Remember that an effective description focus on a dominant impression and arranges details in欧美风情 a way that best supports that impression. Your details—vivid and appealing to the 尝字组词ns (concrete nsory details)—should be carefully chon so that the essay isn’t overburdened with material of condary importance. When writing, keep in mind that effective word choices, varied ntence structure校园欺凌的危害 and imaginative figures of speech are ways to make a descriptive piece compelling.
Description of a Place
The Sounds of the City （From the New York Times by James Tuite）沙拉的制作方法
贵金属投资公司
New York is a city of sounds: muted sounds and shrill sounds; shattering sounds and soothing sounds; urgent sounds and aimless sounds. The cliff dwellers of Manhattan---who would be racked by the silence of the lonely woods--- do not hear the sounds becau they are constant and eternally urban.
The visitor to the city can hear them, though, just as some animals can hear a high-pitched
whistle inaudible to humans. To the casual caller to Manhattan, lying restive and sleepless in a hotel twenty or thirty floors above the street, they tell a story as fascinating as life itlf. And back of the sounds broods the silence.
Night in midtown is the noi of tinled honky-tonk and violence. Thin strains of music, usually the firm beat of rock ’n’ roll or the frenzied outbursts of disco, ri from ground level. This is the cacophony, the discordance of youth, and it comes on strongest when nights are hot and young blood restless.
Somewhere in the canyons below there is shrill laughter or raucous shouting. A bottle shatters against concrete. The whine of a police siren slices through the night, moving ever clor, until an eerie Doppler effect brings it to a guttural halt.
There are few sounds so exciting in Manhattan as tho of fire apparatus dashing through the night. At the outt there is the tentative hint of the first-due company bullying his way through midtown traffic. Now a fire whistle from the opposite direction affirms that trouble is, indeed, afoot. In conds, other sirens converging from other streets help the s
kytop listener focus on the scene of excitement.
But he can only hear and not e, and imagination takes flight. Are the flames and smoke gushing from windows not far away? Are victims trapped there, crying out for help? Is it a conflagration, or only a trash-basket fire? Or, perhaps, it is merely a fal alarm.
The questions go unanswered and the urgency of the moment dissolves. Now the mind and the ear detect the snarling, arrogant bickering of automobile horns. People in a hurry. Taxicabs blaring, insisting on their checkered priority.
Even the taxi horns dwindle down to a precocious few in the gray and pink moments of dawn. Suddenly there is another sound, a morning sound that taunts the memory for recognition. The growl of a predatory monster? No, just garbage trucks that have begun a day of scavenging.
Trash cans rattle outside restaurants. Metallic jaws on sanitation trucks gulp and masticate the residue of daily living, then digest it with a satisfied groan of gears. The sou
nds of the new day are businesslike. The growl of bus, so scattered and distant at night, becomes a demanding part of the traffic bedlam. An occasional jet or helicopter injects an exclamation point from an unexpected quarter. When the wind is right, the vibrant bellow of an ocean liner can be heard.
写童年的诗句
The sounds of the day are as jarring as the glare of a sun that outlines the canyons of midtown in drab relief. A pneumatic drill frays countless nerves with its rat-a-tat-tat, for dig they must to perpetuate the city’s dizzy motion. After each screech of brakes there is a moment of suspension, of waiting for the thud or crash that never ems to follow.
The whistles of traffic policemen and hotel doormen chirp from all sides, like birds calling for their mates across a frenzied aviary. And all of the sounds are adult sounds, for childish laughter has no place in the canyons. 雪来的时候
Night falls again, the cycle is complete, but there is no surcea from sound. For the beautiful dreamers, perhaps, the “sounds of the rude world heard in the day, lulled by the moonlight have all pasd away,” but this is not so in the city.
Too many New Yorkers accept the sounds about them as bland parts of everyday existence. They ldom stop to listen to the sounds, to think about them, to be appalled or enchanted by them. In the big city, sounds are life.
The Salt Marsh (By Marie Martinez)
Overwhelmed by problems or everyday annoyances, we lo touch with nsory pleasures as we spend our days in noisy cities and stuffy classrooms. To return to my normal ns, I go to a special place: the salt lake marsh behind my grandparents’ hou.
