全新版大学英语综合教程1第二版课文中英文

全新版大学英语综合教程1第二版课文原文

unit 1

The idea of becoming a writer had come to me off and on since my childhood in Belleville, but it wasn't until my third year in high school that the possibility took hold. Until then I'd been bored by everything associated with English courses. I found English grammar dull and difficult. I hated the assignments to turn out long, lifeless paragraphs that were agony for teachers to read and for me to write.

从我的童年时代起，我就有可能成为一名作家，但在我高中的时候，我就不可能成为一名作家了。在那之前，我一直对英语课程感到厌烦。我发现英语语法枯燥难懂。我讨厌那些让老师们阅读和写作的枯燥乏味的长段落的作业。

When our class was assigned to Mr. Fleagle for third-year English I anticipated another cheerless year in that most tedious of subjects. Mr. Fleagle had a reputation among students for dullness and inability to inspire. He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date. To me he looked to be sixty or seventy and excessively prim. He wore primly severe eyeglasses, his wavy hair was primly cut and primly combed. He wore prim suits with neckties set primly against the collar buttons of his white shirts. He had a primly pointed jaw, a primly straight nose, and a prim manner of speaking that was so correct, so gentlemanly, that he seemed a comic antique.

当我们班分配给弗利格尔先生读三年级英语时，我期待着这门最枯燥乏味的科目再过一年。弗利格尔先生在学生中以沉闷和缺乏灵感而闻名。据说他很拘谨，死板，毫无希望地过时了。在我看来，他看上去有六七十岁，非常拘谨。他戴着一本正经的眼镜，波浪形的头发剪得很整齐，梳得很整齐。他穿着朴素的西装，领带整齐地贴在白衬衫的领扣上。他有一个整洁的尖下巴，一个一本正经的笔直的鼻子，一本正经的说话方式是如此的正确，那么绅士，他似乎是一个滑稽的古董。

I prepared for an unfruitful year with Mr. Fleagle and for a long time was not disappointed. Late in the year we tackled the informal essay. Mr. Fleagle distributed a homework sheet

offering us a choice of topics. None was quite so simple-minded as "What I Did on My Summer Vacation," but most seemed to be almost as dull. I took the list home and did nothing until the night before the essay was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to the unwelcome task, took the list out of my notebook, and scanned it. The topic on which my eye stopped was "The Art of Eating Spaghetti."

我准备和弗利格尔先生共度一年无果而终，很长一段时间都没有失望。今年晚些时候，我们处理了这篇非正式文章。弗利格尔先生分发了一份家庭作业单，让我们可以选择题目。没有一个比“我在暑假里做的事”更简单的想法，但大多数人似乎几乎都一样枯燥无味。我把单子拿回家，直到论文到期的前一天晚上什么也没做。躺在沙发上，我终于面对了这个不受欢迎的任务，从笔记本里拿出清单，扫描了一下。我的目光停留在“吃意大利面的艺术”上

This title produced an extraordinary sequence of mental images. Vivid memories came flooding back of a night in Belleville when all of us were seated around the supper table —Uncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Hal — and Aunt Pat served spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was still a little known foreign dish in those days. Neither Doris nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and none of the adults had enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of Uncle Allen's house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the laughing arguments we had that night about the socially respectable method for moving spaghetti from plate to mouth.

这个标题产生了一系列非凡的心理意象。在贝尔维尔的一个晚上，我们都围坐在餐桌旁——艾伦叔叔、我妈妈、查理叔叔、多丽丝、哈尔叔叔——帕特阿姨晚饭端上了意大利面。在那些日子里，意大利面还是一道鲜为人知的外国菜。多丽丝和我都没有吃过意大利面，而且没有一个成年人有足够的经验来擅长它。艾伦叔叔家里所有的幽默感在我脑海中重新浮现，我想起了那天晚上我们关于如何用一种在社会上受人尊敬的方式把意大利面从盘子里放到嘴里的可笑的争论。

Suddenly I wanted to write about that, about the warmth and good feeling of it, but I wanted

to put it down simply for my own joy, not for Mr. Fleagle. It was a moment I wanted to recapture and hold for myself. I wanted to relive the pleasure of that evening. To write it as I wanted, however, would violate all the rules of formal composition I'd learned in school, and Mr. Fleagle would surely give it a failing grade. Never mind. I would write something else for Mr. Fleagle after I had written this thing for myself.

