大学英语综合教程一 Unit1至Unit8 课文内容英译中 中英翻译
大家好，我叫亓官劼（qí guān jié ），在CSDN中记录学习的点滴历程，时光荏苒，未来可期，加油~博客地址为：亓官劼的博客
大学英语 综合教程 一到四 课文文章翻译 英译中 所有文章的目录导航为：大学英语 综合教程 一到四 课文文章翻译 英译中 目录导航
Book 1 Unit 1 Writing for Myself
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 He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date.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.
这个题目在我脑海里唤起了一连串不同寻常的图像。贝尔维尔之夜的清晰的回忆如潮水一般涌来，当时，我们大家一起围坐在晚餐桌旁 ── 艾伦舅舅、我母亲、查理舅舅、多丽丝、哈尔舅舅 ── 帕特舅妈晚饭做的是意大利细面条。那时意大利细面条还是很少听说的异国食品。多丽丝和我都还从来没吃过，在座的大人也是经验不足，没有一个吃起来得心应手的。艾伦舅舅家诙谐有趣的场景全都重现在我的脑海中，我回想起来，当晚我们笑作一团，争论着该如何地把面条从盘子上送到嘴里才算合乎礼仪。
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."
我尽力不流露出得意的心情，但是看到我写的文章竟然能使别人大笑，我真是心花怒放。就在十一年级，可谓是最后的时刻，我找到了一个今生想做的事。这是我整个求学生涯中最幸福的一刻。弗利格尔先生念完后说道："瞧，孩子们，这就是小品文，懂了没有。这才是 ── 知道吗 ── 这才是小品文的精髓，知道了没有。祝贺你，贝克先生。"他这番话使我沉浸在十全十美的幸福之中。
Book 1 Unit 2 All the Cabbie Had Was a Letter
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."
“不是家里人，”他回答说。“不过，”他接着说，“想起来，也可以算是一家人了。埃德老伙计是我最老的朋友了。实际上，过去我俩总是以‘老朋友’相称的 —— 就是说，当我俩相见时。我这人就是不大会写东西。”
"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."
“不，不过没成家时我俩总在一起闲荡。后来，两人都成了家，就不时相互串门。可最近这二三十年来，主要就是寄寄圣诞卡了。当然，我俩都总在卡上写几句 —— 通常是关于各自家里的情况，不是吗，孩子们在干些什么，谁搬到哪儿，添了个小孙子，都是这类事 —— 可一直都没正儿八经地写过信什么的。”
"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.
我进了旅馆房间之后，没有马上打开箱包。首先我得写封信 —— 而且要寄出去。
Book 1 Unit 3 Public Attitudes toward Science
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.
Book 1 Unit 4 Tony Trivisonno’s American Dream
Frederick C. Crawford
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.
托尼·特里韦索诺来到美国寻求美国梦。但他没有找到什么美国梦 —— 他为自己创造了一个美国梦。他的全部拥有是一天宝贵的二十四小时，而他一刻也没有浪费。
Book 1 Unit 5 The Company Man
1 He worked himself to death, finally and precisely, at 3:00 A.M. Sunday morning.
2 The obituary didn't say that, of course. It said that he died of a heart attack I think that was it but everyone among his friends and acquaintances knew it instantly. He was a perfect Type-A, a workaholic, a classic, they said to each other and shook their heads and thought for ten minutes about the way they lived.
3 This man who worked himself to death finally and precisely at 3:00 A.M. Sunday morning on his day off was fifty-one years old and a vice-president. He was, however, one of six vice-presidents, and one of three who might conceivably if the president died or retired soon enough have moved to the top spot. Phil knew that.
4 He worked six days a week, five of them until eight or nine at night, during a time when his own company had begun the four-day week for everyone but the executives. He had no outside interests, unless, of course, you think about a monthly golf game that way. To Phil, it was work. He always ate egg-salad sandwiches at his desk. He was, of course, overweight, by 20 or 25 pounds. He thought it was okay, though, because he didn't smoke.
5 On Saturdays, Phil wore a sports jacket to the office instead of a suit, because it was the weekend.
6 He had a lot of people working for him, maybe sixty, and most of them liked him most of the time. Three of them will be seriously considered for his job. The obituary didn't mention that.
7 But it did list his "survivors" quite accurately. He is survived by his wife, Helen, forty-eight years old, a good woman of no particular marketable skills, who worked in an office before marrying and mothering. She had, according to her daughter, given up trying to compete with his work years ago, when the children were small. A company friend said, "I know how much you will miss him." And she answered, "I already have."
8 "Missing him all these years," she probably gave up trying to love him the way she used to. She would be well taken care of".
9 His "clearly beloved" eldest of the 'dearly beloved" children is a hard-working executive in a manufacturing firm down South. In the day and a half before the funeral, he vent around the neighborhood researching his father, asking the neighbors what he was like. They were embarrassed.
