大学英语课文原文

大学英语课文原文

大学英语课文原文

随着国际贸易的'不断发展，英语这一门语言也变得越来越重要，下面是小编整理的相关内容，希望对你有帮助。

Section A:

Choose to Be Alone on Purpose

Here we are, all by ourselves, all 22 million of us by recent count, alone in our rooms, some of us liking it that way and some of us not. Some of us divorced, some widowed, some never yet committed.

Loneliness may be a sort of national disease here, and it's more embarrassing for us to admit than any other sin. On the other hand, to be alone on purpose, having rejected company rather than been cast out by it, is one characteristic of an American hero. The solitary hunter or explorer needs no one as they venture out among the deer and wolves to tame the great wild areas. Thoreau, alone in his cabin on the pond, his back deliberately turned to the town. Now, that's character for you.

Inspiration in solitude is a major commodity for poets and philosophers. They're all for it. They all speak highly of themselves for seeking it out, at least for an hour or even two before they hurry home for tea.

Consider Dorothy Wordsworth, for instance, helping her brother William put on his coat, finding his notebook and pencil for him, and waving as he sets forth into the early spring sunlight to look at flowers all by himself. “How graceful, how benign, is solitude,” he wrote.

No doubt about it, solitude is improved by being voluntary.

Look at Milton's daughters arranging his cushions and blankets before they silently creep away, so he can create poetry. Then, rather than trouble to put it in his own handwriting, he calls the girls to come back and write it down while he dictates.

You may have noticed that most of these artistic types went outdoors to be alone. The indoors was full of loved ones keeping the kettle warm till they came home.

The American high priest of solitude was Thoreau. We admire him, not for his self-reliance, but because he was all by himself out there at Walden Pond, and he wanted to be. All alone in the woods.

Actually, he lived a mile, or 20 minutes' walk, from his nearest neighbor; half a mile from the railroad; three hundred yards from a busy road. He had company in and out of the hut all day, asking him how he could possibly be so noble. Apparently the main point of his nobility was that he had neither wife nor servants, used his own axe to chop his own wood, and washed his own cups and saucers. I don't know who did his laundry; he doesn't say, but he certainly doesn't mention doing his own, either. Listen to him: “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

Thoreau had his own self-importance for company. Perhaps there's a message here. The larger the ego, the less the need for other egos around. The more modest and humble we feel, the more we suffer from solitude, feeling ourselves inadequate company.

If you live with other people, their temporary absence can be refreshing. Solitude will end on Thursday. If today I use a singular personal pronoun to refer to myself, next week I will use the plural form. While the others are absent you can stretch out your soul until it fills up the whole room, and use your freedom, coming and going as you please without apology, staying up late to read, soaking in the bath, eating a whole pint of ice cream at one sitting, moving at your own pace. Those absent will be back. Their waterproof winter coats are in the closet and the dog keeps watching for them at the window. But when you live alone, the temporary absence of your friends and acquaintances leaves a vacuum; they may never come back.

The condition of loneliness rises and falls, but the need to talk goes on forever. It's more basic than needing to listen. Oh, we all have friends we can tell important things to, people we can call to say we lost our job or fell on a slippery floor and broke our arm. It's the daily succession of small complaints and observations and opinions that backs up and chokes us. We can't really call a friend to say we got a parcel from our sister, or it's getting dark earlier now, or we don't trust that new Supreme Court justice.

Scientific surveys show that we who live alone talk at length to ourselves and our pets and the television. We ask the cat whether we should wear the blue suit or the yellow dress. We ask the parrot if we should prepare steak, or noodles for dinner. We

argue with ourselves over who is the greater sportsman: that figure skater or this skier. There's nothing wrong with this. It's good for us, and a lot less embarrassing than the woman in front of us in line at the market who's telling the cashier that her niece Melissa may be coming to visit on Saturday, and Melissa is very fond of hot chocolate, which is why she bought the powdered hot chocolate mix, though she never drinks it herself.

It's important to stay rational.

It's important to stop waiting and settle down and make ourselves comfortable, at least temporarily, and find some grace and pleasure in our condition, not like a self-centered British poet but like a patient princess sealed up in a tower, waiting for the happy ending to our fairy tale.

After all, here we are. It may not be where we expected to be, but for the time being we might as well call it home. Anyway, there is no place like home.

Section A：

Does Mickey Mouse have a beard?

No.

Does this mean that French men seeking work with the Disney organization must shave off their moustaches too?

It depends.

A labor inspector took the Disney organization to court this week, contending that the company's dress and appearance code — which bans moustaches, beards, excess weight, short skirts and fancy stockings — offends individual liberty and violates French labor law.

The case is an illustration of some of the delicate cultural issues the company faces as it gets ready to open its theme park 20 miles (32 kilometers) east of Paris in five months' time.

The Disney management, which is assembling what it calls a \"cast\" of 12,000 to run the theme park, argues that all employees, from bottle washers to the president, are similar to actors who have to obey rules about appearance. Anyway, a company spokesman says, no one has yet put his moustache before a job. As one new \"cast member\" put it: \"You must believe in what you are doing, or you would have a terrible time here.\"

But what do people think of Euro Disney? People everywhere are wondering whether Europeans would like the American recreation.

