综合英语教程第五册 课文翻译(珍贵资料)

狱中学习今天，许多在什么地方直接听我讲话的人，或在电视上听我讲话的人，或读过我写的东西的人，都会以为我上学远不止只读到8年级。

这一印象完全归之于我在监狱里的学习。

2 It had really begun back in the Charlestown Prison, when Bimbi first made me fe el envy of his stock of knowledge. Bimbi had always taken charge of any conversati on he was in, and I had tried to emulate him. But every book I picked up had few sentences which didn’t contain anywhere from one to nearly all of the words that might as well hav e been in Chinese[2 … the words that might as well have been in Chinese: … it would have made no difference if the English words had been in Chi nese, because I didn’t have the slightest knowledge of either.]2. When I just skippe d those words, of course, I really ended up with little idea of what the book said. So I had come to the Norfolk Prison Colony still going through only book-reading m otions. Pretty soon, I would have quit even these motions, unless I had received th e motivation that I did.其实这事要从查尔斯顿监狱说起，一开始宾比就让我对他的知识渊博羡慕不已。

你说你是一个全球变暖的怀疑者?也许你不住在沿着海岸的弗洛里达洲或者希什马瑞芙洲，阿拉斯加州吧：住在那些地区的人们通常都相信全球变暖。

弗洛里达洲在2004年时遭遇了四场魔鬼般的飓风，在一年后，卡特里娜袭击了新奥尔良和密西西比州的沿岸地区。

许多科学家相信，这些飓风时节的超强破坏力应该归因于全球变暖。

大风暴加强了墨西哥州沿岸的暖流，一年一年，这些纬度地区变得越来越暖。

You say you'are a skept c on globa lwarmi rg?至于，希什马瑞福州的一个小镇(人口600),它是一个因纽皮亚克的爱斯基摩小村庄，坐落于一个细长的屏障岛屿，在安克雷奇北边625英里处。

当《时代》记者Mar gt Roose vl在2004年参观它时，她发现在它正在“融入海洋”。

它已经少了10至30英尺的海岸线，而这数字中的一半发生在1997以后。

在沙滩下的永久冻土开始消融，海面上的冰也正不断减少，这使得居民对于凶猛的暴风雨来说，显得越来越脆弱。

一间房子倒了，18间其他的房子就得带着镇上大量的油桶，搬到更高的地方去。

巨浪冲走了学校的操场，毁灭了价值10000美元的船只，打猎与晒鱼的装备。

“这太可怕了，”村里的官员Iri Ening owuk告诉Roos evelt 。

“每一年我们都非常害怕，下一场暴风雨会把我们都冲走。

”由于海面结冰得越来越晚，希什马瑞福州通常开始于10月的冰钓季，现在开始于2 月。

浆果采摘开始于7月而非8月。

对于因纽皮亚克人来说最令人绝望的就是稀薄的冰面似的猎捕髯海豹变得非常困难，一种长胡须的海报，那是他们饮食和文化的重要组成部分。

什么正在继续?全球变暖，一部分是由石油和汽油的燃烧造成的，它使墨西哥沿岸甚至极地地区都受到创伤，而在极地地区，复杂的气候进程与雪、永久冻土和冰联系在一起，放大了全球变暖的影响。

2004年，在《科学》上出版的一篇文章发现，南极洲西部的冰川正以二十世纪九十年代两倍的速度消融。

One Writer's Beginnings1 I learned from the age of two or three that any room in our house, at any time of day, was there to read in, or to be read to. My mother read to me.She'd read to me in the big bedroom in the mornings, when we were in her rocker together, which ticked in rhythm as we rocked, as though we had a cricket accompanying the story. She'd read to me in the dining room on winterafternoons in front of the coal fire, with our cuckoo clock ending the story with "Cuckoo", and at night when I'd got in my own bed. I must have given herno peace. Sometimes she read to me in the kitchen while she sat churning, and the churning sobbed along with any story. It was my ambition to have her readto me while I churned; once she granted my wish, but she read off my story before I brought her butter. She was an expressive reader. When she was reading "Puss in Boots," for instance, it was impossible not to know that shedistrusted all cats.作家起步时我从两三岁起就知道，家中随便在哪个房间里，白天无论在什么时间，都可以念书或听人念书。

