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全新版本大学英语综合教程1第二版本课文原文doc
Unit1
Theideaofbecomingawriterhadcometomeoff
andonsincemychildhoodinBelleville,butitwasn't
until
mythird
year
in
high
school
that
the
possibility
took
hold.
Until
then
I'd
been
bored
by
everything
associated
with
English
courses.
I
found
English
grammardull
anddifficult.
I
hated
the
assignments
to
turn
out
long,
lifeless
paragraphs
that
wereagony
for
teacherstoreadandformetowrite.
Whenour
class
wasassignedto
Mr.Fleagle
for
third-year
English
I
anticipated
another
cheerless
yearinthatmosttediousofsubjects.Mr.Fleaglehad
areputation
amongstudents
fordullness
andinability
toinspire.Hewassaidtobeveryformal,rigidand
hopelesslyoutofdate.Tomehelookedtobesixtyor
seventyandexcessivelyprim.Heworeprimlysevere
eyeglasses,hiswavyhairwasprimlycutandprimly
combed.Heworeprimsuitswithnecktiessetprimly
againstthecollarbuttonsofhiswhiteshirts.Hehad
aprimly
pointed
jaw,aprimly
straight
nose,
andaprim
mannerof
speaking
that
wassocorrect,
sogentlemanly,
thatheseemedacomicantique.
IpreparedforanunfruitfulyearwithMr.Fleagleandforalongtimewasnotdisappointed.Lateintheyear
wetackledtheinformalessay.Mr.Fleagledistributed
ahomeworksheetofferingusachoiceoftopics.Nonewasquitesosimple-mindedas"WhatIDidonMySummer
Vacation,"
butmostseemedtobealmost
asdull.
Itook
thelisthomeanddidnothinguntilthenightbefore
theessaywasdue.Lyingonthesofa,Ifinallyfaced
up
to
the
unwelcometask,
took
the
list
out
ofmy
notebook,andscannedit.Thetopiconwhichmyeye
stoppedwas"TheArtofEatingSpaghetti."
Thistitle
producedanextraordinary
sequenceof
mental
images.Vividmemoriescamefloodingbackofanight
inBellevillewhenallofuswereseatedaroundthe
supper
table—UncleAllen,
mymother,
UncleCharlie,
Doris,UncleHal
—andAuntPatservedspaghettifor
supper.
Spaghetti
wasstill
alittle
knownforeign
dish
in
those
days.
Neither
Dorisnor
I
had
ever
eaten
spaghetti,
andnoneofthe
adults
hadenoughexperience
tobegoodatit.AllthegoodhumorofUncleAllen'shousereawokeinmymindasIrecalledthelaughing
arguments
wehad
that
night
about
the
socially
respectablemethodformovingspaghettifromplateto
mouth.
SuddenlyI
wantedto
write
about
that,
aboutthe
warmth
andgoodfeelingofit,butIwantedtoputitdown
simplyformyownjoy,notforMr.Fleagle.Itwasa
momentIwantedtorecaptureandholdformyself.I
wanted
torelive
the
pleasure
of
that
evening.
Towrite
itasIwanted,however,wouldviolatealltherules
offormalcompositionI'dlearnedinschool,andMr.
Fleagle
wouldsurely
give
it
afailing
grade.
Nevermind.
IwouldwritesomethingelseforMr.FleagleafterI
hadwrittenthisthingformyself.
WhenIfinisheditthenightwashalfgoneandthere
wasnotime
left
tocomposeaproper,respectable
essay
forMr.Fleagle.Therewasnochoicenextmorningbut
toturninmytaleoftheBellevillesupper.Twodays
passedbeforeMr.Fleaglereturnedthegradedpapers,
andhereturnedeveryone'sbutmine.Iwaspreparing
myself
for
a
command
to
report
to
Mr.
Fleagle
immediately
after
school
for
discipline
whenI
sawhim
liftmypaperfromhisdeskandknockfortheclass's
attention.
"Now,boys,"
hesaid.
"I
wantto
readyouanessay.
This
istitled,'TheArtofEatingSpaghetti.'"
Andhestarted
toread.
Mywords!
Hewasreading
mywords
outloudtotheentireclass.What'smore,theentire
class
waslistening.
Listening
attentively.
Then
somebodylaughed,thentheentireclasswaslaughing,
andnot
in
contempt
andridicule,
butwithopen-hearted
enjoyment.
EvenMr.Fleagle
stoppedtwoorthreetimes
toholdbackasmallprimsmile.
Idid
mybest
to
avoid
showingpleasure,
butwhat
I
was
feeling
waspure
delight
atthis
demonstration
that
my
words
had
the
power
to
make
people
laugh.
In
the
eleventhgrade,attheeleventhhourasitwere,Ihad
discoveredacalling.Itwasthehappiestmomentofmy
entire
school
career.
WhenMr.Fleagle
finished
heput
thefinalsealonmyhappinessbysaying,"Nowthat,
boys,
is
anessay,
don't
yousee.
It's
—don't
yousee
—it's
of
thevery
essence
ofthe
essay,don't
yousee.
