Virginia Woolf on How to Read
“Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice.”
“The mind, the brain, the top of the tingling spine, is, or should be, the only instrument used upon a book,” Vladimir Nabokov wrote in h is treatise on what makes a good reader. “Part of a reader?s job is to find out why certain writers endure,” advised Francine Prose in her guide to reading like a writer. “My encounters with books I regard very much as my encounters with other phenomena of life or thought. All encounters are configurate, not isolate.” Henry Miller confessed in his reflections on a lifetime of reading. But how, exactly, does one read a book, and read it well? That?s precisely what Virginia Woolf addressed in a 1925 essay titled “How Should One Read a Book?,” found in The Second Common Reader (public library; public domain) —the same collection of 26 exquisite essays that gave us Woolf?s critique of criticis m and a Literary Jukebox treat.
Woolf begins with the same disclaimer of subjectivity that John Steinbeck issued half a century later in his six timeless tips on writing. She writes:
The only advice … that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us, then I feel at the liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all, what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloowas certainly fought on a certain day; but is Hamlet a better play that Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that question for himself. To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions — there we have none.
She cautions against bringing baggage and pre-conceived notions to your reading:
Few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite.
Woolf reminds us of the osmotic skills of reading and writing:
Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties with words.
To exercise the imagination, she argues, is itself a special skill:
To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist — the great artist — gives you. As a hopeless lover of old diaries and letters, I was particularly taken with Woolf?s insight into the appeal of such literary voyeurism — especially given Woolf was a notable diarist herself:
How far, we must ask ourselves, is a book influenced by its writer?s life —how far is it safe to let the man interpret the writer? How far shall we resist or give way to the sympathies and antipathies that the man himself rouses in us — so sensitive are words, so receptive of the character of the author? These are questions that press upon us when we read lives and letters, and we must answer them for ourselves, for nothing can be more fatal than to be guided by the preferences of others in a matter so personal.
But also we can read such books with another aim, not to throw light on literature, not to become familiar with famous people, but to refresh and exercise our own creative powers.
Woolf moves on to the intricacies of poetry, adding to other famous meditations on what a poem is and what makes it good:
The impact of poetry is so hard and direct that for the moment there is no other sensation except that of the poem itself. What profound depths we visit then — how sudden and complete is our immersion! There is nothing here to catch hold of; nothing to stay us in our flight. … The poet is always our contemporary. Our being for the moment is centered and constricted, as in any violent shock of personal emotion. Afterwards, it is true, the sensation begins to spread in wider rings through our minds; remoter senses are reached; these begin to sound and to comment and we are aware of echoes and reflections. The intensity of poetry covers an immense range of emotion.
But despite this mystical mesmerism of the experience itself, Woolf reminds us, the true gift of reading takes place in that incubation period wherein ephemeral impressions become integrated and manifest as deeper ideas:
The first process, to receive impressions with the utmost understanding, is only half the process of reading; it must be completed, if we are to get the whole pleasure from a book, by another. We must pass judgement upon those multitudinous impressions; we must make of these fleeting shapes one that is hard and lasting. But not directly. Wait for the dust of reading to settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk, talk, pull the dead petals from a rose, or fall asleep. Then suddenly without our willing it, for it is thus that Nature undertakes these transitions, the book will return, but differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole.
In a testament to the notion that all creativity builds on what came before, echoing her own teenage insight on imitation and the arts and resonating with Henry Miller?s contention that “the vast body of literature, in every domain, is composed of hand-me-down ideas,” Woolf observes:
[W]e may be sure that the newness of new poetry and fiction is its most superficial quality and that we have only to alter slightly, not to recast, the standards by which we have judged the old.
