear the melodies, the rhythms, the harmonies, the tone colors in a more conscious above all he must, in order to follow the line of the composer’s thought, know something of the principles of musical to all of these elements is listening to the sheerly musical plane.

Let me repeat that I have split up mechanically the three separate planes on which we listen merely for the sake of greater clarity. Actually, we never listen on one or the other of these we do is to correlate them—listening in all three ways at the same takes no mental effort, for we do it instinctively

Perhaps an analogy with what happens to us when we visit the theater will make this instinctive correlation the theater, you are aware of the actors and actresses, costumes and sets, sounds and these give one the sense that the theater is a pleasant place to be constitute the sensuous plane in our theatrical reactions.

The expressive plane in the theater would be derived from the feeling that you get from what is happening on the are moved to pity, excitement, or is this general feeling, generated aside from the particular words being spoken, a certain emotional something which exists on the stage,that isanalogous to the expressive quality in music.

The plot and plot development is equivalent to our sheerly musical playwright creates and develops a character in just the same way that a composer creates and develops a to the degree of your awareness of the way in which the artist in either field handles his material will you become a more intelligent is easy enough to see that the theatergoer never is conscious of any of these elements is aware of them all at the same same is true of music simultaneously and without thinking listen on all three planes.

It is not surprising that modern children tend to look blank and dispirited when info rmed that they will someday have to “go to work and

make a living”. The problem is that they cannot visualize what work is in corporate Americ a.

Not so long ago, when a parent said he was off to work, the child knew very well what was about to happen. His parent was going to make something or fix something. T

he parent could take his offspring to his place of business and let him watch while he repai red a buggy or built a table.

When a child asked, “What kind of work do you do, Daddy” his father could answer in terms that a child could come to grips with, such as “I fix steam engines” or “I make hor se collars.

Well, a few fathers still fix steam engines and build tables, but most do not. Nowad ays, most fathers sit in glass buildings doing things that are absolutely incomprehensible t o children. The answers they give when asked, “What kind of work do you do, Daddy” are likely to be utterly

mystifying to a child.

”I sell space””I do market research.”,”I am a data processor.””I am in public relation s.””I am a systems analyst” Such

explanations must seem nonsense to a child. How can he possibly envision anyone analyzi ng a system or researching a market

Even grown men who do market research have trouble visualizing what a public rel ations man does with his day, and it is a safe bet that the average systems analyst is as baf fled about what a space salesman does at the shop as the average space salesman is about the tools needed to analyze a system.

In the common everyday job, nothing is made any more. Things are now made by machines. Very little is repaired. The machines that make

things make them in such a fashion that they will quickly fall apart in such a way that repai rs will be prohibitively expensive. Thus the buyer is

encouraged to throw the thing away and buy a new one. In effect, the machines are makin g handful of people remotely associated with

these machines can, of course, tell their inquisitive children “Daddy makes junk”. Most of t he workforce, however, is too remote from junk

production to sense any contribution to the industry. What do these people do Consider the typical 12-story glass building in the typical American city. Nothing is b eing made in this building and nothing is being repaired, including the building itself. Cons tructed as a piece of junk, the building will be discarded when it wears out, and another pi ece of junk will be set in its place.

Still, the building is filled with people who think of themselves as working. At any given moment during the day perhaps one-third of them will be talking into telephones. Most of these conversations will be about paper, for paper is what occupies nearly every one in this building. Some

jobs in the building require men to fill paper with words. There are persons who type ne atly on paper and persons who read paper and jot notes in the margins. Some persons m ake copies of paper and other persons deliver paper. There are persons who file paper a nd persons who unfile paper.

Some persons mail paper. Some persons telephone other persons and ask that pa per be sent to them. Others telephone to ascertain the

whereabouts of paper. Some persons confer about paper. In the grandest offices, men a pprove of some paper and disapprove of other paper.

The elevators are filled throughout the day with young men carrying paper from fl oor to floor and with vital men carrying paper to be

discussed with other vital men.

What is a child to make of all this His father may be so eminent that he lunches wi th other men about paper. Suppose he brings his son to

work to give the boy some idea of what work is all about. What does the boy see happ ening

His father calls for paper. He reads paper. Perhaps he scowls at paper. Perhaps he makes an angry red mark on paper. He telephones another man and says they had bette r lunch over paper.

At lunch they talk about paper. Back at the office, the father orders the paper rety ped and reproduced in quintuplicate, and then sent to

another man for comparison with paper that was reproduced in triplicate last year.