突然间，我想写些关于它的温暖和美好的感觉，但我想把它写下来仅仅是为了我自己的快乐，而不是为了弗利格尔先生。那是一个我想重新找回自己的时刻。我想重温那晚的乐趣。然而，按我的想法写这篇文章，违反了我在学校学过的所有正式作文规则，弗雷格尔先生肯定会给它一个不及格的分数。不要介意。在我为自己写了这篇文章之后，我会为弗利格尔先生写些别的东西。

When I finished it the night was half gone and there was no time left to compose a proper, respectable essay for Mr. Fleagle. There was no choice next morning but to turn in my tale of the Belleville supper. Two days passed before Mr. Fleagle returned the graded papers, and he returned everyone's but mine. I was preparing myself for a command to report to Mr. Fleagle immediately after school for discipline when I saw him lift my paper from his desk and knock for the class's attention.

当我写完的时候，那晚已经过去了一半，没有时间给弗利格尔先生写一篇合适的、体面的文章了。第二天早上别无选择，只好把我关于贝尔维尔晚餐的故事交上来。两天过去了，弗利格尔先生还了评分表，除了我的，他还了所有人的。我正准备接到命令，在放学后立即向弗利格尔先生报告纪律，这时我看到他从桌上拿出我的论文，敲着门来引起全班的注意。

"Now, boys," he said. "I want to read you an essay. This is titled, 'The Art of Eating Spaghetti.'"

“现在，孩子们，”他说我想给你读一篇短文。这本书名为《吃意大利面的艺术》

And he started to read. My words! He was reading my words out loud to the entire class. What's more, the entire class was listening. Listening attentively. Then somebody laughed, then the entire class was laughing, and not in contempt and ridicule, but with open-hearted enjoyment. Even Mr. Fleagle stopped two or three times to hold back a small prim smile.

他开始读书。我的话！他在全班大声朗读。更重要的是，全班同学都在听。专心听。然后有人笑了，然后全班的人都笑了，不是轻蔑和嘲笑，而是开诚布公的享受。就连弗利格尔先生也停了两三次，忍住一丝拘谨的微笑。

I did my best to avoid showing pleasure, but what I was feeling was pure delight at this demonstration that my words had the power to make people laugh. In the eleventh grade, at the eleventh hour as it were, I had discovered a calling. It was the happiest moment of my entire school career. When Mr. Fleagle finished he put the final seal on my happiness by saying, "Now that, boys, is an essay, don't you see. It's — don't you see — it's of the very essence of the essay, don't you see. Congratulations, Mr. Baker."

我尽我所能避免表现出喜悦，但我所感受到的纯粹是喜悦，因为我的话有力量让人们发笑。在十一年级的最后一刻，我发现了一种召唤。那是我整个学校生涯中最快乐的时刻。孩子们，当他写完这篇文章的时候，别看他写了最后一篇文章。你看不出来这是这篇文章的精髓，你不明白吗。恭喜你，贝克先生。”

(797 words)

（797字）

Unit 2

第二单元

He must have been completely lost in something he was reading because I had to tap on the

windshield to get his attention.

他一定是完全沉浸在他正在读的东西里，因为我不得不敲挡风玻璃来引起他的注意。

"Is your cab available?" I asked when he finally looked up at me. He nodded, then said apologetically as I settled into the back seat, "I'm sorry, but I was reading a letter." He sounded as if he had a cold or something.

“你的出租车有空吗？”我问他什么时候终于抬起头来看着我。他点点头，当我坐到后座上时，他抱歉地说：“对不起，我在读一封信。”他的声音听起来好像感冒了什么的。

"I'm in no hurry," I told him. "Go ahead and finish your letter."

“我不着急，”我告诉他去吧，把你的信写完。”

He shook his head. "I've read it several times already. I guess I almost know it by heart."