10 His second child is a girl, who is twenty-four and newly married. She lives near her mother and they are close, hut whenever she vas alone with her father, in a car driving somewhere, they had nothing to say to each other.
11 The youngest is twenty, a boy, a high-school graduate who has spent the last couple of years, like a lot of his friends, doing enough occasional jobs to buy grass and food. He was the one who tried to grab the affection of his father, and tried to mean enough to him to keep the man at home. He was his father's favorite. Over the last two years, Phil stayed up nights worrying about the boy.
12 The boy once said, "My father and I only board here."
13 At the funeral, the sixty-year-old company president told the forty-eight-year-old widow that the fifty-one-year-old deceased had meant much to the company and would be missed and would he hard to replace. The widow didn't look him in the eye. She was afraid he would read her bitterness and, after all, she would need him to straighten out the finances the stock options and all that.
14 Phil vas overweight and nervous and worked too hard. If he wasn't at the office, he was worried about it. Phil was a Type-A, a heart-attack natural. You could have picked him out in a minute from a lineup.
15 So when he finally worked himself to death, at precisely 3:00 A.M. Sunday morning, no one vas really surprised.
16 By 5:00 P.M. the afternoon of the funeral, the company president had begun, discreetly of course, with care and taste, to make inquiries about his replacement. One of three men. He asked around: "Who's been working the hardest?"
Book 1 Unit 6 A Valentine Story
John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station.
He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His interest in her had begun twelve months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he soon found himself absorbed, not by the words of the book, but by the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind.
In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II.
During the next year the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She explained: "If your feeling for me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'd always be haunted by the feeling that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I'm plain (and you must admit that this is more likely). Then I'd always fear that you were going on writing to me only because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that — whichever we choose..."
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting — 7:00 p.m. at Grand Central Station, New York.
"You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So, at 7:00 p.m. he was in the station looking for a girl who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 12 months, a girl he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her golden hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive.
I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose.
As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair pinned up under a worn hat.
She was more than a little overweight, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, round face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly glow. I did not hesitate.
My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive.
"Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "and I will tell you who you are."
在接下来的一年当中，两人通过信件来往增进了了解。每一封信都如一颗种子撒入肥沃的心灵之土。浪漫的爱情之花就要绽开。布兰查德提出要一张照片，可她拒绝了。她解释道：“如果你对我的感情是真实的，是诚心诚意的，那我的相貌如何并不重要。设想我美丽动人。我将会一直深感不安，惟恐你只是因为我的容貌就贸然与我相爱，而这种爱情令我憎恶。设想本人相貌平平（你得承认，这种可能性更大）。那我一直会担心，你和我保持通信仅仅是出于孤独寂寞，无人交谈。不，别索要照片。等你到了纽约，你会见到我，到时你可再作定夺。且记，见面后我俩都可以自由决定中止关系或继续交往 —— 无论你怎么选择......”
. 他从欧洲回国的日子终于到了。他们安排了两人的第一次见面 —— 晚上七点， 纽约格兰德中央车站。
“你会认出我的，” 她写道，“我会在衣襟上戴一朵红玫瑰。” 于是，晚上七点，他候在车站，寻找一位过去一年里在自己生活中占据了如此特殊地位的姑娘，一位素未谋面，但其文字伴随着他、始终支撑着他精神的姑娘。
Book 1 Unit 7 What Animals Really Think
Over the years, I have written extensively about animal-intelligence experiments and the controversy that surrounds them. Do animals really have thoughts, what we call consciousness? Wondering whether there might be better ways to explore animal intelligence than experiments designed to teach human signs, I realized what now seems obvious: if animals can think, they will probably do their best thinking when it serves their own purposes, not when scientists ask them to.
And so I started talking to vets, animal researchers, zoo keepers. Most do not study animal intelligence, but they encounter it, and the lack of it, every day. The stories they tell us reveal what I'm convinced is a new window on animal intelligence: the kind of mental feats animals perform when dealing with captivity and the dominant species on the planet — humans.
Let's Make a Deal
Consider the time Charlene Jendry, a conservationist at the Columbus Zoo, learned that a female gorilla named Colo was handling a suspicious object. Arriving on the scene, Jendry offered Colo some peanuts, only to be met with a blank stare. Realizing they were negotiating, Jendry raised the stakes and offered a piece of pineapple. At this point, while maintaining eye contact, Colo opened her hand and revealed a key chain.
Relieved it was not anything dangerous or valuable, Jendry gave Colo the pineapple. Careful bargainer that she was, Colo then broke the key chain and gave Jendry a link, perhaps figuring. Why give her the whole thing if I can get a bit of pineapple for each piece?
