Unit 1 Growing UP
Ⅱ
Part Text A Writing for Mylf
When we are writing we are often told to keep our readers in mind, to shape what we say to fit their tastes and interests. But there is one reader in particular who should not be forgotten. Can you guess who? Rusll Baker surprid himlf and everyone el when he discovered the answer.
我们写作时常常被告诫，脑子里要有读者，笔者所云一定要符合读者的口味和兴趣。但有一位读者特别不该忘记。你能猜出是谁吗？当拉塞尔·贝克找到这个问题的答案时，他自己和别人都感到大为惊讶。
Writing for Mylf
Rusll Baker 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've been bored by everything associated with English cours. 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.
安装预算员培训
为自己而写
拉塞尔·贝克从孩提时代，我还住在贝尔维尔时，我的脑子里就断断续续地转着当作家的念头，但直等到我高中三年级，这一想法才有了实现的可能。在这之前，我对所有跟英文课沾边的事都感到腻味。我觉得英文语法枯燥难懂。我痛恨那些长而乏味的段落写作，老师读着受累，我写着痛苦。
2 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 He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date.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 venty and excessively prim. He wore primly vere eyeglass, his wavy hair was primly cut and primly combed. He wore prim suits with neckties t primly against the collar buttons of his white shirts. He had a primly pointed jaw, a primly straight no, and a prim manner of speaking that was so correct, so gentlemanly, that he emed a comic antique.
pep小学三年级英语下册弗利格尔先生接我们的高三英文课时，我就准备着在这门最最单调乏味的课上再熬上沉闷的一年。弗利格尔先生在学生中以其说话干巴和激励学生无术而出名。据说他拘谨刻板，完全落后于时代。我看他有六七十岁了，古板之极。他戴着古板的毫无装饰的眼镜，微微卷曲的头发剪得笔齐，梳得纹丝不乱。他身穿古板的套装，领带端端正正地顶着白衬衣的领扣。他长着古板的尖下巴，古板的直鼻梁，说起话来一本正经，字斟句酌，彬彬有礼，活脱脱一个滑稽的老古董。
晚安 日语
3 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 emed 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."supp
我作好准备，打算在弗利格尔先生的班上一无所获地混上一年，不少日子过去了，还真不出所料。后半学期我们学写随笔小品文。弗利格尔先生发下一张家庭作业纸，出了不少题目供我们选择。像"暑假二三事"那样傻乎乎的题目倒是一个也没有，但绝大多数一样乏味。我把作文题带回家，一直没写，直到要交作业的前一天晚上。我躺在沙发上，最终不得不面对这一讨厌的功课，便从笔记本里抽出作文题目单粗粗一看。我的目光落在"吃意大利细面条的艺术"这个题目上。
4 This title produced an extraordinary quence of mental images. Vivid memories came flooding back of a night in Belleville when all of us were ated around the supper table ─Uncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Hal ─and Aunt Pat rved spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was st
ill a little known foreign dish in tho 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 hou 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.
skillfully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。
5 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 mylf. 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 el for Mr. Fleagle after I had written this thing for mylf.
突然我就想描述那一切，描述当时那种温馨美好的气氛，但我把它写下来仅仅是想自得其乐，而不是为弗利格尔先生而写。那是我想重新捕捉并珍藏在心中的一个时刻。我想重温那个夜晚的愉快。然而，照我希望的那样去写，就会违反我在学校里学的正式作文的种种法则，弗利格尔先生也肯定会打它一个不及格。没关系。等我为自己写好了之后，我可以再为弗利格尔先生写点什么别的东西。
divorce6 When I finished it the night was half gone and there was no time left to compo 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 pasd before Mr. Fleagle returned the graded papers, and he returned everyone's but mine. I was preparing mylf 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.
等我写完时已是半夜时分，再没时间为弗利格尔先生写一篇循规蹈矩、像模像样的文章了。第二天上午，我别无选择，只好把我为自己而写的贝尔维尔晚餐的故事交了上去。两天后弗利格尔先生发还批改过的作文，他把别人的都发了，就是没有我的。我正准备着遵命一放学就去弗利格尔先生那儿挨训，却看见他从桌上拿起我的作文，敲了敲桌子让大家注意听。
7 "Now, boys," he said. "I want to read you an essay. This is titled, 'The Art of Eating Spaghetti.'"
"好了，孩子们，"他说。"我要给你们念一篇小品文。文章的题目是：吃意大利细面条的艺术。"
8 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.
于是他开始念了。是我写的！他给全班大声念我写的文章。更不可思议的是，全班同学都在听着他念，而且听得很专心。有人笑出声来，接着全班都笑了，不是轻蔑嘲弄，而是乐乎乎地开怀大笑。就连弗利格尔先生也停顿了两三次，好抑制他那一丝拘谨的微笑。
9 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 al on my happiness by saying, "Now that, boys, is an essay, don't you e. It's ─don't you e ─it's of the very esnce of the essay, don't you e. 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。
Ⅲ
Part Text B Summer Reading
As a summer job the author ud to cut Mr. Ballou's lawn. The only problem was that Mr. Ballou never emed to have any money to pay for it. But what he did have to give was something that turned out to be far more valuable.
夏天打工时，作者常常替巴卢先生修剪草坪。惟一的问题是，巴卢先生似乎从来没钱支付工钱。然而，他实际上所给予的却远比工钱珍贵。
Summer Reading
feedback是什么意思Michael Dorris
1 When I was fourteen, I earned money in the summer by cutting lawns, and within a few weeks I
had built up a body of customers. I got to know people by the flowers they planted that I had to remember not to cut down, by the things they lost in the grass or stuck in the ground on purpo. I reached the point with most of them when I knew in advance what complaint was about to be spoken, which particular request was most important. (1) And I learned something about the measure of my neighbors by their preferred method of payment: by the job, by the month ─or not at all.