他摇了摇头。”我已经读了好几遍了。我想我几乎记在心里了。”

"Letters from home always mean a lot," I said. "At least they do with me because I'm on the road so much." Then, estimating that he was 60 or 70 years old,

“家信总是很有意义的，”我说至少他们会对我这么做，因为我经常出差。”然后，估计他60或70岁，

Unit 1

The idea of becoming a writer had come to me off and on since my childhood in Belleville, but it wasn't until my third year in high school that the possibility took hold. Until then I'd been bored by everything associated with English courses. I found English grammar dull and difficult. I hated the assignments to turn out long, lifeless paragraphs that were agony for teachers to read and

for me to write.

When our class was assigned to Mr. Fleagle for third-year English I anticipated another cheerless year in that most tedious of subjects. Mr. Fleagle had a reputation among students for dullness and inability to inspire. He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date. To me he looked to be sixty or seventy and excessively prim. He wore primly severe eyeglasses, his wavy hair was primly cut and primly combed. He wore prim suits with neckties set primly against the collar buttons of his white shirts. He had a primly pointed jaw, a primly straight nose, and a prim manner of speaking that was so correct, so gentlemanly, that he seemed a comic antique.

I prepared for an unfruitful year with Mr. Fleagle and for a long time was not disappointed. Late in the year we tackled the informal essay. Mr. Fleagle distributed a homework sheet offering us a choice of topics. None was quite so simple-minded as "What I Did on My Summer Vacation," but most seemed to be almost as dull. I took the list home and did nothing until the night before the essay was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to the unwelcome task, took the list out of my notebook, and scanned it. The topic on which my eye stopped was "The Art of Eating Spaghetti." This title produced an extraordinary sequence of mental images. Vivid memories came flooding back of a night in Belleville when all of us were seated around the supper table — Uncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Hal —and Aunt Pat served spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was still a little known foreign dish in those days. Neither Doris nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and none of the adults had enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of Uncle Allen's house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the laughing arguments we had that night about the socially respectable method for moving spaghetti from plate to mouth.

Suddenly I wanted to write about that, about the warmth and good feeling of it, but I wanted to put it down simply for my own joy, not for Mr. Fleagle. It was a moment I wanted to recapture and hold for myself. I wanted to relive the pleasure of that evening. To write it as I wanted, however, would violate all the rules of formal composition I'd learned in school, and Mr. Fleagle would surely give it a failing grade. Never mind. I would write something else for Mr. Fleagle after I had written this thing for myself.

When I finished it the night was half gone and there was no time left to compose a proper, respectable essay for Mr. Fleagle. There was no choice next morning but to turn in my tale of the

Belleville supper. Two days passed before Mr. Fleagle returned the graded papers, and he returned everyone's but mine. I was preparing myself for a command to report to Mr. Fleagle immediately after school for discipline when I saw him lift my paper from his desk and knock for the class's attention.

"Now, boys," he said. "I want to read you an essay. This is titled, 'The Art of Eating Spaghetti.'" And he started to read. My words! He was reading my words out loud to the entire class. What's more, the entire class was listening. Listening attentively. Then somebody laughed, then the entire class was laughing, and not in contempt and ridicule, but with open-hearted enjoyment. Even Mr. Fleagle stopped two or three times to hold back a small prim smile.

I did my best to avoid showing pleasure, but what I was feeling was pure delight at this demonstration that my words had the power to make people laugh. In the eleventh grade, at the eleventh hour as it were, I had discovered a calling. It was the happiest moment of my entire school career. When Mr. Fleagle finished he put the final seal on my happiness by saying, "Now that, boys, is an essay, don't you see. It's — don't you see — it's of the very essence of the essay, don't you see. Congratulations, Mr. Baker."

(797 words)

Unit 2

He must have been completely lost in something he was reading because I had to tap on the windshield to get his attention.

"Is your cab available?" I asked when he finally looked up at me. He nodded, then said apologetically as I settled into the back seat, "I'm sorry, but I was reading a letter." He sounded as if he had a cold or something.