Imagine his poor son afterwards mulling over the mysteries of work with a friend, who asks him, ”What’s your father do” What can the boy reply “It beats me,” perhaps, if he is not very observant. Or if he is, “Something that has to do with making junk, I think . Same as everybody

else.”

It was snowing heavily, and although every true New Yorker looks forward to a white Christmas, the shoppers on Fifth Avenue were in a hurry, not just to track down the last-minute presents, but to escape the bitter cold and get home with their families for Christmas Eve.

Josh Lester turned into 46th Street. He was not yet enjoying the Christmas spirit, because he was still at work, albeit a working dinner at Joanne's. Josh was black, in his early thirties, and an agreeable-looking person, dressed smartly but not expensively. He was from a hard-working family in upstate Virginia, and was probably happiest back home in his parents' house. But his demeanor concealed a Harvard law degree and an internship in DC with a congressman, a junior partnership in a New York law firm, along with a razor-sharp intellect and an ability to think on his feet. Josh was very smart.

The appointment meant Josh wouldn't get home until after Christmas. He was not, however, unhappy. He was meeting Jo Rogers, the senior senator for Connecticut, and one of the best-known faces in the US. Senator Rogers was a Democrat in her third term of office, who knew Capitol Hill inside out but who had nevertheless managed to keep her credibility with her voters as a Washington outsider. She was pro-abortion,

anti-corruption, pro-low carbon emissions and anti-capital punishment, as fine a progressive liberal as you could find this side of the Atlantic. Talk show hosts called her Honest Senator Jo, and a couple of years ago, Time magazine had her in the running for Woman of the Year. It was election time in the following year, and the word was she was going to run for the Democratic nomination. Rogers had met Josh in DC, thought him highly competent, and had invited him to dinner.

Josh shivered as he checked the address on the slip of paper in his hand. He'd never been to Joanne's, but knew it by reputation, not because of its food, which had often been maligned, or its jazz orchestra, which had a guest slot for a well-known movie director who played trumpet, but because of the stellar quality of its sophisticated guests: politicians, diplomats, movie actors, hall-of-fame athletes, journalists, writers, rock stars and Nobel Prize winners – in short, anyone who was anyone in this city of power brokers.

Josh told him, and although the waiter refrained from curling his lip, he managed to show both disdain and effortless superiority with a simple flaring of his nostrils.

“Yes, Senator, please come this way,” and as Senator Rogers passed through the crowded room, heads turned as the diners recognized her and greeted her with silent applause. In a classless society, Rogers was the closest thing to aristocracy that America had. Alberto hovered for a moment, then went to speak to a colleague.

After two hours, Rogers and Josh got up to leave. There was a further flurry of attention by the staff, including an offer by Alberto to waive payment of the bill, which Rogers refused. As they were putting on their coats, Rogers said, “Thank you, Alberto. Oh, have I introduced you to my companion, Josh Lester”

A look of panic, followed by one of desperate optimism flashed across Alberto's face.

“Ah, not yet, no, ... not properly, ” he said weakly.

“Josh Lester. This is the latest recruit to my election campaign. He's going to be my new deputy campaign manager, in charge of raising donations. And if we get that Republican out of the White House next year, you've just met my Chief of Staff.”

It came as if from nowhere.

There were about two dozen of us by the bank of elevators on the 35th floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. We were firefighters, mostly, and we were in various stages of exhaustion. Some guys were sweating like pigs. Some had their turnout coats off, or tied around their waists. Quite a few were breathing heavily. Others were raring to go. All of us were taking a beat to catch our breaths, and our bearings, figure out what the hell was going on. We'd been at this thing, hard, for almost an hour, some

a little bit less, and we were nowhere close to done. Of course, we had no idea what there was left to do, but we hadn't made a dent.

And then the noise started, and the building began to tremble, and we all froze. Dead solid still. Whatever there had been left to do would now have to wait. For what, we had no idea, but it would wait. Or, it wouldn't, but that wasn't the point. The point was that no one was moving. To a man, no one moved, except to lift his eyes to the ceiling, to see where the racket was coming from. As if we could see clear through the ceiling tiles for an easy answer. No one spoke. There wasn't time to turn thought into words, even though there was time to think. For me anyway, there was time to think, too much time to think, and my thoughts were all over the place. Every possible worst-case scenario, and a few more besides. The building was shaking like in an earthquake, like an amusement park thrill ride gone berserk, but it was the rumble that struck me still with fear. The sheer volume of it. The way it coursed right through me. I couldn't think what the hell would make a noise like that. Like a thousand runaway trains speeding towards me. Like a herd of wild beasts. Like the thunder of a rockslide. Hard to put it into words, but whatever the hell it was it was gaining speed, and gathering force, and getting closer, and I was stuck in the middle, unable to get out of its path.