She argues — beautifully —for the cultivation of taste, a concept we?ve seen paralleled in science, pointing to the very tuning of this compass for excellence as the ultimate existential reward of the art of reading:
It would be foolish … to pretend that the second part of reading, to judge, to compare, is as simple as the first —to open the mind wide to the fast flocking of innumerable impressions. To continue reading without the book before you, to hold one shadow-shape against another, to have read widely enough and with enough understanding to make such comparisons alive and illuminating — that is difficult; it is still more difficult to press further and to say, …Not only is the book of this sort, but it is of this value; here it fails; here it succeeds; this is bad; that is good.? To carry out this part of a reader?s duty needs such imagination, insight, and learning that it is hard to conceive any one mind sufficiently endowed; impossible for the most self-confident to find more than the seeds of such powers in himself. Would it not be wiser, then, to remit this part of reading and to allow the critics, the gowned and furred authorities of the library, to decide t he question of the book?s absolute value for us? Yet how impossible! We may stress the value of sympathy; we may try to sink our won identity as we read. But we know that we cannot sympathize wholly or immerse ourselves wholly; there is always a demon in u s who whispers, …I hate, I love,? and we cannot silence him. Indeed, it is precisely because we hate and we love that our relation with the poets and novelists is so intimate that we find the presence of another person intolerable. And even if the results are abhorrent and our judgments are wrong, still our taste, the nerve of sensation that sends shocks through us, is our chief illuminant; we learn through feeling; we cannot suppress our own idiosyncrasy without impoverishing it. But as time goes on perhaps we can train our taste; perhaps we can make it submit to some control. When it has fed greedily and lavishly upon books of all sorts — poetry, fiction, history, biography — and has stopped reading and looked for long spaces upon the variety, the incongruity of the living world, we shall find that it is changing a little; it is not so greedy, it is more reflective.
In a passing remark, as she frequently does, Woolf articulates a truth that extends far beyond literature and applies
to just about every aspect of life:
[N]othing is easier and more stultifying than to make rules which exist out of touch with facts, in a vacuum.
One of her most important points deals with the collective influence we exert as an audience on the nature and quality of what is being written:
[I]f to read a book as it should be read calls for the rarest qualities of imagination, insight, and judgment, you may perhaps conclude that literature is a very complex art and that it is unlikely that we shall be able, even after a lifetime of reading, to make any valuable contribution to its criticism. We must remain readers; we shall not put on the further glory that belongs to those rare beings who are also critics. But still we have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal into the air and become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work. An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never finds its way into print.
This point, while timeless, is timelier than ever today, when we choose — with our clicks, with our subscriptions, with our sharing, with your loyalty — the types of writing and media that get produced. At a time when the reader is being reduced to a monetizable pageview-eyeball, there?s only so much pagination, so much “sponsored content,” and so many slideshows we can take — the hope is that slowly, if painfully, the media landscape will begin to shift to reflect, and respect, the art of reading and begin to treat the reader as a true “fellow-worker and accomplice.”
Woolf reminds us, gently yet assertively, of the value of the amateur in driving culture forward:
If behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people reading for the love of reading, slowly and unprofessionally, and judging with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this improve the quality of his work?
Ultimately, Woolf —an eloquent champion of the joy of reading —considers reading not a means to some intellectual end, but an intellectual and creative reward in itself:
I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards —their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble — the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when He sees us coming with our books under our arms, …Look, those need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.?