For all its concern about foreign cultural invasion and its defense against the pollution of the French language by English words, France's Socialist government has been untroubled about putting such a huge American symbol on the doorstep of the capital and has been more concerned about its social effect. It made an extraordinary

series of tax and financial concessions to attract the theme park here rather than let it go to sunny Spain.

The theme park itself will be only part of a giant complex of housing, office, and resort developments stretching far into the next century, including movie and television production facilities. As part of its deal with the Disney organization, the government is laying on and paying for new highways, an extension of Paris's regional express railway and even a direct connection for the high speed TGV railway to the Channel Tunnel. The TGV station is being built in front of the main entrance of Euro Disneyland, and is scheduled to come into service in 1994.

If Euro Disneyland succeeds — where theme parks already in France have so far failed — a second and even a third park is likely to be built by the end of the century. Financial experts say that Euro Disneyland, the first phase of which is costing an estimated $3.6 billion, is essential to Disney's overall fortunes, which have been hit by competition and declining attendance in the United States.

French intellectuals have not found many kind things to say about the project. The kids, however, will probably never notice. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Peter Pan, and Pinocchio all come from European fairy tales or stories and are as familiar to children here as they are in the United States. To a French child Mickey is French. To an Italian kid he is Italian.

The Disney management is stressing this tradition in an apparent response to suggestions that it is culturally insensitive. Although the concept of the theme park is

closely based on the original Magic Kingdom in California and Walt Disney World in Florida, \"Euro Disneyland will be unique in a manner appropriate to its European home,\" the company says. \"The legends and fairy tales which come from Europe figure prominently in the creative development of the theme park.\" Officials point out, for example, that Sleeping Beauty's castle, the central feature of the theme park, is based not on Hollywood, as some might think, but on the illustrations in a medieval European book. Also, a 360-degree movie, based on the adventures of Jules Verne, features well-known European actors.

Asked to describe other aspects of the effort to make the park more European, a spokesman mentioned that direction signs in the theme park will be in French as well as English, and that some performers will chat in French, Spanish and English. \"The challenge is telling things people already know — and at the same time making it different,\" the spokesman said.

On the other hand, this effort is not being taken too far. Another Disney spokesman said earlier that the aim of the theme park is to provide a basically American experience for those who seek it. In this way, he said, people who might otherwise have contemplated a vacation in the United States will be happy to stay on this side of the Atlantic.

The Disney organization does seem to focus a bit too much on hair. \"Main Street, USAhe heart of Euro Disneyland, it promises, will feature an old time \"Harmony Barber Shop\" to deal with \"messy hair and hairy chins\" — and perhaps even offending mustaches. One difference from California or Florida: Parts of Main Street and waiting

areas to get into the attractions will be covered over as a concession to Paris's rainy weather.

Euro Disneyland's short distance to Paris is a definite attraction. Anyone tiring of American or fake European culture can reach the Louvre art museum by express railway in less than an hour — from Minnie Mouse to Mona Lisa in a flash.

Communications figured largely in the Disney organization's decision to site its fourth theme park near Paris. The site is within a two-hour flight of 320 million Europeans. The opening of Eastern Europe is another prize for the company, which thinks that millions of people will put Disneyland at the top of a list of places to visit on their first trip to Western Europe.

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Section A：

Slavery Gave Me Nothing to Lose

I remember the very day that I became black. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a black town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando, Florida. The native whites rode dusty horses, and the northern tourists traveled down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped chewing sugar cane when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again.

They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The bold would come outside to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.

The front deck might seem a frightening place for the rest of the town, but it was a front row seat for me. My favorite place was on top of the gatepost. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn't mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I'd wave at them and when they returned my wave, I would say a few words of greeting. Usually the automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a strange exchange of greetings, I would probably \"go a piece of the way\" with them, as we say in farthest Florida, and follow them down the road a bit. If one of my family happened to come to the front of the house in time to see me, of course the conversation would be rudely broken off.

During this period, white people differed from black to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me \"speak pieces\" and sing and wanted to see me dance, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop. Only they didn't know it. The colored people gave no coins. They disapproved of any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the country — everybody's Zora.

But changes came to the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville as Zora. When I got off the riverboat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a huge change. I was not Zora of Eatonville

any more; I was now a little black girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a permanent brown — like the best shoe polish, guaranteed not to rub nor run.

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is something sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible war that made me an American instead of a slave said \"On the line!\" The period following the Civil War said \"Get set!\"; and the generation before me said \"Go!\" Like a foot race, I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the middle to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think, to know, that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the audience not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.

I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of that small village, Eatonville. For instance, I can sit in a restaurant with a white person. We enter chatting about any little things that we have in common and the white man would sit calmly in his seat, listening to me with interest.

At certain times I have no race, I am me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of mixed items propped up against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a pile of small things both valuable and worthless. Bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a

door long since decayed away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still with a little smell. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the pile it held — so much like the piles in the other bags, could they be emptied, that all might be combined and mixed in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place — who knows?