It's amazing, the kind of thing you think about when there should be no time to think. I thought about my wife and my kids, but only fleetingly and not in any kind of

life-flashing-before-my-eyes sort of way. I thought about the job, how close I was to making deputy. I thought about the bagels I had left on the kitchen counter back at the firehouse. I thought how we firemen were always saying to each other, "I'll see you at the big one." Or, "We'll all meet at the big one." I never knew how it started, or when I'd picked up on it myself, but it was part of our , no matter how big this fire is, there'll be another one bigger, somewhere down the road. We'll make it through this one, and we'll make it through that one, too. I always said it, at big fires, and I always heard it back, and here I was, thinking I would never say or hear these words again, because there would never be another fire as big as this. This was the big one we had all talked about, all our lives, and if I hadn't known this before – just before these chilling moments – this sick, black noise now confirmed it.

I fumbled for some fix on the situation, thinking maybe if I understood what was happening I could steel myself against it. All of these thoughts were landing in my brain in a kind of flashpoint, one on top of the other and all at once, but there they were. And each thought landed fully formed, as if there might be time to act on each, when in truth there was no time at all.

Richard Picciotto (also known as Pitch) was in the north tower of the World Trade Center when it collapsed in the

aftermath of the massive terrorist attack on 11 September 2001. A battalion commander for the New York Fire Department, he was on the scene of the disaster within minutes of the attack, to lead seven companies of firefighters into the tower to help people trapped and to extinguish fires blazing everywhere.

The north tower was the first of the twin towers to be hit. It was followed 17 minutes later by the south tower. The south tower, however, was the first to collapse, at 9:59 am. At that moment, Picciotto was in the north tower, racing upwards by the stairs because the elevators were out of action. He then gave the order to evacuate. On the 12th story he came across 50 people amid the debris, too badly hurt or frightened to move. Picciotto and his men helped them down. When he reached the seventh floor, the tower fell, and he was buried beneath thousands of tons of rubble. He eventually came round four hours later, leading his men to safety.

Picciotto was the highest ranking firefighter to survive the attack. The chief of the department, the first deputy and the chief of rescue operations had all been killed. Altogether the death toll included 343 firefighters and more than 3,000 civilians.

Toast always lands butter side down. It always rains on bank holidays. You never win the lottery, but other people you know seem to ... Do you ever get the impression that you were born unlucky Even the most rational person can be convinced at times that there is a force out there making mishaps occur at the worst possible time. We all like to believe that Murphy's Law is true。

Part of the explanation for bad luck is mathematical, but part is psychological. Indeed there is a very close connection between people's perception of bad luck and interesting coincidences.

For example, take the belief that “bad things always happen in threes”This popular notion would be unlikely to stand the scrutiny of any scientific study, but it must have some basis in experience, otherwise the phrase would never have arisen in the first place. What might be the rational explanation

Some things are only marginally bad, for example the train arriving five minutes late. Some are extremely bad, such as failing an exam or being sacked. So badness is much better represented as being on a spectrum rather than something which is there or not there.

A particular event may only be a misfortune because of the circumstances around it. The train arriving five minutes late is a neutral event if you are in no hurry and reading an interesting newspaper article while you wait. It is bad if you are late for an important meeting.

When it comes to bad things happening in threes, what may be most important of all is the duration and memorability of the first event. Take a burst pipe while you are away on holiday, for example. It may take less than an hour to flood the house, but this one bad event can remain alive and kicking for many months, with the cleaning up operation and the debate with your insurers acting as constant reminders of the original event.

The longer the first bad event sticks in the front of your mind, the more opportunities you will have to experience two more bad events. A month later someone bumps the back of your car and a week after that you lose your wedding ring. The mind which is already on a low from the first event will quickly leap to connect the subsequent misfortunes as part of the series.

It wouldn't matter that there could be a two-month timescale over which everything happened. By the time you have recovered from the water damage you are actively looking out for the next disaster. The timescale has been extended as long as is necessary to confirm the original prophecy.

As with coincidences, in bad luck there is a tendency to look for the examples which confirm the theory, and ignore those which don’t (because they are less interesting). Single bad events happen all the time. That alone should be enough to disprove the theory. Bad things also come in twos. But it is more likely that a friend will tell you “three bad things have happened to me, isn’t that typical”than “only two bad things have happened to me, which just proves that the theory doesn’t work”. After all, the latter is tempting fate!