Unit 1 Love of readingText A One Writer's Beginnings1 I learned from the age of two or three that any room in our house, at any time of day, was there to read in, or to be read to. My mother read to me. She'd read to me in the big bedroom in the mornings, when we were in her rocker together, which ticked in rhythm as we rocked, as though we had a cricket accompanying the story. She'd read to me in the dining room on winter afternoons in front of the coal fire, with our cuckoo clock ending the story with "Cuckoo", and at night when I'd got in my own bed. I must have given her no peace. Sometimes she read to me in the kitchen while she sat churning, and the churning sobbed along with any story. It was my ambition to have her read to me while I churned; once she granted my wish, but she read off my story before I brought her butter. She was an expressive reader. When she was reading "Puss in Boots," for instance, it was impossible not to know that she distrusted all cats.2 It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they came from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them —with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. Still illiterate, I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them.3 Neither of my parents had come from homes that could afford to buy many books, but though it must have been something of a strain on his salary, as the youngest officer in a young insurance company, my father was all the while carefully selecting and ordering away for what he and Mother thought we children should grow up with. They bought first for the future .4 Besides the bookcase in the living room, which was always called "the library", there were the encyclopedia tables and dictionary stand under windows in our dining room. Here to help us grow up arguing around the dining room table were the Unabridged Webster, the Columbia Encyclopedia, Compton's Pictured Encyclopedia, the Lincoln Library of Information, and later the Book of Knowledge. In "the library", inside the bookcase were books I could soon begin on —and I did, reading them all alike and as they came, straight down their rows, top shelf to bottom. My mother read secondarily for information; she sank as a hedonist into novels. She read Dickens in the spirit in which she would have eloped with him. The novels of her girlhood that had stayed on in her imagination, besides those of Dickens and Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson, wereJane Eyre, Trilby, The Woman in White, Green Mansions, King Solomon's Mines.5 To both my parents I owe my early acquaintance with a beloved Mark Twain. There was a full set of Mark Twain and a short set of Ring Lardner in our bookcase, and those were the volumes that in time united us all, parents and children.6 Reading everything that stood before me was how I came upon a worn old book that had belonged to my father as a child. It was called Sanford and Merton. Is there anyone left who recognizes it, I wonder? It is the famous moral tale written by Thomas Day in the 1780s, but of him no mention is made on the title page of this book; here it is Sanford and Merton in Words of One Syllable by Mary Godolphin. Here are the rich boy and the poor boy and Mr. Barlow, their teacher and interlocutor, in long discourses alternating with dramatic scenes —anger and rescue allotted to the rich and the poor respectively. It ends with not one but two morals, both engraved on rings: "Do what you ought, come what may," and "If we would be great, we must first learn to be good."7 This book was lacking its front cover, the back held on by strips of pasted paper, now turned golden, in several layers, and the pages stained, flecked, and tattered around the edges; its garish illustrations had come unattached but were preserved, laid in. I had the feeling even in my heedless childhood that this was the only book my father as a little boy had had of his own. He had held onto it, and might have gone to sleep on its coverless face: he had lost his mother when he was seven. My father had never made any mention to his own children of the book, but he had brought it along with him from Ohio to our house and shelved it in our bookcase.8 My mother had brought from West Virginia that set of Dickens: those books looked sad, too — they had been through fire and water before I was born, she told me, and there they were, lined up — as I later realized, waiting for me.9 I was presented, from as early as I can remember, with books of my own, which appeared on my birthday and Christmas morning. Indeed, my parents could not give me books enough. They must have sacrificed to give me on my sixth or seventh birthday — it was after I became a reader for myself-the ten-volume set of Our Wonder World. These were beautifully made, heavy books I would lie down with on the floor in front of the dining room hearth, and more often than the rest volume 5, Every Child's Story Book, was under my eyes. There were the fairy tales —Grimm, Andersen, the English, the French, "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves"; and there was Aesop and Reynard the Fox; there were the myths and legends, Robin Hood, King Arthur, and St. George and the Dragon, even the history of Joan of Arc; a whack of Pilgrim's Progress and a long piece of Gulliver. They all carried their classic illustrations. I located myself in these pages andcould go straight to the stories and pictures I loved; very often "The Yellow Dwarf" was first choice, with Walter Crane's Yellow Dwarf in full color making his terrifying appearance flanked by turkeys. Now that volume is as worn and backless and hanging apart as my father's poor Sanford and Merton. One measure of my love for Our Wonder World was that for a long time I wondered if I would go through fire and water for it as my mother had done for Charles Dickens; and the only comfort was to think I could ask my mother to do it for me.10 I believe I'm the only child I know of who grew up with this treasure in the house.I used to ask others, "Did you have Our Wonder World?" I'd have to tell them The Book of Knowledge could not hold a candle to it.11 I live in gratitude to my parents for initiating me —as early as I begged for it, without keeping me waiting — into knowledge of the word, into reading and spelling, by way of the alphabet. They taught it to me at home in time for me to begin to read before starting to school.12 Ever since I was first read to, then started reading to myself, there has never beena line read that I didn't hear. As my eyes followed the sentence, a voice was saying it silently to me. It isn't my mother's voice, or the voice of any person I can identify, certainly not my own. It is human, but inward, and it is inwardly that I listen to it. It is to me the voice of the story or the poem itself. The cadence, whatever it is that asks you to believe, the feeling that resides in the printed word, reaches me through the reader-voice: I have supposed, but never found out, that this is the case with all readers — to read as listeners — and with all writers, to write as listeners. It may be part of the desire to write. The sound of what falls on the page begins the process of testing it for truth , for me. Whether I am right to trust so far I don't know. By now I don't know whether I could do either one, reading or writing, without the other.13 My own words, when I am at work on a story, I hear too as they go, in the same voice that I hear when I read in books. When I write and the sound of it comes back to my ears, then I act to make my changes. I have always trusted this voice.作家起步时我从两三岁起就知道，家中随便在哪个房间里，白天无论在什么时间，都可以念书或听人念书。