纯真的童年作文 导读：纯真的童年作文篇1 小时候住在乡下，那是非常快乐的日子，在春天、夏天、秋天、冬天，我总是肆意奔跑在有着清新气息的田间，每个季节都有不同的游戏，童年的物质并不富足，但是我觉得很幸福，至今的梦里还时常会有那时的甜美回忆...... 春天，万物复苏，我爱极了田野间那动人的翠绿。无论是近处的小草还是远处的庄稼和大树，都是那么鲜艳欲滴的翠绿。我们在这美丽如画的风景里游戏，游戏的内容或许是踢毽子，跳绳，扔沙包，也会是很多人一起做不动来救人的游戏，我们都玩儿疯了，一直到各自的妈妈叫回家吃饭，才会恋恋不舍的离开，临走还会相约明天的游戏。 夏天，骄阳似火，我最喜欢美丽的荷塘，看如绿伞一样展开的荷叶摇曳在夏日的微风里，还有像仙子一样的荷花，亭亭玉立在绿叶如波的荷塘里，那么惹人爱怜。这个美丽的季节，我最爱的就是去池塘游泳，真是奇怪啊，小时候没怎样学就会游泳了，感觉在水里泡了几天就好像变成小鱼儿了。 秋天，秋高气爽，田间大片大片成熟的庄稼带给我震撼的美景。自然界的魔幻手，收获的季节真美。在这个季节里，田间已经成熟或即将成熟的作物会成为我们的野餐哦，在表哥的带领下，我们会在不知是谁家的田里悄悄摘来玉米、小麦或者地瓜，我们在土坝上用铲子挖出烤东西吃的小土窖，当然那个事是男孩子负责的，我们女孩子就负责找些柴火来，然后点火，或许烤的是半生不熟的，也有烤糊了的，
被人发现也会挨骂吧。那又怎样呢？我们都是吃的不亦乐乎，小小的嘴巴都是黑乎乎的，然后相视而笑，在村后河边的土坝上，留下了我们幸福快乐的童年记忆。 当秋风吹尽落叶，冬天就要来了，在乡下，最多最美的记忆是在深冬，记得那时的雪会很大，一脚踩下去会深及小膝，到处白茫茫一片，整个村落笼罩在童话般美丽的世界里。在皑皑白雪的映照下，天也是蓝到极致了。河里的冰自然也很厚，还可以看见冻在稍浅一些冰层的鱼。还是哥哥们本领大，用木头做成能滑动的木排，可以自己在上面滑动，也可以坐在上面让别人拉着跑，当然我每次都是坐着的，在冰上飞奔的感觉真是奇妙啊。 感谢爸爸妈妈，给了我一个如此快乐无忧的童年，幸福快乐的记忆会永远留在我心深处！永远温暖着我！ 纯真的童年作文篇2 童年就像蔓蔓青藤一样嫩绿了那些纯真的年纪，无忧无虑的走过了美好的记忆，童年就是一个小小的驿站，它只来临那么一次，是多么可贵、难忘！它的存在如生命中一首潺潺小诗，流淌着梦幻的烂漫纯真；它更是一首宛然的歌谣，溢满了欢笑和快乐，在最美好的岁月里拍打着最动听的旋律。那时犹如鲜花的心空时有蓝色梦幻的点缀，梦幻彰显着童年的纯真。人生年轮轻扣童贞的门扉，把孩提带到一个瑰丽的世界。 岁月在快乐中也在忧愁里很快流逝了。回首童年，记忆的天空仅留下的是几声掠空而过的大雁长鸣，些许随溪而流的童贞符号，几多
Virginia Woolf (1882–1941).Monday or Tuesday. 1921. The Mark on the Wall P ERHAPS it was the middle of January in the present that I first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece. How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it.... If that mark was made by a nai l, it can’t have been for a picture, it must have been for a miniature—the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. A fraud of course, for the people who had this house before us would have chosen pictures in that way—an old picture for an old room. That is the sort of people they were—very interesting people, and I think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will never see them again, never know what happened next. They wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train. But as for that mark, I’m not sure about it; I don’t believe it was made by a nail after all; it’s too big, too round, for that. I might get up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn’t be able to say for certain; because once a thing’s done, no one ever knows how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; The inaccuracy of thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our possessions we have—what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization—let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of losses—what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble—three pale blue canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ—all gone, and jewels, too. Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I’ve any clothes on my back, that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour—landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one’s hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one’s hair flying back like the tail of a race-horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard.... But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it
Virginia Woolf on How to Read “Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice.” “The mind, the brain, the top of the tingling spine, is, or should be, the only instrument used upon a book,” Vladimir Nabokov wrote in h is treatise on what makes a good reader. “Part of a reader?s job is to find out why certain writers endure,” advised Francine Prose in her guide to reading like a writer. “My encounters with books I regard very much as my encounters with other phenomena of life or thought. All encounters are configurate, not isolate.” Henry Miller confessed in his reflections on a lifetime of reading. But how, exactly, does one read a book, and read it well? That?s precisely what Virginia Woolf addressed in a 1925 essay titled “How Should One Read a Book?,” found in The Second Common Reader (public library; public domain) —the same collection of 26 exquisite essays that gave us Woolf?s critique of criticis m and a Literary Jukebox treat. Woolf begins with the same disclaimer of subjectivity that John Steinbeck issued half a century later in his six timeless tips on writing. She writes: The only advice … that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us, then I feel at the liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all, what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloowas certainly fought on a certain day; but is Hamlet a better play that Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that question for himself. To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions — there we have none. She cautions against bringing baggage and pre-conceived notions to your reading: Few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite. Woolf reminds us of the osmotic skills of reading and writing: Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties with words. To exercise the imagination, she argues, is itself a special skill: To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist — the great artist — gives you. As a hopeless lover of old diaries and letters, I was particularly taken with Woolf?s insight into the appeal of such literary voyeurism — especially given Woolf was a notable diarist herself: How far, we must ask ourselves, is a book influenced by its writer?s life —how far is it safe to let the man interpret the writer? How far shall we resist or give way to the sympathies and antipathies that the man himself rouses in us — so sensitive are words, so receptive of the character of the author? These are questions that press upon us when we read lives and letters, and we must answer them for ourselves, for nothing can be more fatal than to be guided by the preferences of others in a matter so personal.