There is, however, at least one rational reason why bad events might cluster together. It is related to probability and independence. Unlucky events are not always independent of each other. Anybody who is made redundant is bound to suffer some depression. That will lower the body’s defences, making the person vulnerable to illness, and also making them less alert and responsive (so they may be more likely to drop a precious vase, for example).

So while the probability of being made redundant on any particular day and the probability of being sick may both be small, the chance of both occurring is almost certainly higher than the product of the two probabilities.

So much for the general incidents of bad luck which crop up in life. Let’s get on to a specific one that everyone has encountered.

You are off to visit a friend who lives at the other end of the city. You look up the road in the street atlas, and discover that it is right on the edge of the page. This means that finding the precise route becomes a chore of flicking backwards and forwards from one page to the next. Either the road is half on one page and half on the other, or it's spread across the fold in the middle of the book. And if it’s an ordnance survey map, then your destination is at just the point where you folded the map over.

It doesn’t seem fair. After all a map only has a tiny bit of “edge”but plenty of “middle”in which your destination could be situated. Or has it In fact the chance of picking a destination which is close to the edge of the map is a lot higher than you might expect.

That represents 28 per cent of the area of the whole page of the map, which means that any specific point that you are seeking on this map has a 28 per cent chance (that's nearly one in three) of being in an awkward position within 1 cm of the edge of the page. And if you regard being within 2 cm of the edge of the page as being awkward, the chance of ill-fortune climbs to 52 per cent. In other words, you might expect this misfortune to occur on almost every other journey.

As in most bad luck stories, you forget about the number of times the road doesn’t land awkwardly and remember the times it does, and in this case the chance of a bad result is so high that before long you are bound to be cursing your misfortune, or the map’s printer, or both. This, incidentally, is why many modern road maps allow significant overlaps between adjacent map pages. In a good road atlas, at least 30 per cent of the page is duplicated elsewhere.

One of the best examples of selective memory where an unfair comparison is made between good and bad is in the relative frequency of red and green lights on a journey. For once, the perception of “I always seem to get red lights when I’m in a hurry”is true and verifiable.

To simplify the situation, think of a traffic light as being like tossing a coin, with a 50 per cent chance of being red, and 50 per cent of being green. (In fact most traffic lights spend more time on red). If you encounter six traffic lights on a journey, then you are no more likely to escape a red light than you are to toss six consecutive heads, the chance of which is 1 in 64.

Red lights come up just as often when the driver is not in a hurry; it’s just that the disadvantage of the red light is considerably less if time is not critical. The false part of the perception is that red lights happen more than green lights.

The reason for this is simply that a driver has more time to think about a red light than a green light, because while the latter is gone in seconds –and indeed is an experience no different from just driving along the open road –the red light forces a change of behaviour, a moment of exertion and stress, and then a deprivation of freedom for a minute or so. Red lights stick in the mind, while green lights are instantly forgotten.

The year the war began I was in the fifth grade at the Annie F. Warren Grammar School in Winthrop, and that was the winter I won the prize for drawing the best Civil Defense signs. That was also the winter of Paula Brown's new snowsuit, and even now, 13 years later, I can recall the changing colors of those days, clear and definite as a pattern seen through a kaleidoscope.

I lived on the bay side of town, on Johnson Avenue, opposite the Logan Airport, and before I went to bed each night, I used to kneel by the west window of my room and look over the lights of Boston that blazed and blinked far off across the darkening water. The sunset flaunted its pink flag above the airport, and the sound of waves was lost in the perpetual droning of the planes. I marveled at the moving beacons on the runway and watched, until it grew completely dark, the flashing red and green lights that rose and set in the sky like shooting stars. The airport was my Mecca, my Jerusalem. All night I dreamed of flying.

Those were the days of my technicolor dreams. Mother believed that I should have an enormous amount of sleep, and so I was never really tired when I went to bed. This was the best time of the day, when I could lie in the vague twilight, drifting off to sleep, making up dreams inside my head the way they should go. My flying dreams were believable as a landscape by Dali, so real that I would awake with a sudden shock, a breathless sense of having tumbled like Icarus from the sky and caught myself on the soft bed just in time. These nightly adventures in space began when Superman started invading my dreams and teaching me how to fly. He used to come roaring by in his shining blue suit with his cape whistling in the wind, looking remarkably like my Uncle Frank who was living with mother and me. In the magic whirling of his cape I could hear the wings of a hundred seagulls, the motors of a thousand planes.

I was not the only worshipper of Superman in our block. David Stirling, a pale, bookish boy who lived down the street, shared my love for the sheer poetry of flight. Before supper every night, we listened to Superman together on the radio, and during the day we made up our own adventures on the way to school.