Congratulations,Mr.Baker."
（797words）
Unit2
Hemusthavebeencompletelylostinsomethinghewas
readingbecauseIhadtotaponthewindshieldtoget
hisattention.
"Is
your
cabavailable?
"
Iaskedwhenhefinally
looked
upatme.Henodded,thensaidapologeticallyasI
settled
into
the
back
seat,
"I'm
sorry,but
I
was
readingaletter."Hesoundedasifhehadacoldor
something.
"I'm
in
nohurry,"
Itold
him."Goaheadandfinish
your
letter."
Heshookhis
head."I've
read
it
several
times
already.
IguessIalmostknowitbyheart."
"Letters
from
homealwaysmeanalot,"
I
said.
"At
least
they
dowith
mebecauseI'montheroad
somuch."
Then,
estimatingthathewas60or70yearsold,Iguessed:
"Fromachildormaybeagrandchild?
"
"Thisisn'tfamily,"hereplied."Although,"hewent
on,"cometothinkofit",itmightjustaswellhave
beenfamily.OldEdwasmyoldestfriend.Infact,we
usedto
call
eachother
'Old
Friend'
—whenwe'd
meet,
thatis.I'mnotmuchofahandatwriting."
"Idon't
think
anyofuskeepupour
correspondence
too
well,"Isaid."IknowIdon't.ButItakeithe'ssomeoneyou'veknownquiteawhile?
"
"Allmylife,practically.Wewerekidstogether,sowegowayback."
"Wenttoschooltogether?
"
"Allthewaythroughhighschool.Wewereinthesameclass,infact,throughbothgradeandhighschool.""Therearenottoomanypeoplewho'vehadsuchalongfriendship,"Isaid.
"Actually,"thedriverwenton,"Ihadn'tseenhimmore
thanonceortwiceayearoverthepast25or30years
becauseImovedawayfromtheoldneighborhoodandyou
kindoflosetoucheventhoughyouneverforget.Hewas
agreatguy."
"Yousaid'was'.Doesthatmean—?
"
Henodded."Diedacoupleofweeksago."
"I'msorry,"Isaid."It'snofuntoloseanyfriend
—andlosingarealoldoneiseventougher."
Hedidn'treplytothat,andwerodeoninsilenceforafewminutes.ButIrealizedthatOldEdwasstillonhismindwhenhespokeagain,almostmoretohimselfthantome:
"Ishouldhavekeptintouch.Yes,"he
repeated,"Ishouldhavekeptintouch."
"Well,"
Iagreed,
"weshould
all
keepin
touch
withold
friends
morethan
wedo.Butthings
comeupandwejust
don'tseemtofindthetime."
He
shrugged.
"We
used
to
find
the
time,"
he
said.
"That's
evenmentioned
intheletter."
Hehandedit
over
tome."Takealook."
"Thanks,"Isaid,"butIdon'twanttoreadyourmail.
That'sprettypersonal."
Thedrivershrugged."OldEd'sdead.There'snothing
personalnow.Goahead,"heurgedme.
Theletterwaswritteninpencil.Itbeganwiththe
greeting
"Old
Friend,"
andthe
first
sentence
reminded
meof
myself.
I've
beenmeaningtowrite
forsometime,
butI'vealwayspostponedit.Itthenwentontosay
that
heoften
thought
about
the
goodtimestheyhadhad
together
whenthey
both
lived
in
the
sameneighborhood.
It
had
references
to
things
that
probably
meant
somethingto
thedriver,
suchasthe
time
TimSheabroke
thewindow,theHalloweenthat
wetied
OldMr.Parker's
gate,
andwhenMrs.Culverusedtokeepusafter
school.
"Youmusthavespentalotoftimetogether,"Isaid
tohim.
"Likeitsaysthere,"heanswered,"aboutallwehad
tospendinthosedayswastime."Heshookhishead:
"Time."
Ithoughtthe
nextparagraph
of
the
letter
wasalittle
sad:
I
begantheletter
with
"OldFriend"
becausethat's
whatwe'vebecomeovertheyears
—oldfriends.And
therearen'tmanyofusleft.
"Youknow,"I
saidtohim,"whenit
saysherethat
there
aren't
manyofusleft,
that's
absolutely
right.
Every
timeIgotoaclassreunion,forexample,thereare
fewerandfewerstillaround."
"Timegoesby,"thedriversaid.
"Didyoutwoworkatthesameplace?
"Iaskedhim.
"No,butwehungoutonthesamecornerwhenwewere
single.Andthen,whenweweremarried,weusedtogo
toeachother'shouseeverynowandthen.Butforthe
last20or30yearsit'sbeenmostlyjustChristmas
cards.
Ofcoursethere'd
bealways
anote
we'deachadd
tothecards
—usuallysomenewsaboutourfamilies,
youknow,whatthekidsweredoing,whomovedwhere,
anewgrandchild,thingslikethat
—butneverareal
letteroranythinglikethat."
"This
is
agoodpart
here,"
Isaid.
升级会员 