岁月偷不走的童心 时间：2019-07-31 11:44:21 | 作者：郑浩 岁月是一个神出鬼没的小偷，它徘徊在我们的身边，甚至穿梭于你我的心间，时刻准备着“偷走”属于我们的东西。当你在成长的道路上不断行进着，为梦奔跑的时候，你可曾想过，在这漫长的岁月里你失去了什么？当你活得潇潇洒洒，恣意挥洒青春的时候，你可曾想过，在这轮回的岁月中你曾遗失了什么？ 是的，童心！你是不是觉得自己离童年越来越远，也沾沾自喜于自己的越来越成熟？ 我们都经历过童年，都曾有过一颗童心，而大多数人，在生活中，因他人的要求或自己的愿望或环境的影响，在不知不觉中，把童心交给了岁月，让它随风而逝，留下的只是午夜梦回的微笑或怅惘。 一年级，我在家里和小伙伴玩过家家，用稚嫩的声音说：“你当叔叔，我当爸爸。”妈妈走过，说：“你都一年级了，该长大了！”我说：“没关系，还早！” 五年级，我的弟弟上了小学一年级，于是我多了个小跟班。周末，我们拿出几把小刀、小叉摆弄起来。这时，妈妈从旁走过，用一种不满的口吻说：“小浩，你都五年级了，是大孩子了，怎么还和小朋友玩玩具呢？别这么幼稚了！” 七年级，中午自修，我趴在课桌上睡着了，醒来发现班主任站在我旁边。后来听同学说：“班主任在你睡觉的时候说，这孩子，还像在读三四年级似的，一点都没有学习的紧张感。真是个孩子！”于是，我成了班级里唯一一个稚气未消的学生。 放半月假回家，路上偶遇曾经的邻居小孩。以前的他喜欢跟我玩玩具，喜欢看动画片，看见地上有垃圾会主动捡起来扔进垃圾箱，而现在的他学着EXO和那些韩国明星的舞步，手抱着头，脚步从不落在实地，永远在路上扭成S形，一张开嘴巴，迸射出的就是“靠”等诸如此类的话语。对家长谎报成绩，对我炫酷。这就是所谓的成熟吗？ 成长是不可避免的，但是不是成长了就不能拥有童心了呢？或许，问出这个问题本身就是幼稚的表现。但我只是希望在成长的同时能不抛弃童心，甚至被人说是幼稚也不在乎。童心的世界是不被许多人所理解的。在童心中，树是能说话的，鸟是有智慧的，童心赋予一切事物以生命，所有的事物因童心而变得美好。 没有人说成熟与稚气不能并存。在岁月的流逝中，我们不断的成长，可我们不应该把一切的纯真、美好都抛弃。
被岁月偷走的纯真高考满分作文 我的成长是件冗长的事儿，如果我把我的短短的十五年间发生的事情排好队，让它们像蚂蚁一样从面前爬过去的话，我想那肯定需要很多个日夜，可是我不觉得它冗长，因为我觉得自己是一下子就在风里面窜成了一个十五岁的大孩子。 小的时候，我喜欢在落满雪花的台阶上扫出一小块空地，我坐在扫干净的青石板上，托着下巴看着漫天漫地的雪花和在雪地上撒野的孩子们，偶尔有雪落在我的手上，然后就迅速地化掉了，于是我就很害怕，觉得我把雪花弄死了，于是我戴上手套小心地接着它们。我的心里溢出了流淌的欢乐。 我喜欢找一条漂亮的马路，然后在上面气定神闲地走，走过斑斑树荫的时候我像是走过了自己心中明明灭灭的悲喜。 我喜欢蹲在马路上，看着那些树叶一片一片地掉下来，一直掉满整个大地。我总觉得那些树叶慌慌张张地掉下来是为了遮住一个大秘密，而我扫开落叶，看到的总是黑色的柏油马路。就像我蹲在路边看见天上慢慢走过一朵云，我就会傻傻地望着天空，想看看云走过了露出来是什么，但云后面还是那个千年不变的天空，仍是那个天空，总是那个天空。 而现在，变了的不只我的容貌，还有我那遗失了的纯真，因为心中有了羞赧和踌躇，对纷繁复杂的眼之所见有了惧怕。
我不再担心雪花被我弄死而用手套去接它们，我不再有那份耐心去走一条漂亮的马路，我亦不再有那样天真去等待树叶落完。生活的节奏越来越快，学 习的压力越来越重，父母倒个垃圾都得唠叨几句，已经无法回到当初那样美好。 每个星光坠落的夜晚，我裹紧棉被沉沉地闭上眼睛。 浅浅的睡眠，沉沉的梦幻，醒来，你已在彼岸。 我那被岁月偷走的纯真啊。 [被岁月偷走的纯真高考满分作文]相关文章：