全大学英语综合教程5课文翻译1Unit1One Writer's XXX作家起步时1.我从两三岁起就知道，家中随便在哪个房间里，白天无论在什么时间，都可以念书或听人念书。

母亲念书给我听。

上午她都在那间大卧室里给我念，两人一起坐在她那把摇椅里，我们摇晃时，椅子发出有节奏的滴答声，好像有只唧唧鸣叫的蟋蟀在伴着读故事。

冬日午后，她常在餐厅里烧着煤炭的炉火前给我念，XXX自XXX发出“咕咕”声时，故事便结束了；晚上我在自己床上睡下后她也给我念。

想必我是不让她有一刻清静。

有时她在厨房里一边坐着搅制黄油一边给我念，故事情节就随着搅制黄油发出的抽抽搭搭的声响不断展开。

我的奢望是她念我来搅拌；有一次她满足了我的愿望，可是我要听的故事她念完了，她要的黄油我却还没弄好。

她念起故事来富有表情。

比如，她念《穿靴子的猫》时，你就没法不相信她对猫一概怀疑。

2当我得知故事书原来是人写出来的，书本原来不是什么大自然的奇迹，不像草那样自生自长时，真是又震惊又失望。

不过，姑且不论书本从何而来，我不记得自己有什么时候不爱书——书本本身、封面、装订、印着文字的书页，还有油墨味、那种沉甸甸的感觉，以及把书抱在怀里时那种将我征服、令我陶醉的感觉。