If an animal can show skill in trading one thing for another, why not in handling money? One orangutan named Chantek did just that in a sign-language study undertaken by anthropologist Lyn Miles at the University of Tennessee. Chantek figured out that if he did tasks like cleaning his room, he'd earn coins to spend on treats and rides in Miles's car. But the orangutan's understanding of money seemed to extend far beyond simple dealings. Miles first used plastic chips as coins, but Chantek decided he could expand the money supply by breaking chips in two. When Miles switched to metal chips, Chantek found pieces of tin foil and tried to make copies.
Miles also tried to teach Chantek more virtuous habits such as saving and sharing. Indeed, when I caught up with the orangutan at Zoo Atlanta, where he now lives, I saw an example of sharing that anyone might envy. When Miles gave Chantek some grapes and asked him to share them, Chantek promptly ate all the fruit. Then, as if he'd just remembered he'd been asked to share, he handed Miles the stem.
Tale of a Whale
Why would an animal want to cooperate with a human? Behaviorists would say that animals cooperate when they learn it is in their interest to do so. This is true, but I don't think it goes far enough.
Gail Laule, a consultant on animal behavior, speaks of Orky, a killer whale, she knew. "Of all the animals I've worked with, he was the most intelligent," she says. "He would assess a situation and then do something based on the judgments he made."
Like the time he helped save a family member. When Orky's mate, Corky, gave birth, the baby did not thrive at first, and keepers took the little whale out of the tank by stretcher for emergency care. Things began to go wrong when they returned the baby whale to the tank. As the workers halted the stretcher a few meters above the water, the baby suddenly began throwing up through its mouth. The keepers feared it would choke, but they could not reach the baby to help it.
Apparently sizing up the problem, Orky swam under the stretcher and allowed one of the men to stand on his head, something he'd never been trained to do. Then, using his tail to keep steady, Orky let the keeper reach up and release the 420-pound baby so that it could slide into the water within reach of help.
Primate Shell Game
Sometimes evidence of intelligence can be seen in attempts to deceive. Zoo keeper Helen Shewman of Seattle's Woodland Park Zoo recalls that one day she dropped an orange through a feeding hole for Melati, an orangutan. Instead of moving away to get it, Melati looked Shewman in the eye and held out her hand. Thinking the orange must have rolled off somewhere inaccessible, Shewman gave her another one. But when Melati moved off, Shewman noticed the original orange was hidden in her other hand.
Towan, the colony's dominant male, watched this whole trick, and the next day he, too, looked Shewman in the eye and pretended that he had not yet received an orange. "Are you sure you don't have one?" Shewman asked. He continued to hold her gaze steadily and held out his hand. Giving in, she gave him another one, then saw that he had been hiding his orange underneath his foot.
What is intelligence anyway? If life is about survival of a species — and intelligence is meant to serve that survival — then we can't compare with pea-brained sea turtles, which were here long before us and survived the disaster that wiped out the dinosaurs. Still, it is comforting to realize that other species besides our own can stand back and assess the world around them, even if their horizons are more limited than ours.
于是我开始与兽医、动物研究人员以及动物园饲养员交谈。他们大都不研究动物智能，但他们每天都碰到或碰不到动物智能。他们讲述的故事开启了我相信是研究动物智能的一扇新的窗口：即动物在对付樊笼生活和地球上的主宰物种 —— 人类 —— 时所表现的高超的思维技能。
Book 1 Unit 8 Fable of the Lazy Teenager
One day last fall, I ran out of file folders and went to the drugstore to buy more. I put a handful of folders on the counter and asked a teenage salesgirl how much they cost. "I don't know," she answered. "But it's 12 cents each."
I counted the folders. "Twenty-three at 12 cents each, that makes $2.76 before tax," I said.
"You did that in your head?" she asked in amazement. "How can you do that?"
"It's magic," I said.
"Really?" she asked.
No modestly educated adult can fail to be upset by such an experience. While our children seem better-natured than ever, they are so ignorant — and so ignorant of their ignorance — that they frighten me. In a class of 60 seniors at a private college where I recently taught, not one student could write a short paper without misspellings. Not one.
But this is just a tiny slice of the problem. The ability to perform even the simplest calculations is only a memory among many students I see, and their knowledge of world history or geography is nonexistent.
Moreover, there is a chilling indifference about all this ignorance. The attitude was summed up by a friend's bright, lazy 16-year-old son, who explained why he preferred not to go to U.C.L.A. "I don't want to have to compete with Asians," he said. "They work hard and know everything."
In fact, this young man will have to compete with Asians whether he wants to or not. He cannot live forever on the financial, material and human capital accumulated by his ancestors. At some point soon, his intellectual laziness will seriously affect his way of life. It will also affect the rest of us. A modern industrial state cannot function with an idle, ignorant labor force. Planes will crash. Computers will jam. Cars will break down.