"I'm in no hurry," I told him. "Go ahead and finish your letter."

He shook his head. "I've read it several times already. I guess I almost know it by heart." "Letters from home always mean a lot," I said. "At least they do with me because I'm on the road so much." Then, estimating that he was 60 or 70 years old, I guessed: "From a child or maybe a grandchild?"

"This isn't family," he replied. "Although," he went on, "come to think of it", it might just as well have been family. Old Ed was my oldest friend. In fact, we used to call each other 'Old Friend' —when we'd meet, that is. I'm not much of a hand at writing."

"I don't think any of us keep up our correspondence too well," I said. "I know I don't. But I take it he's someone you've known quite a while?"

"All my life, practically. We were kids together, so we go way back."

"Went to school together?"

"All the way through high school. We were in the same class, in fact, through both grade and high school."

"There are not too many people who've had such a long friendship," I said.

"Actually," the driver went on, "I hadn't seen him more than once or twice a year over the past 25 or 30 years because I moved away from the old neighborhood and you kind of lose touch even though you never forget. He was a great guy."

"You said 'was'. Does that mean —?"

He nodded. "Died a couple of weeks ago."

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's no fun to lose any friend — and losing a real old one is even tougher."

He didn't reply to that, and we rode on in silence for a few minutes. But I realized that Old Ed was still on his mind when he spoke again, almost more to himself than to me: "I should have kept in touch. Yes," he repeated, "I should have kept in touch."

"Well," I agreed, "we should all keep in touch with old friends more than we do. But things come up and we just don't seem to find the time."

He shrugged. "We used to find the time," he said. "That's even mentioned in the letter." He handed it over to me. "Take a look."

"Thanks," I said, "but I don't want to read your mail. That's pretty personal."

The driver shrugged. "Old Ed's dead. There's nothing personal now. Go ahead," he urged me.

The letter was written in pencil. It began with the greeting "Old Friend," and the first sentence reminded me of myself. I've been meaning to write for some time, but I've always postponed it. It then went on to say that he often thought about the good times they had had together when they both lived in the same neighborhood. It had references to things that probably meant something to the driver, such as the time Tim Shea broke the window, the Halloween that we tied Old Mr. Parker's gate, and when Mrs. Culver used to keep us after school.

"You must have spent a lot of time together," I said to him.

"Like it says there," he answered, "about all we had to spend in those days was time." He shook his head: "Time."

I thought the next paragraph of the letter was a little sad: I began the letter with "Old Friend" because that's what we've become over the years — old friends. And there aren't many of us left. "You know," I said to him, "when it says here that there aren't many of us left, that's absolutely right. Every time I go to a class reunion, for example, there are fewer and fewer still around." "Time goes by," the driver said.

"Did you two work at the same place?" I asked him.

"No, but we hung out on the same corner when we were single. And then, when we were married, we used to go to each other's house every now and then. But for the last 20 or 30 years it's been mostly just Christmas cards. Of course there'd be always a note we'd each add to the cards —usually some news about our families, you know, what the kids were doing, who moved where, a new grandchild, things like that — but never a real letter or anything like that."

"This is a good part here," I said. "Where it says Your friendship over the years has meant an awful lot to me, more than I can say because I'm not good at saying things like that. " I found myself nodding in agreement. "That must have made you feel good, didn't it?"

The driver said something that I couldn't understand because he seemed to be all choked up, so I continued: "I know I'd like to receive a letter like that from my oldest friend."

We were getting close to our destination so I skipped to the last paragraph. So I thought you'd like to know that I was thinking of you. And it was signed，Your Old Friend, Tom.

I handed back the letter as we stopped at my hotel. "Enjoyed talking with you," I said as I took my suitcase out of the cab. Tom? The letter was signed Tom?

"I thought your friend's name was Ed," I said. "Why did he sign it Tom?"

"The letter was not from Ed to me," he explained. "I'm Tom. It's a letter I wrote to him before I knew he'd died. So I never mailed it."

He looked sort of sorrowful, or as if he were trying to see something in the distance. "I guess I should have written it sooner."