还没识字，我就想读书了，一心想读所有的书。

3我的父母都不是来自那种买得起许多书的家庭。

然而，虽然买书准得花去他不少薪金，作为一家成立不久的保险公司最年轻的职员，父亲一直在精心挑选、不断订购他和母亲认为儿童成长应读的书。

他们购书首先是为了我们的前程。

5多亏了我的父母，我很早就接触了受人喜爱的XXX。

书橱里有一整套XXX文集和一套不全的XXX作品集，这些书最终将父母和孩子联结在一起。

6读摆在我面前的书，读着读着便发现一本又破又旧的书，是我父亲小时候的。

书名是《桑福徳与默顿》。

我不相信如今还有谁会记得这本书。

那是XXX.戴在18世纪80年代撰写的一本著名的进行道德教育的故事书，可该书的扉页上并没有提及他；上面写的是《桑福徳与默顿简易本》，XXX.XXX著。

Unit 3PartⅡTextA The Truth About Lying关于说谎的真相朱迪斯?维奥斯特我一直想写一个令我深感兴趣的话题：关于说谎的问题。

我觉得这个题目很难写。

所有我交谈过的人都对什么事情可以说谎——什么事情绝对不可以说谎——持有强烈的、常常不容别人分说的个人意见。

最后我得出结论，我不能下任何定论，因为这样做就会有太多的人立即反对。

我想我还是提出若干都与说谎有关的道义上的难题吧。

我将向读者阐明我对这些难题的个人看法。

你们觉得对吗？社交性谎言和我交谈过的大多数人都说，他们认为旨在促进社会交际的谎言是可以接受的，也是必要的。

他们认为这是一种文明的行为。

他们说，要不是这类无关紧要的谎言，人与人之间的关系就会变得粗野不快，无法持久。

他们说，如果你要做到十二分正直、十二分无畏，不由自主地用你的诚实使他人陷入不必要的窘境或痛苦之中，这只能说你是傲慢自大。

对此，我基本赞同。

你呢？你会不会跟人说：“我喜欢你的新发型，”“你气色好多了，”“见到你真高兴，”“我玩得很尽兴，”而实际上根本不是这么回事儿？你会不会对令人憎厌的礼物，或相貌平平的孩子称赞有加？你婉辞邀请时会不会说“那天晚上我们正好没空——真对不起，我们不能来，”而实际上你是宁肯呆在家里也不想跟某某夫妇一起进餐？虽然像我那样，你也想用“太丰盛了”这种委婉的托辞，而不是盛赞“那汤味道好极了”(其实味同重新热过的咖啡)，但如果你必须赞美那汤，你会说它鲜美吗?我认识一个人，他完全拒绝说这类社交性谎言。

“我不会那一套，”他说，“我生来就不会那一套。

”讲到对人家说几句好听的话并不失去什么，他的回答是：“不对，当然有损失——那会损害你的诚信度。

”因此你不问他，他不会对你刚买来的画发表意见，但除非你想听老实话，否则你也不会去问他的真实想法。

当我们这些说谎者轻声称赞着“多美啊”的时候，他的沉默往往是极能说明问题的。

我的这位朋友从来不讲他所说的“奉承话、虚假的赞美话和动听话”。

Integrated Skills of English 综合英语教程第五册Subject 1 Family Matters 家庭Reading For FunA Cornucopia of Thanks道不尽的感激之情在我成年后，发现“感恩节”所蕴涵的意味再也不是像从前一样了。

记得年少时，我和大家一样似乎无可避免地要写一篇关于“我要感谢***”的家庭作业。

往往是我花了无数的时间坐在自己的房间里，想弄明白在这世界上到底那些有可能是我要感谢的。

最终，我只能写下我所能想到的一切，从上帝到环境意识。

但自从有了孩子之后，我的选择已是大大的改变了。

孩子未出世时，我对自己能够出生在美利坚这个强大，自由而又民主的国度满怀感激，庆幸不已。

有了孩子之后，我开始感谢有人制造了Velcro网球鞋：不但可以节省宝贵的时间，而且孩子门在车上开始脱鞋的时候，让我能有所察觉，在充足的三秒钟内启动后坐窗的安全锁，这样他们就没法把这些鞋甩到车外的高速公路上了。

（刘长亮）有孩子前：我感谢那些可以保护自然资源和防止垃圾溢出的废物回收利用机制。

有孩子后：我感谢那些有菱形花格的棉麻纺织物，因为每次我的儿子穿着普通的尿不游泳之后，他的屁股总是如同一个微型的新泽西洲小型飞艇。

有孩子前：我感谢新鲜的绿色蔬菜。

有孩子后：我感谢那些可以微波加热的通心粉和奶酪，因为没了这些东西，我的孩子只能吃几口麦片，再咽一口唾液来维持。

有孩子前：我非常感谢我所拥有的接受大学教育机会，也感谢我所拥有的比先辈们更高的生活质量。

有孩子后：如果我在思考的时候不被打断，我就谢天谢地了。

有孩子前：我很感谢整体药疗和草药治疗。

有孩子后：我感谢小儿止咳糖浆，尽管它会让孩子们昏昏欲睡。

有孩子前：我感谢所有在我幼年时期曾经教过我，鼓励过我，并且照顾过我的老师们。

（钦海峰）有了孩子以后，我很感激健身房里的那些教练，因为在那里，他们可以让我每周都可以脱去身上厚重的衣服而只穿着连袜裤，而且这些有远见的教练会让我踏上体重计之前系上一条束缚带。