Adeline Virginia Woolf（25 January 1882 – 28 March 1941) was an English author, essayist, publisher, and writer of short stories, regarded as one of the foremost modernist literary figures of the twentieth century. During the interwar period, Woolf was a significant figure in London literary society and a member of the Bloomsbury Group. Her most famous works include the novels Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927) and Orlando (1928), and the book-length essay A Room of One's Own (1929), with its famous dictum, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Early life Virginia Woolf was born Adeline Virginia Stephen in London in 1882 to Sir Leslie Stephen and Julia Prinsep Stephen (née Jackson). Virginia's father, Sir Leslie Stephen (1832–1904), was a notable historian, author, critic and mountaineer.[1] He was the editor of the Dictionary of National Biography, a work which would influence Woolf's later experimental biographies. Virginia's mother Julia Stephen (1846–1895) was a renowned
回不去的童年 童年似流水一样的过去，时光是不老的，老的是人。走在时间里的人，于纷扰的世间，忙碌着做一些可有可无的事情。混迹于人群中失去自己，再也找不回原来的模样了。 ——题记童年，那么美，于生活的忙碌之中总会不经意间忆起小时候的点点滴滴：一件事、一个画面、亦或一句话，就勾起了幼年时光里的一串串回忆，那回忆如清脆的风铃，吟唱出天籁之音，动人心弦，那回忆如陈年佳酿，散发真浓郁芳香，醉人心脾。 记得，童年的课堂中永远洋溢着快乐与朝气。那时候没有背不完的书、做不完的作业，学习对于小时候的我们是多么轻松和充满乐趣的事儿啊，从不曾刻意努力，轻而易举地便考出了好成绩。做为奖励，老实偶尔会在课堂上给我们唱歌、讲故事、变魔术，讲过的故事情节已被岁月冲淡，听故事时的喜悦和兴奋劲儿现在回想起来却还犹如当年。 记得，童年的课余生活有着那个时代特有的乐趣。下课铃声响，大伙儿便一窝蜂似的冲出教室，飞奔到和学校只隔了一条小路的麦场中。场中有间或堆起的麦秸垛，一群人便穿梭在其间嬉戏、打闹，直到上课铃声响，才意犹未尽地离开。放了学，好玩儿的就更多了：跳绳、跳皮筋、撂窑儿、踢城、抓石子儿、扳泥巴，还有“冰糕、解冻”、“机器灵、砍大刀”……没有哪个游戏是我们不爱的。现在想来，如此简单的小小游戏却带给那时的我们如此纯粹的快乐，而如今，那样简单却直抵心灵的快乐再没有了。 记得，童年的小伙伴，曾经一起因为偷摘别人树上的梨迟到而被老师罚站，曾经在冬天为了取暖在课桌斗中点起蜡烛，结果有人不小心燃着了作业，曾经