When I got to my hotel room I didn't unpack right away. First I had to write a letter — and mail it. (1093 words)

Unit 3

Whether we like it or not, the world we live in has changed a great deal in the last hundred years, and it is likely to change even more in the next hundred. Some people would like to stop these changes and go back to what they see as a purer and simpler age. But as history shows, the past was not that wonderful. It was not so bad for a privileged minority, though even they had to do without modern medicine, and childbirth was highly risky for women. But for the vast majority of the population, life was nasty, brutish, and short.

Anyway, even if one wanted to, one couldn't put the clock back to an earlier age. Knowledge and techniques can't just be forgotten. Nor can one prevent further advances in the future. Even if all government money for research were cut off (and the present government is doing its best), the force of competition would still bring about advances in technology. Moreover, one cannot stop inquiring minds from thinking about basic science, whether or not they are paid for it. The only way to prevent further developments would be a global state that suppressed anything new, and human initiative and inventiveness are such that even this wouldn't succeed. All it would do is slow down the rate of change.

If we accept that we cannot prevent science and technology from changing our world, we can at least try to ensure that the changes they make are in the right directions. In a democratic society, this means that the public needs to have a basic understanding of science, so that it can make informed decisions and not leave them in the hands of experts. At the moment, the public is in two minds about science. It has come to expect the steady increase in the standard of living that new developments in science and technology have brought to continue, but it also distrusts science because it doesn't understand it. This distrust is evident in the cartoon figure of the mad scientist working in his laboratory to produce a Frankenstein. It is also an important element behind support for the Green parties. But the public also has a great interest in science, particularly astronomy, as is shown by the large audiences for television series such as The Sky at Night and for science fiction.

What can be done to harness this interest and give the public the scientific background it needs to make informed decisions on subjects like acid rain, the greenhouse effect, nuclear weapons, and genetic engineering? Clearly, the basis must lie in what is taught in schools. But in schools science is often presented in a dry and uninteresting manner. Children learn it by rote to pass examinations, and they don't see its relevance to the world around them. Moreover, science is often taught in

terms of equations. Although equations are a brief and accurate way of describing mathematical ideas, they frighten most people. When I wrote a popular book recently, I was advised that each equation I included would halve the sales. I included one equation, Einstein's famous equation, E=mc2. Maybe I would have sold twice as many copies without it.

Scientists and engineers tend to express their ideas in the form of equations because they need to know the precise values of quantities. But for the rest of us, a qualitative grasp of scientific concepts is sufficient, and this can be conveyed by words and diagrams, without the use of equations.

The science people learn in school can provide the basic framework. But the rate of scientific progress is now so rapid that there are always new developments that have occurred since one was at school or university. I never learned about molecular biology or transistors at school, but genetic engineering and computers are two of the developments most likely to change the way we live in the future. Popular books and magazine articles about science can help to put across new developments, but even the most successful popular book is read by only a small proportion of the population. Only television can reach a truly mass audience. There are some very good science programmes on TV, but others present scientific wonders simply as magic, without explaining them or showing how they fit into the framework of scientific ideas. Producers of television science programmes should realize that they have a responsibility to educate the public, not just entertain it.

The world today is filled with dangers, hence the sick joke that the reason we have not been contacted by an alien civilization is that civilizations tend to destroy themselves when they reach our stage. But I have sufficient faith in the good sense of the public to believe that we might prove this wrong.

(812 words)

Unit 4

He came from a rocky farm in Italy, somewhere south of Rome. How or when he got to America, I don't know. But one evening I found him standing in the driveway, behind my garage. He was about five-foot-seven or eight, and thin.

"I mow your lawn," he said. It was hard to comprehend his broken English.

I asked him his name. "Tony Trivisonno," he replied. "I mow your lawn." I told Tony that I

couldn't afford a gardener.

"I mow your lawn," he said again, then walked away. I went into my house unhappy. Yes, these Depression days were difficult, but how could I to turn away a person who had come to me for help?

When I got home from work the next evening, the lawn had been mowed, the garden weeded, and the walks swept. I asked my wife what had happened.