Unit 1PartⅡTextA One Writer's Beginnings作家起步时我从两三岁起就知道，家中随便在哪个房间里，白天无论在什么时间，都可以念书或听人念书。

母亲念书给我听。

上午她都在那间大卧室里给我念，两人一起坐在她那把摇椅里，我们摇晃时，椅子发出有节奏的滴答声，好像有只唧唧鸣叫的蟋蟀在伴着读故事。

冬日午后，她常在餐厅里烧着煤炭的炉火前给我念，布谷鸟自鸣钟发出“咕咕”声时，故事便结束了；晚上我在自己床上睡下后她也给我念。

想必我是不让她有一刻清静。

有时她在厨房里一边坐着搅制黄油一边给我念，故事情节就随着搅制黄油发出的抽抽搭搭的声响不断展开。

我的奢望是她念我来搅拌；有一次她满足了我的愿望，可是我要听的故事她念完了，她要的黄油我却还没弄好。

她念起故事来富有表情。

比如，她念《穿靴子的猫》时，你就没法不相信她对猫一概怀疑。

当我得知故事书原来是人写出来的，书本原来不是什么大自然的奇迹，不像草那样自生自长时，真是又震惊又失望。

不过，姑且不论书本从何而来，我不记得自己有什么时候不爱书——书本本身、封面、装订、印着文字的书页，还有油墨味、那种沉甸甸的感觉，以及把书抱在怀里时那种将我征服、令我陶醉的感觉。