几个人相约步行十多里到镇上去赶会，曾经几个人围坐在夏日斑驳的树影下打扑克，曾经……而如今，童年的伙伴，我不知道，倘若彼此再相见，想得起名字的是否已被岁月改变了容颜，而认得出模样的是否还能像幼时那样每日相见但却相见甚欢？ 记得，童年的村庄是干净清秀的，白天可以看到蔚蓝的天，晚上可以望见亮亮的繁星。夏日夜晚躺在平房上听奶奶讲着：北斗星永远在北方，牛郎星挑着一双儿女，在他不远处伴着被王母无情拆散时侄女扔给他的梭子。那条蜿蜒穿过村庄正中的小河，河边总是挤满了洗衣的女人及玩耍的孩子，离河不远的那口井，井水终年往外翻滚着，挑水的人络绎不绝。而如今，河干了，井枯了。 童年，那么美。而我们，再也回不去…… 机电科 2015年9月18日
被岁月偷走的精选作文700字 想要写一篇关于被岁月偷走的半命习题精选作文，那么应该怎么写精选作文内容呢？下面就和小编一起来看看吧。 被岁月偷走的精选作文700字篇1 被岁月偷走的夏天 谁的青春不迷茫，谁的青春不一样。 ---习题记 人们总把七月描绘成黑色的，可我认为十六岁的仲夏更应该有栀子花，白花瓣，拂面的微风，身边单纯的笑脸。 早上匆匆穿上白皙宽大的校服，连早点也顾不上吃就挤上开完学校的公车，突然记起昨晚作业习习题还没做完，摸摸脑袋，露出一副大方就义的模样。在拥挤的清晨，城市被薄雾遮住半张脸，车窗中映照出的侧颜让自己自恋般的笑笑：“谁说我不帅了，这不挺好看的么”嘴角上翘的弧度像枝条般伸展开来，瘦薄的肩膀露出白皙的锁骨，伴随着风摘走脸上细密的汗珠，开始了寻常又不通于以往的一天。 迈着大步奔跑进校园，洗的漂白的校服上歪歪斜斜的写着自己青春的箴言，放肆着自己的个性。“昨晚明明放到书包里的复习资料哪去了?怎么现在就找不到了?”“没带书的自己往出走，你们都是快重点初中毕业的人了，连书也不带，有想过念书么?”你不由的疑心自己没带书的时候总是碰倒老班心情不好的时候，针尖似的声音，伴随着同学小声地议论絮絮叨叨的折磨着你的耳朵，这样的感觉真难受。 闷热的下午，伴随着睡意，恍惚的目光对上物理教师的“真眼”，
只见她一副痛心疾首的样子大声说道：“你们可都是少年，祖国的将来，这么能像学校西墙根底下的老太太!”我们只是以一副没睡醒的样子为难的笑着应着，然后继续神游九天，发着呆。 太阳西斜，我们放学。每次冲出被灯火照曜的异常灿烂的教学楼，总有种自由的感觉。像出笼的鸟儿。黄昏中我们三五成群，衣领上留存着吃小吃不小心沾染上的污渍，和小伙伴们望着夜晚中亮晶晶的窗户，凝视着校门口走出自己暗恋的佳人，单纯美妙。 晚上回家，一脸倦怠。用一张挂在门上的写有“正在复习”的纸板回绝妈妈的宵夜。写完作业大段待在屋子里的时间其实是用来听歌发愣的，有时妈妈假装没看到门上告示进来查岗，虽然嘴里背着不着调的英语单词但是内心还在想着枕头下藏着的小说。 可是你不知道，时间会挖空西瓜中最甜的部分，就像很多事会被风吹凉，很多人像相交线般在一点碰撞出剧烈的火花后走散。在你不经意的时候，小时候的公仔，卡片会伴随着记忆一起被扔掉。我们要成熟，要长大，要稳重。要和明媚或悲伤的过去渐行渐远。因为，在将来，我们还有很多旅途要走，我们还需煽动翅膀，扑棱扑棱的昂首向前飞。 被岁月偷走的精选作文700字篇2 被时光偷走的诺言 一直觉得，许下承诺是一件圣洁而美妙的事情。生命所给予我的美妙，远远比我需要的要多很多。我怀着一份最为纯粹的愿望，洗去铅华的蜕变，告别晨曦雨露，作别西边云彩炫目，向着曾经许下的诺言，逆行在绚丽的光阴里。
岁月偷不走的母爱 九3班范旭星 人人都说父爱如山，母爱如水，都说母爱是世界上最无私，最伟大的爱。 从我出生的时候，母亲就要去鬼门关走一遭，每个人的出生都会使自己的母亲遭受痛苦的熬煎。 记得小时候，我非常顽皮。 那时候，我和小伙伴在一起玩耍，玩累了坐在一块休息，突然有人提议去偷桃，起初，我们都不敢去，但在大一点儿的伙伴的撺掇下，最后我们举手表示同意。 我们一路小跑到了桃树林里，可是，因我的胆子比较小，而不敢去树上摘桃子，看着小伙伴们一个个若无其事的样子，我的胆子也大了起来，于是，我也上到树上开始摘那又大又红的桃子。