The Annie F. Warren Grammar School was a red-brick building, set back from the main highway on a black tar street, surrounded by barren gravel playgrounds. Out by the parking lot David and I found the perfect alcove for our Superman dramas. The dingy back entrance to the school was deep-set in a long passageway which was an excellent place for surprise captures and sudden rescues.

During recess, David and I came into our own. We ignored the boys playing baseball on the gravel court and the girls giggling at dodge-ball in the dell. Our Superman games made us outlaws, yet gave us a sense of windy superiority. We even found a stand-in for a villain in Sheldon Fein, the sallow mamma's boy on our block who was left out of the boys' games because he cried whenever anybody tagged him and always managed to fall down and skin his fat knees.

At first, we had to prompt Sheldon in his part, but after a while he became an expert on inventing tortures and even carried them out in private, beyond the game. He used to pull the wings from flies and the legs off grasshoppers, and keep the broken insects captive in a jar hidden under his bed where he could take them out in secret and watch them struggling. David and I never played with Sheldon except at recess. After school we left him to his mamma and his bonbons and his helpless insects.

At the time my Uncle Frank was living with us while waiting to be drafted, and I was sure that he bore an extraordinary resemblance to Superman incognito. David couldn't see the likeness as clearly as I did, but he admitted that Uncle Frank was the strongest man he had ever known, and could do lots of tricks like making caramels disappear under napkins and walking on his hands.

In the fall of our final year, our mood changed. the relaxed atmosphere of the preceding summer semester, the impromptu ball games, the boating on the Charles River, the late-night parties had disappeared, and we all started to get our heads down, studying late, and attendance at classes rose steeply again. We all sensed we were coming to the end of our stay here, that we would never get a chance like this again, and we became determined not to waste it. Most important of course were the final exams in April and May in the following year. No one wanted the humiliation of finishing last in class, so the peer group pressure to work hard was strong. Libraries which were once empty after five o'clock in the afternoon were standing room only until the early hours of the morning, and guys wore the bags under their eyes and their pale, sleepy faces with pride, like medals proving their diligence.

But there was something else. At the back of everyone's mind was what we would do next, when we left university in a few months' time. It wasn't always the high flyers with the top grades who knew what they were going to do. Quite often it was the quieter, less impressive students who had the next stages of their life mapped out. One had landed a job in his brother's advertising firm in Madison Avenue, another had got a script under provisional acceptance in Hollywood. The most ambitious student among us was going to work as a party activist at a local level. We all saw him ending up in the Senate or in Congress one day. But most people were either looking to continue their studies, or to make a living with a white-collar job in a bank, local government, or anything which would pay them enough to have a comfortable time in their early twenties, and then settle down with a family, a mortgage and some hope of promotion.

I went home at Thanksgiving, and inevitably, mybrothers and sisters kept asking me what I was planning to do. I didn't know what to say. Actually, I did know what to say, but I thought they'd probably criticize me, so I told them what everyone else was thinking of doing.

My father was a lawyer, and I had always assumed he wanted me to go to law school, and follow his path through life. So I hesitated.

This was not the answer I thought he would expect. Travel Where A writer About what I braced myself for some resistance to the idea.

"You have plenty of time. You don't need to go into a career which pays well just at the moment. You need to find out what you really enjoy now, because if you don't, you won't be successful later."

He thought for a moment. Then he said, "Look, it's late. Let's take the boat out tomorrow morning, just you and me. Maybe we can catch some crabs for dinner, and we can talk more."

It was a small motor boat, moored ten minutes away, and my father had owned it for years. Early next morning we set off along the estuary. We didn't talk much, but enjoyed the sound of the seagulls and the sight of the estuary coastline and the sea beyond.

There was no surf on the coastal waters at that time of day, so it was a smooth half-hour ride until my father switched off the motor. "Let's see if we get lucky," he said, picked up a rusty, mesh basket with a rope attached and threw it into the sea.

We waited a while, then my father stood up and said, "Give me a hand with this," and we hauled up the crab cage onto the deck.

Crabs fascinated me. They were so easy to catch. It wasn't just that they crawled into such an obvious trap, through a small hole in the lid of the basket, but it seemed as if they couldn't be bothered to crawl out again even when you took the lid off. They just sat there, waving their claws at you.

The cage was brimming with dozens of soft shell crabs, piled high on top of each other. "Why don't they try to escape" I wondered aloud to my father.

And we watched. The crab climbed up the mesh towards the lid, and sure enough, just as it reached the top, one of its fellow crabs reached out, clamped its claw onto any available leg, and pulled it back. Several times the crab tried to defy his fellow captives, without luck.