还没识字，我就想读书了，一心想读所有的书。

我的父母都不是来自那种买得起许多书的家庭。

然而，虽然买书准得花去他不少薪金，作为一家成立不久的保险公司最年轻的职员，父亲一直在精心挑选、不断订购他和母亲认为儿童成长应读的书。

他们购书首先是为了我们的前程。

除了客厅里有一向被称作“图书室”的书橱，餐厅的窗子下还有几张摆放百科全书的桌子和一个字典架。

这里有伴随我们在餐桌旁争论着长大的《韦氏大词典》、《哥伦比亚百科全书》、《康普顿插图百科全书》、《林肯资料文库》，以及后来的《知识库》。

“图书馆”书橱里的书没过多久我就能读了——我的确读了，全都读了，按着顺序，一排接着一排读，从最上面的书架一直读到最下面的书架。

THE FOURTH OF JULYAudre Lorde1 The first time I went to Washington D.C. was on the edge of the summer when I was supposed to stop being a child. At least that's what they said to us all at graduation from the eighth grade. My sister Phyllis graduated at the same time from high school. I don’t know what she was supposed to stop being. But as graduation presents for us both, the whole family took a Fourth of July trip to Washington D.C., the fabled and famous capital of our country.Detailed Reading2 It was the first time I'd ever been on a railroad train during the day. WhenI was little, and we used to go to the Connecticut shore, we always went at night on the milk train, because it was cheaper.3. Preparations were in the air around our house before school was even over. We packed for a week. There were two very large suitcases that my father carried, and a box filled with food. In fact, my first trip to Washington was a mobile feast;I started eating as soon as we were comfortably ensconced in our seats, and did not stop until somewhere after Philadelphia. I remember it was Philadelphia because I was disappointed not to have passed by the Liberty Bell.4. My mother had roasted two chickens and cut them up into dainty bite-size pieces. She packed slices of brown bread and butter, and green pepper and carrot sticks. There were little violently yellow iced cakes with scalloped edges called "marigolds," that came from Cushman's Bakery. There was a spice bun and rock-cakes from Newton's, the West Indian bakery across Lenox Avenue from St. Mark's school, and iced tea in a wrapped mayonnaise jar. There were sweet pickles for us and dill pickles for my father, and peaches with the fuzz still on them, individually wrapped to keep them from bruising. And, for neatness, there were piles of napkins and a little tin box with a washcloth dampened with rosewater and glycerine for wiping sticky mouths.5. I wanted to eat in the dining car because I had read all about them, but my mother reminded me for the umpteenth time that dining car food always cost too much money and besides, you never could tell whose hands had been playing all over that food, nor where those same hands had been just before. My mother never mentioned that Black people were not allowed into railroad dining cars headed south in 1947. As usual, whatever my mother did not like and could not change, she ignored. Perhaps it would go away, deprived of her attention.6. I learned later that Phyllis's high school senior class trip had been to Washington, but the nuns had given her back her deposit in private, explaining to her that the class, all of whom were white, except Phyllis, would be staying in a hotel where Phyllis "would not be happy," meaning, Daddy explained to her, also in private, that they did not rent rooms to Negroes. "We still take among-you to Washington, ourselves, "my father had avowed, "and not just for an overnight in some measly fleabag hotel."7. In Washington ., we had one large room with two double beds and an extra cotfor me. It was a back-street hotel that belonged to a friend of my father's who was in real estate, and I spent the whole next day after Mass squinting up at the Lincoln Memorial where Marian Anderson had sung after the refused to allow her to sing in their auditorium because she was Black. Or because she was "Colored", my father said as he told us the story. Except that what he probably said was "Negro", because for his times, my father was quite progressive.8. I was squinting because I was in that silent agony that characterized all of my childhood summers, from the time school let out in June to the end of July, brought about by my dilated and vulnerable eyes exposed to the summer brightness.9. I viewed Julys through an agonizing corolla of dazzling whiteness and I always hated the Fourth of July, even before I came to realize the travesty such a celebration was for Black people in this country.10. My parents did not approve of sunglasses, nor of their expense.11. I spent the afternoon squinting up at monuments to freedom and past presidencies and democracy, and wondering why the light and heat were both so much stronger in Washington D.C., than back home in New York City. Even the pavement on the streets was a shade lighter in color than back home.12. Late that Washington afternoon my family and I walked back down Pennsylvania Avenue. We were a proper caravan, mother bright and father brown, the three of us girls step-standards in-between. Moved by our historical surroundings and the heat of early evening, my father decreed yet another treat. He had a great sense of history, a flair for the quietly dramatic and the sense of specialness of an occasion anda trip.13. "Shall we stop and have a little something to cool off, Lin "14. Two blocks away from our hotel, the family stopped for a dish of vanilla ice cream at a Breyer's ice cream and soda fountain. Indoors, the soda fountain was dim and fan-cooled, deliciously relieving to my scorched eyes.15. Corded and crisp and pinafored, the five of us seated ourselves one by one at the counter. There was I between my mother and father, and my two sisters on the other side of my mother. We settled ourselves along the white mottled marble counter, and when the waitress spoke at first no one understood what she was saying, and so the five of us just sat there.16. The waitress moved along the line of us closer to my father and spoke again. "I said I kin give you to take out, but you can't eat here, sorry." Then she dropped her eyes looking very embarrassed, and suddenly we heard what it was she was saying all at the same time, loud and clear.17. Straight-backed and indignant, one by one, my family and I got down from the counter stools and turned around and marched out of the store, quiet and outraged, as if we had never been Black before. No one would answer my emphatic questions with anything other than a guilty silence. "But we hadn't done anything!" This wasn't right or fair! Hadn't I written poems about freedom and democracy for all18. My parents wouldn't speak of this injustice, not because they had contributed to it, but because they felt they should have anticipated it and avoided it. This made me even angrier. My fury was not going to be acknowledged by a like fury. Evenmy two sisters copied my parents' pretense that nothing unusual and anti-American had occurred. I was left to write my angry letter to the president of the United States all by myself, although my father did promise I could type it out on the office typewriter next week, after I showed it to him in my copybook diary.19. The waitress was white, and the counter was white, and the ice cream I never ate in Washington ., that summer I left childhood was white, and the white heat and the white pavement and the white stone monuments of my first Washington summer made me sick to my stomach for the whole rest of that trip and it wasn't much of a graduation present after all.我第一次去华盛顿是在那年刚入夏，这个夏天也是我从此告别孩提时代的开始。