"A man got the lawn mower out of the garage and worked on the yard," she answered. "I assumed you had hired him."

I told her of my experience the night before. We thought it strange that he had not asked for pay. The next two days were busy, and I forgot about Tony. We were trying to rebuild our business and bring some of our workers back to the plants. But on Friday, returning home a little early, I saw Tony again, behind the garage. I complimented him on the work he had done.

"I mow your lawn," he said.

I managed to work out some kind of small weekly pay, and each day Tony cleaned up the yard and took care of any little tasks. My wife said he was very helpful whenever there were any heavy objects to lift or things to fix.

Summer passed into fall, and winds blew cold. "Mr. Craw, snow pretty soon," Tony told me one evening. "When winter come, you give me job clearing snow at the factory."

Well, what do you do with such determination and hope? Of course, Tony got his job at the factory.

The months passed. I asked the personnel department for a report. They said Tony was a very good worker.

One day I found Tony at our meeting place behind the garage. "I want to be 'prentice," he said. We had a pretty good apprentice school that trained laborers. But I doubted whether Tony had the capacity to read blueprints and micrometers or do precision work. Still, how could I turn him down?

Tony took a cut in pay to become an apprentice. Months later, I got a report that he had graduated as a skilled grinder. He had learned to read the millionths of an inch on the micrometer and to shape the grinding wheel with an instrument set with a diamond. My wife and I were delighted with what we felt was a satisfying end of the story.

A year or two passed, and again I found Tony in his usual waiting place. We talked about his work, and I asked him what he wanted.

"Mr. Craw," he said, "I like a buy a house." On the edge of town, he had found a house for sale, a complete wreck.

I called on a banker friend. "Do you ever loan money on character?" I asked. "No," he said. "We can't afford to. No sale."

"Now, wait a minute," I replied. "Here is a hard-working man, a man of character, I can promise you that. He's got a good job. You're not getting a damn thing from your lot. It will stay there for years. At least he will pay your interest."

Reluctantly, the banker wrote a mortgage for $2,000 and gave Tony the house with no down payment. Tony was delighted. From then on, it was interesting to see that any discarded odds and ends around our place — a broken screen, a bit of hardware, boards from packing — Tony would gather and take home.

After about two years, I found Tony in our familiar meeting spot. He seemed to stand a little straighter. He was heavier. He had a look of confidence.

"Mr. Craw, I sell my house!" he said with pride. "I got $8,000."

I was amazed. "But, Tony, where are you going to live without a house?"

"Mr. Craw, I buy a farm."

We sat down and talked. Tony told me that to own a farm was his dream. He loved the tomatoes and peppers and all the other vegetables important to his Italian diet. He had sent for his wife and son and daughter back in Italy. He had hunted around the edge of town until he found a small, abandoned piece of property with a house and shed. Now he was moving his family to his farm. Sometime later. Tony arrived on a Sunday afternoon, neatly dressed. He had another Italian man with him. He told me that he had persuaded his childhood friend to move to America. Tony was sponsoring him. With an amused look in his eye, he told me that when they approached the little farm he now operated, his friend stood in amazement and said, "Tony, you are a millionaire!" Then, during the war, a message came from my company. Tony had passed away.

I asked our people to check on his family and see that everything was properly handled. They found the farm green with vegetables, the little house livable and homey. There was a tractor and a good car in the yard. The children were educated and working, and Tony didn't owe a cent.

After he passed away, I thought more and more about Tony's career. He grew in stature in my mind. In the end, I think he stood as tall, and as proud, as the greatest American industrialists. They had all reached their success by the same route and by the same values and principles: vision, determination, self-control, optimism, self-respect and, above all, integrity.

Tony did not begin on the bottom rung of the ladder. He began in the basement. Tony's affairs were tiny; the greatest industrialists' affairs were giant. But, after all, the balance sheets were exactly the same. The only difference was where you put the decimal point.

Tony Trivisonno came to America seeking the American Dream. But he didn't find it — he created it for himself. All he had were 24 precious hours a day, and he wasted none of them.

(1110 words)