Not only did the crab give up its lengthy struggle to escape, but it actually began to help stop other crabs trying to escape. He'd finally chosen an easy way of life.

Suddenly I understood why my father had suggested catching crabs that morning. He looked at me. "Don't get pulled back by the others," he said. "Spend some time figuring out who you are and what you want in life. Look back at the classes you're taking, and think aboutwhich ones were most productive for you think about what's really important to you, what really interests you, what skills you have. Try to figure out where you want to live, where you want to go, what you want to earn, how you want to work. And if you can't answer these questions now, then take some time to find out. Because if you don't, you'll never be happy."

新标准大学英语3unit2CulturalChildhoods原文译文

Cultural Childhoods不同文化的童年 1 When I look back on my own childhood in the 1970s and 1980s and compare it with children today, it reminds me of that famous sentence "The past is a foreign country: They do things differently there" (from L. P. Hartley's novel The Go-Between). Even in a relatively short period of time, I can see the enormous transformations that have taken place in children's lives and in the ways they are thought about and treated. 每当我回顾20世纪七八十年代我的童年时光,并将它与现在孩子的童年相比较时,就会想起句名言:“往昔是异国他乡,那里有着不同的习俗”(可参见L.P.哈特利的小说《传信人》)。甚至在相对短暂的一段时间内,我也能够察觉到儿童的生活以及人们对待儿童的方式上所经历的巨大变化。 2.Looking further back I can see vast differences between contemporary and historical childhoods. Today, children have few responsibilities, their lives are characterized by play not work, school not paid labour, family rather than public life and consumption instead of production. Yet this is all relatively recent. A hundred years ago, a 12 year old working in a factory would have been perfectly acceptable. Now, it would cause social services' intervention and the prosecution of both parents and factory owner. 回顾更久远的岁月,我可以看到现在和古代童年生活的巨大差别。如今的儿童责任很少,他们生活的主要内容是玩耍而非工作,上学而非劳动,在家里呆着而不是和外界交往,消费而非生产。这种变化也是最近才显现出来的。一百年前,12 岁的孩子在工厂打工是完全可以接受的事情,而现在,这会招来社会服务机构的介入,其父母和工厂主会被起诉。 3. The differences between the expectations placed on children today and those placed on them in the past are neatly summed up by two American writers, Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English. Comparing childhoods in America today with those of the American colonial period (1600–1776), they have written: "Today, a four year old who can tie his or her shoes is impressive. In colonial times, four-year-old girls knitted stockings and mittens and could produce intricate embroidery: At age six they spun wool. A good, industrious little girl was called 'Mrs‘instead of 'Miss' in appreciation of her contribution to the family economy: She was not, strictly speaking, a child." 有两位美国作家,芭芭拉·埃伦里奇和迪尔德丽·英格利希,她们简要地概括了过去和现在人们对儿童的期待的差异。在比较美国现在的儿童和殖民地时期(1600–1776)的儿童时,她们写道:“今天,如果一个四岁的孩子能自己系鞋带就很了不起了。而在殖民地时期,四岁的女孩会织长筒袜和连指手套,能做复杂的刺绣,六岁就能纺毛线了。一个善良勤快的女孩被称为‘夫人’而不是‘小姐’,这是为了表彰她对家庭经济的贡献,严格说来她不是一个孩子了。” 4 These changing ideas about children have led many social scientists to claim that childhood is a "social construction". They use this term to mean that understandings of childhood are not the same everywhere and that while all societies acknowledge that children are different from adults, how they are different and what expectations are placed on them, change according to the society in which they live. 对儿童的看法不断变化着,这使得许多社会科学家宣称童年是一种“社会建构”。他们用这个术语来说明不同的地区对童年的理解是不一样的,虽然所有社会都承认儿童与成年人有区别,至于他们之间有何不同,人们对儿童又有何期待,不同的社会给出了不一样的答案。

大学英语综合教程3第三版答案

大学英语综合教程3第三版答案

大学英语综合教程3第三版答案 【篇一:新标准大学英语综合教程3答案(全版)】 >unit1 active reading(1) 4. b c c d c a 5.productive attendance resistance ambitious acceptance script impressive 6.attendance ambitious productive impressive resistance script acceptance 7.mortgage deck surf coastal;defy lengthy 8.b a b b b a b b active reading(2) 4.triple cemetery rear biography cram budding finite elapse 5.elapsed;cemetery rear;crammed triple budding;biography finite 6.a b a a b b a a 7.a b b a a b b b a language in use 6.(1)我们都觉得在校时间不多了,以后再也不会有这样的学习机会了,所以都下定决心不再虚度光阴。当然,下一年四五月份的期末考试最为重要。我们谁都不想考全班倒数第一,那也太丢人了,因此同学们之间的竞争压力特别大。以前每天下午5点以后,图书馆就空无