夏日阅读
迈克尔·多里斯十四岁那年，我在暑假里替人修剪草坪挣些钱，不出几个星期，我就有了不少客户。客户们种植的花卉我得记住不能剪去，他们会将东西遗落在草地上或故意插在地里，通过这些我逐渐认识了他们。我对大多数客户了解至深，事先就能知道他们会抱怨些什么，哪些特别的要求不能掉以轻心。(1)而且，我从邻居偏爱的付款方式中了解到了一点他们的情况：有的按干的活儿给钱，有的按月支付─或者有的压根儿不付钱。
2 Mr. Ballou fell into the last category, and he always had a reason why. On one day he had no change for a fifty, on another he was flat out of checks, on another, he was simply out when I knocked on his door. Still, except for the money part, he was a nice enough old guy, always waving o
r tipping his hat when he'd e me from a distance. I figured him for a thin retirement check, maybe a
work-related injury that kept him from doing his own yard work. Sure, I kept track of the total, but I didn't worry about the amount too much. (2) Grass was grass, and the little that Mr. Ballou's property comprid didn't take long to trim.
巴卢先生属于最后一类，而且他总有理由。有一天他兑不开一张五十元的钞票，又有一天他支票用完了，还有一天我上门时他干脆就溜出去了。撇开钱这档子事，他倒也还是个挺不错的老头，每次看见我，老远就挥手或脱帽致意。我猜他退休金不多，可能出过工伤，整不了自己的园子。没错，我全都记着账，可我对这点钱并没太在意。(2)也就是剪剪草，何况巴卢先生住宅外面的那一点草坪修剪起来花不了多少时间。
3 Then, one late afternoon in mid-July, the hottest time of the year, I was walking by his hou and he opened the door, motioned me to come inside. The hall was cool, shaded, and it took my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light.
到了一年中最热的七月中旬，一天傍晚前，我走过他家，他开了门，示意我进去。门厅里凉凉的，帘子遮去了阳光，过了一会儿我的眼睛才适应室内的暗淡光线。
4 "I owe you," Mr. Ballou began, "but…"
英语转换"我欠你工钱，"巴卢先生开口道，"不过……"
5 I thought I'd save him the trouble of thinking up a new excu. "No problem. Don't worry about it."
高校天后我想省得他费神找新的借口了，就说: "没事。别放在心上。"
6 "The bank made a mistake in my account," he continued, ignoring my words. "It will be cleared up in a day or two. But in the meantime I thought perhaps you could choo one or two volumes for a down payment."
"银行把我的账弄错了，"他没理我的碴儿，接着说，"一两天里就会改过来。在这当儿，我想你不妨挑一两本书作为我的首付款。"
7 He gestured toward the walls and I saw that books were stacked everywhere. It was like a library, except with no order to the arrangement.
他朝墙那边指了指，我这才发现到处都堆着书。就跟图书馆一样，只不过没有分门别类罢了。
8 "Take your time," Mr. Ballou encouraged. "Read, borrow, keep. Find something you like. What do you read?"
"别着急，"巴卢先生鼓动说，"读也好，借也好，留着也行。找你喜欢的。你平常都爱读什么书啊？"
9 "I don't know." And I didn't. I generally read what was in front of me, what I could get from the paperback stack at the drugstore, what I found at the library, magazines, the back of cereal boxes, comics. The idea of consciously eking out a special title was new to me, but, I realized, not without appeal─so I started to look through the piles of books.
"我不知道。"我的确不知道。我通常是弄到什么就读什么，从药房里买到的平装书，图书馆里借得到的书、杂志，到麦片包装盒背面的说明，还有连环漫画，什么都看。有意识地找出一本特别的书来读对我是件新鲜事，不过我觉得这主意挺不错──于是我开始在书堆中翻找起来。
人力资源培训班10 "You actually read all of the?"
"这么多书你都读过啊？"
11 "This isn't much," Mr. Ballou said. "This is nothing, just what I've kept, the ones worth looking at a cond time."
"这不算多，"巴卢先生说，"这根本不算多，只不过是我自己的藏书，都是值得再读一遍的。"
12 "Pick for me, then."
"那就替我找一本吧。"
13 He raid his eyebrows, cocked his head, and regarded me as though measuring me for a suit. After a moment, he nodded, arched through a stack, and handed me a dark red hardbound book, fairly thick.
他眉一抬，头一侧，望着我，就像是在给我量体裁衣似的。过了片刻，他略一点头，便在一堆书中搜寻，然后递给我一本暗红色封面的精装本，挺厚的。
14 "The Last of the Just," I read. "By Andre Schwarz-Bart. What's it about?"
"《最后的正义》，"我念道，"安德烈·施瓦兹巴特著。是讲什么的？"
15 "You tell me," he said. "Next week."
"你来告诉我，"他说，"下个星期。"
16 I started after supper, sitting outdoors on an uncomfortable kitchen chair. (3) Within a few pages, the yard, the summer, disappeared, and I was plunged into the aching tragedy of the Holocaust, the extraordinary clash of good, reprented by one decent man, and evil. Translated fro
m French, the language was elegant, simple, impossible to resist. When the evening light finally failed I moved inside, read all through the night.
晚饭后我坐在室外一张不舒服的餐椅里打开了书。(3)读了几页，院子就消失了，夏夜也消失了；我一下子就进入了二战期间纳粹对犹太人的大屠杀这一令人悲痛的惨剧中，进入了以一个正派人物为代表的善与恶之间非同寻常的冲突中。书译自法文，译文优美朴素，令人不忍释手。天色终于暗了下来，我回到室内，读了一个通宵。