摘着摘着，不知不觉就听见有人笑声喊道：“有人来了！看桃的人来了！”听见有着一声喊，吓得我从树上跳下来，扔掉桃子就跑。跑着跑着，却听见有人的哈哈大笑，仔细一看才知道，是伙伴们的恶作剧。我变又回去继续摘桃子。 当我全神贯注地摘着桃子的时候，又听见有人喊道：“快跑啊！看桃子的人来了！”我心里想，我才不上当呢，有恶作剧呢。我继续摘那又大又红的桃子，桃子太诱人了，看的我馋涎欲滴，哪里还有注意身边的情况呢，只听见一个人冲着我大喊一声：“好啊！你竟敢偷我的桃子！看我怎么收拾你！” 一听这个声音，我抱起地上的桃子就跑，别人都跑远了，我个儿小，力气也小，跑的又慢，被远远地落在了后面。眼看看桃的人追到我了，我咬紧牙关，疾跑。这时候，我的一个小伙伴因慌不择路，摔倒了，她就只有坐在地上哭的份儿了。趁这个机会，我捡起地上的一个黑色塑料袋，把桃子装进去，拎着就跑，很快就到家了，我把桃子倒在床上，见家里没有人，我赶紧跑出家门，直到天很晚很晚才回家来。 天黑了，我小心翼翼地回到家里，推开门，却看见妈妈坐在沙发上，一脸严肃的表情。我心里只哆嗦，这下糟了，肯定要挨打了。 妈妈问我，床上的桃子哪里来的，我支支吾吾地，不敢说事情。但在妈妈的教育下，我最终只能以实情相告。我知道，今天肯定要挨打了。我低着头不敢看妈妈的脸，等着妈妈的巴掌拳头。屋里静极了，连我自己心跳的声音都能听得清清楚楚。令我以外的是，妈妈这次没有像以前一样打我骂我，而是告诉我：做人要诚实，要有会错改错的精神；要敢于正视自己的过失，勇于向被冒犯的人道歉。妈妈还告诉我，桃林是隔壁张大爷的，张大爷腿脚有毛病，不能出门打工挣更多的钱养家糊口，全指望这片桃林呢。听妈妈如此说，我后悔的无地自容，我怎么可以如此没有爱心呢。在妈妈的教育下，我将桃子送还给了张大爷。 现在，我初中快要毕业了。岁月让我一天天长大，使妈妈一天天变老。岁月偷走了妈妈的青春年华，也偷走了我的无知的童年，可是岁月却无法偷走妈妈给予我的爱。 母爱如水，温柔深沉；母爱如金，博大厚重。
岁月神偷观后感600字小学六年级 当看到《岁月神偷》电影题目时，给人一种很大的悬念，似乎都对内容有很大的玄机，以为这是一个讲述某神偷如何如何技巧过人、令人目眩神迷的故事。看过之后，才知道原来是这样。下面我们一起来瞧瞧岁月神偷观后感! 岁月神偷的观后感 看了电影《岁月神偷》，心中涌起一次次淡淡的忧伤和莫名的感动，简单的情节，平淡的叙述，将家庭的亲情和少年懵懂的爱情演绎的真实而又亲切。它仿佛在述说你的故事，这个故事就发生在你的昨天。进一的家庭无疑是拮据的，但亲情让贫苦的家庭一样温馨。它让你回想起少年时上学的情景，男生和女生，简单而又熟悉。有的是对未来的遐想和憧憬，不用面对未来的挑战和世俗的眼光。但父母却要为这个家庭无怨无悔的付出。进一得了白血病，阿爸阿妈即使将全部值钱家什当了也要为儿子输血，进二一夜之间长大了许多，家里都在为进一深深的祈祷，每一个情节，你都可以找到自己家庭的影子。感动，在于能引起深深的共鸣，在于平淡中演绎的真实。 纯洁而又浪漫的初恋，让人陶醉让人感动。一旦离开莫名的想念，一旦见面会心的微笑，一旦分离来往的书信，一旦重逢深深的拥抱，初恋，遥远而又让人回味，。曾经有段岁月时间过得漫长而又急速，曾经有个人偷走过你的心。你会因为TA的一个小小的礼物而欣喜若狂，TA的一个甜蜜的吻而心神荡漾。你是完全的心有所属，你的世界满是TA的影子。而这一切随着年龄的增长都会溜走，所以初恋是