一人了,现在却要等到天快亮时才会有空座,小伙子们熬夜熬出了眼袋,他们脸色苍白,睡眼惺忪,却很自豪,好像这些都是表彰他们勤奋好学的奖章。 (2)明天行吗?明天只是个谎言;根本就没有什么明天,只有一张我们常常无法兑现的期票。明天甚至压根儿就不存在。你早上醒来时又是另一个今天了,同样的规则又可以全部套用。明天只是现在的另一种说法,是一块空地,除非我们开始在那里播种,否则它永远都是空地。你的时间会流逝(时间就在我们说话的当下滴答滴答地走着,每分钟顺时针走60秒,如果你不能很好地利用它,它就会走得更快些),而你没有取得任何成就来证明它的存在,唯独留下遗憾,留下一面后视镜,上面写满了“本可以做”“本应该做”“本来会做”的事情。 7.(1)students differ about whether they should have their future mapped out when they are still at university .some think they should have a definite goal and detailed plan, so as to brace themselves for any challenges, whereas some others think they don’t have to think much about the future , because future is full of uncertainties. (2)after a very careful check-up ,the scientist was told he had got a fatal disease .although he knew that his life was ticking away ,instead of complaining about the fate ,the scientist decided to make the best of the remaining days ,and speed up the research project he and his colleagues initiated ,and have a shot at completing it ahead of schedule. unit2 active reading 5.definite perpetual whirl blaze giggle prompt tumble 6.prompted definite whirl perpetual blazing giggling tumbled 7.blinked barren tag torture resemblance napkin

全新版大学英语综合教程2课文原文及翻译

One way of summarizing the American position is to state that we value originality and independence more than the Chinese do. The contrast between our two cultures can also be seen in terms of the fears we both harbor. Chinese teachers are fearful that if skills are not acquired early, they may never be acquired; there is, on the other hand, no comparable hurry to promote creativity. American educators fear that unless creativity has been acquired early, it may never emerge; on the other hand, skills can be picked up later. However, I do not want to overstate my case. There is enormous creativity to be found in Chinese scientific, technological and artistic innovations past and present. And there is a danger of exaggerating creative breakthroughs in the West. When any innovation is examined closely, its reliance on previous achievements is all too apparent (the "standing on the shoulders of giants" phenomenon). But assuming that the contrast I have developed is valid, and that the fostering of skills and creativity are both worthwhile goals, the important question becomes this: Can we gather, from the Chinese and American extremes, a superior way to approach education, perhaps striking a better balance between the poles of creativity and basic skills?

新标准大学英语综合教程3课文summary

↓↓↓ 大英3课文Summary UNIT 1 1.1 catching crabs In the fall of our final year,our mood changed.The relaxed atmosphere had disappeared, and peer group pressure to work hard was strong. Meanwhile,at the back of everyone’s mind was what we would do next after graduation. As for me,I wanted to travel,and I wanted to be a writer.I braced myself for some resistance to the idea from my father,who wanted me to go to law school,and follow his path through life. However,he supported what I wanted but he made me think about it by watching the crabs.The cage was full of crabs. One of them was trying to escape,but each time it reached the top the other crabs pulled it back.In the end it gave up lengthy struggle to escape and started to prevent other crabs from escaping.By watching crabs,my father told me not to be pulled back by others,and to get to know himself better. 1.2We are all dying Life is short.We never quite know when we become coffin dwellers or trampled ash in the rose garden of some local ceremony.So there’s no p oint in putting our dreams on the back burner until the right time arrives.Now is the time to do what we want to do. Make the best of our short stay and fill our life with the riches on offer so that when the reaper arrives,we’ve achieved much instead of regrets. UNIT 2 2.1superman The extract from Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams by Sylvia Plath is a combination of her real life and imaginary life in her childhood.In the real life,Plath was a winner of the prize for drawing the best Civil Defense signs,lived by an airport and had an Uncle who bore resemblance to Superman.In her imagination,the airport was her Mecca and Jerusalem because of her flying dreams.Superman fulfilled her dream at the moment. David Stirling,a bookish boy,also worship Superman.During the recess at school,he and the author played Superman https://www.sodocs.net/doc/2c18817645.html,pared with their school-mates who played the routine games,they felt they were outlaws but had a sense of windy superiority.They also found a stand-in,Sheldon Fein, who later invented tortures. 2.2cultual childhoods Historically,childhood has undergone enormous transformations in terms of children’s responsibilities and parental expectations.Culturally,childhood is socially constructed.The interplay of history and cultural leads to different understanding of childhood,consequently it is advisable not to impose ideas from one culture to understand childhood in another culture. UNIT 3 3.1how we listen For the sake of clarify,we split up the process of listening to music into three hypothetical planes.Firstly,the sensuous plane.It is a kind of brainless but attractive state of mind engendered