To drive this message home to such young Americans, I have a humble suggestion: a movie, or TV series, dramatizing just how difficult it was for this country to get where it is — and how easily it could all be lost. I offer the following fable.
As the story opens, our hero, Kevin Hanley 1990, a 17-year-old high school senior, is sitting in his room, feeling bitter. His parents insist he study for his European history test. He wants to go shopping for headphones for his portable CD player. The book he is forced to read — The Wealth of Nations — puts him to sleep.
Kevin dreams it is 1835, and he is his own great-great-great-grandfather at 17, a peasant in County Kerry, Ireland. He lives in a small hut and sleeps next to a pig. He is always hungry and must search for food. His greatest wish is to learn to read and write so he might get a job as a clerk. With steady wages, he would be able to feed himself and help his family. But Hanley's poverty allows no leisure for such luxuries as going to school. Without education and money, he is powerless. His only hope lies in his children. If they are educated, they will have a better life.
Our fable fast-forwards and Kevin Hanley 1990 is now his own great-grandfather, Kevin Hanley, 1928. He, too, is 17 years old, and he works in a steel mill in Pittsburgh. His father came to America from Ireland and helped build the New York City subway. Kevin Hanley 1928 is far better off than either his father or his grandfather. He can read and write. His wages are far better than anything his ancestors had in Ireland.
Next Kevin Hanley 1990 dreams that he is Kevin Hanley 1945, his own grandfather, fighting on Iwo Jima against a most determined foe, the Japanese army. He is always hot, always hungry, always scared. One night in a foxhole, he tells a friend why he is there: "So my son and his son can live in peace and security. When I get back, I'l1 work hard and send my boy to college so he can live by his brains instead of his back."
Then Kevin Hanley 1990 is his own father, Kevin Hanley 1966, who studies all the time so he can get into college and law school. He lives in a fine house. He has never seen anything but peace and plenty. He tells his girlfriend that when he has a son, he won't make him study all the time, as his father makes him.
At that point, Kevin Hanley 1990 wakes up, shaken by his dream. He is relieved to be away from Ireland and the steel mill and Iwo Jima. He goes back to sleep.
When he dreams again, he is his own son, Kevin Hanley 2020. There is gunfire all day and all night. His whole generation forgot why there even was law, so there is none. People pay no attention to politics, and government offers no services to the working class.
Kevin 2020's father, who is of course Kevin 1990 himself, works as a cleaner in a factory owned by the Japanese. Kevin 2020 is a porter in a hotel for wealthy Europeans and Asians. Public education stops at the sixth grade. Americans have long since stopped demanding good education for their children.
The last person Kevin 1990 sees in his dream is his own grandson. Kevin 2050 has no useful skills. Machines built in Japan do all the complex work, and there is little manual work to be done. Without education, without discipline, he cannot earn an adequate living wage. He lives in a slum where there is no heat, no plumbing, no privacy and survives by searching through trash piles.
In a word, he lives much as Kevin Hanley 1835 did in Ireland. But one day, Kevin Hanley 2050 is befriended by a visiting Japanese anthropologist studying the decline of America. The man explains to Kevin that when a man has no money, education can supply the human capital necessary to start to acquire financial capital. Hard work, education, saving and discipline can do anything. "This is how we rose from the ashes after you defeated us in a war about a hundred years ago."
"America beat Japan in war?" asks Kevin 2050. He is astonished. It seems as impossible as Brazil defeating the United States would sound in 1990. Kevin 2050 swears that if he ever has children, he will make sure they work and study and learn and discipline themselves. "To be able to make a living by one's mind instead of by stealing," he says. "That would be a miracle."
When Kevin 1990 wakes up, next to him is his copy of The Wealth of Nations. He opens it and the first sentence to catch his eye is this: "A man without the proper use of the intellectual faculties of a man is, if possible, more contemptible than even a coward."
Kevin's father walks in. "All right, son," he says. "Let's go look at those headphones."
"Sorry, Pop," Kevin 1990 says. "I have to study."
略受教育的成年人没有谁不会为这样的经历难过。虽然我们的孩子似乎比以往任何时候都要温厚和气，他们却如此无知 —— 对自己的无知状况也如此无知 —— 以至使我感到可怕。在我最近任教的一所私立大学，一个六十人的四年级班上，没有一个学生写短文时不犯拼写错误。没有一个学生例外。
为使这样的美国青年彻底认识到这一点，我的愚见是：拍一部电影，或电视连续剧，生动地描述我们国家的今天如何来之不易 —— 而要丧失这一切又何其容易。下面我奉献一篇寓言故事。
故事开始时，我们的主人公凯文·汉利1990，一名十七岁的高三学生，正坐在自己房间里，心情痛苦。他父母一定要他准备欧洲史考试。而他则想去买一副激光唱片随身听的耳机。他被迫要读的书 —— 《各国的财富》 —— 让他打瞌睡。