不加糖的咖啡，在苦涩中有让人回味的甘甜。 而我们终要长大，父母也在一天天衰老，生活也会经历无法预料的变故，所以我们要倍加珍惜现在的拥有。年少时我们不懂父母的苦心，爱情的脆弱，一旦明白了，岁月已经不再停留。岁月偷走了我们生命中的最重要的人，也在偷走我们经历的感情，所以，生命中的每一天，要用心去过，因为不知道哪一天，你拥有的，会被岁月不知不觉的偷走… 观岁月神偷的感想 小男孩快速抓起小乌龟和鱼缸，离开了卖鱼的店铺。轻松的音乐伴随着男孩一路小跑。一部笑中带泪的电影开始了。 他有一个幸福的家庭，期初是的。爸妈虽然很凶，却十分的爱他，还有另他骄傲的哥哥。都是他的一切。 一场突如其来的台风，却改变了一切。长子被查出患有血癌。大家都不相信，这么优秀，阳光，帅气的人会患有这种不治之症。 一个单靠信念支撑的年代，在半难半佳中，他们奋力向前 轻轻地将鱼缸盖在头上，想圆太空人的梦想，悄悄地将明星卡片卖掉，想圆蛋黄月饼的美梦。脑子中不时出现各式各样奇形怪状的幻想，未曾放弃。可是人终要长大，总免不了亲人的别离，无论是加加林还是冯宝宝，都敌不过岁月如梭，一个幻想的孩子也正儿八经地读上了文学，不再倒背英文字母。幻想还是让位给了现实。 在幻变的生命里，岁月，原来是最大的小偷··· 幻想在岁月的洗礼下，既是如此易碎，现实在岁月的蹉跎之中，
A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf https://www.doczj.com/doc/023154009.html, Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, m aking sure--a ghostly couple. "Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them." But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the m argin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I com e in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass. But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they m oved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the m oment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were em pty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure? A m oment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, com ing to the wom an first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours." The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lam p falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy. "Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer cam e--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart. Nearer they com e, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips." Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flam e stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, m eeting, stain the faces bent; the faces