全新版大学英语第二版综合教程2课文

BOOK2课文译文 UNIT1 TextA 中国式的学习风格 1987年春,我和妻子埃伦带着我们18个月的儿子本杰明在繁忙的中国东部城市南京住了一个月,同时考察中国幼儿园和小学的艺术教育情况。然而,我和埃伦获得的有关中美教育观念差异的最难忘的体验并非来自课堂,而是来自我们在南京期间寓居的金陵饭店堂。 我们的房门钥匙系在一块标有房间号的大塑料板上。酒店鼓励客人外出时留下钥匙,可以交给服务员,也可以从一个槽口塞入钥匙箱。由于口子狭小,你得留神将钥匙放准位置才塞得进去。 本杰明爱拿着钥匙走来走去,边走边用力摇晃着。他还喜欢试着把钥匙往槽口里塞。由于他还年幼,不太明白得把钥匙放准位置才成,因此总塞不进去。本杰明一点也不在意。他从钥匙声响中得到的乐趣大概跟他偶尔把钥匙成功地塞进槽口而获得的乐趣一样多。 我和埃伦都满不在乎,任由本杰明拿着钥匙在钥匙箱槽口鼓捣。他的探索行为似乎并无任何害处。但我很快就观察到一个有趣的现象。饭店里任何一个中国工作人员若在近旁,都会走过来看着本杰明,见他初试失败,便都会试图帮忙。他们会轻轻握牢本杰明的手,直接将它引向钥匙槽口,进行必要的重新定位,并帮他把钥匙插入槽口。然后那位“老师”会有所期待地对着我和埃伦微笑,似乎等着我们说声谢谢——偶尔他会微微皱眉,似乎觉得我俩没有尽到当父母的责任。 我很快意识到,这件小事与我们在中国要做的工作直接相关:考察儿童早期教育(尤其是艺术教育)的方式,揭示中国人对创造性活动的态度。因此,不久我就在与中国教育工作者讨论时谈起了钥匙槽口一事。 两种不同的学习方式

我的中国同行,除了少数几个人外,对此事的态度与金陵饭店工作人员一样。既然大人知道怎么把钥匙塞进槽口——这是走近槽口的最终目的,既然孩子还很年幼,还没有灵巧到可以独自完成要做的动作,让他自己瞎折腾会有什么好处呢?他很有可能会灰心丧气发脾气——这当然不是所希望的结果。为什么不教他怎么做呢?他会高兴,他还能早些学会做这件事,进而去学做更复杂的事,如开门,或索要钥匙——这两件事到时候同样可以(也应该)示范给他看。 我俩颇为同情地听着这一番道理,解释道,首先,我们并不在意本杰明能不能把钥匙塞进钥匙的槽口。他玩得开心,而且在探索,这两点才是我们真正看重的。但关键在于,在这个过程中,我们试图让本杰明懂得,一个人是能够很好地自行解决问题的。这种自力更生的精神是美国中产阶级最重要的一条育儿观。如果我们向孩子演示该如何做某件事——把钥匙塞进钥匙槽口也好,画只鸡或是弥补某种错误行为也好——那他就不太可能自行想方设法去完成这件事。从更广泛的意义上说,他就不太可能——如美国人那样——将人生视为一系列 的情境,在这些情境中,一个人必须学会独立思考,学会独立解决问题,进而学会发现需要创造性地加以解决的新问题。 把着手教 回想起来,当时我就清楚地意识到,这件事正是体现了问题的关键之所在——而且不仅仅是一种意义上的关键之所在。这件事表明了我们两国在教育和艺术实践上的重要差异。 那些善意的中国旁观者前来帮助本杰明时,他们不是简单地像我可能会做的那样笨拙地或是犹犹豫豫地把他的手往下推。相反,他们极其熟练地、轻轻地把他引向所要到达的确切方向。 我逐渐认识到,这些中国人不是简单地以一种陈旧的方式塑造、引导本杰明的行为:他们是在恪守中国传统,把着手教,教得本杰明自己会愉快地要求再来一次。

综合英语教程第三版 (邹为诚)

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