THE FOURTH OF JULYAudre Lorde1 The first time I went to Washington D.C. was on the edge of the summer when I was supposed to stop being a child. At least that's what they said to us all at graduation from the eighth grade. My sister Phyllis graduated at the same time from high school. I don’t know what she was supposed to stop being. But as graduation presents for us both, the whole family took a Fourth of July trip to Washington D.C., the fabled and famous capital of our country.Detailed Reading2 It was the first time I'd ever been on a railroad train during the day. When I was little, and we used to go to the Connecticut shore, we always went at night on the milk train, because it was cheaper.3. Preparations were in the air around our house before school was even over. We packed for a week. There were two very large suitcases that my father carried, and a box filled with food. In fact, my first trip to Washington was a mobile feast; I started eating as soon as we were comfortably ensconced in our seats, and did not stop until somewhere after Philadelphia. I remember it was Philadelphia because I was disappointed not to have passed by the Liberty Bell.4. My mother had roasted two chickens and cut them up into dainty bite-size pieces. She packed slices of brown bread and butter, and green pepper and carrot sticks. There were little violently yellow iced cakes with scalloped edges called "marigolds," that came from Cushman's Bakery. There was a spice bun and rock-cakes from Newton's, the West Indian bakery across Lenox Avenue from St. Mark's school, and iced tea in a wrapped mayonnaise jar. There were sweet pickles for us and dill pickles for my father, and peaches with the fuzz still on them, individually wrapped to keep them from bruising. And, for neatness, there were piles of napkins and a little tin box with a washcloth dampened with rosewater and glycerine for wiping sticky mouths.5. I wanted to eat in the dining car because I had read all about them, but my mother reminded me for the umpteenth time that dining car food always cost too much money and besides, you never could tell whose hands had been playing all over that food, nor where those same hands had been just before. My mother never mentioned that Black people were not allowed into railroad dining cars headed south in 1947. As usual, whatever my mother did not like and could not change, she ignored. Perhaps it would go away, deprived of her attention.6. I learned later that Phyllis's high school senior class trip had been to Washington, but the nuns had given her back her deposit in private, explaining to her that the class, all of whom were white, except Phyllis, would be staying in a hotel where Phyllis "would not be happy," meaning, Daddy explained to her, also in private, that they did not rent rooms to Negroes. "We still take among-you to Washington, ourselves, "my father had avowed, "and not just for an overnight in some measly fleabag hotel."7. In Washington D.C., we had one large room with two double beds and an extra cot for me. It was a back-street hotel that belonged to a friend of my father's who was in real estate, and I spent the whole next day after Mass squinting up at the Lincoln Memorial where Marian Anderson had sung after the D.A.R. refused to allow her to sing in their auditorium because she was Black. Or because she was "Colored", my father said as he told us the story. Except that what he probably said was "Negro", because for his times, my father was quite progressive.8. I was squinting because I was in that silent agony that characterized all of my childhood summers, from the time school let out in June to the end of July, brought about by my dilated and vulnerable eyes exposed to the summer brightness.9. I viewed Julys through an agonizing corolla of dazzling whiteness and I always hated the Fourth of July, even before I came to realize the travesty such a celebration was for Black people in this country.10. My parents did not approve of sunglasses, nor of their expense.11. I spent the afternoon squinting up at monuments to freedom and past presidencies and democracy, and wondering why the light and heat were both so much stronger in Washington D.C., than back home in New York City. Even the pavement on the streets was a shade lighter in color than back home.12. Late that Washington afternoon my family and I walked back down Pennsylvania Avenue. We were a proper caravan, mother bright and father brown, the three of us girls step-standards in-between. Moved by our historical surroundings and the heat of early evening, my father decreed yet another treat. He had a great sense of history, a flair for the quietly dramatic and the sense of specialness of an occasion and a trip.13. "Shall we stop and have a little something to cool off, Lin? "14. Two blocks away from our hotel, the family stopped for a dish of vanilla ice cream at a Breyer's ice cream and soda fountain. Indoors, the soda fountain was dim and fan-cooled, deliciously relieving to my scorched eyes.15. Corded and crisp and pinafored, the five of us seated ourselves one by one at the counter. There was I between my mother and father, and my two sisters on the other side of my mother. We settled ourselves along the white mottled marble counter, and when the waitress spoke at first no one understood what she was saying, and so the five of us just sat there.16. The waitress moved along the line of us closer to my father and spoke again. "I said I kin give you to take out, but you can't eat here, sorry." Then she dropped her eyes looking very embarrassed, and suddenly we heard what it was she was saying all at the same time, loud and clear.17. Straight-backed and indignant, one by one, my family and I got down from the counter stools and turned around and marched out of the store, quiet and outraged, as if we had never been Black before. No one would answer my emphatic questions with anything other than a guilty silence. "But we hadn't done anything!" This wasn't right or fair! Hadn't I written poems about freedom and democracy for all?18. My parents wouldn't speak of this injustice, not because they had contributed to it, but because they felt they should have anticipated it and avoided it. This made me even angrier. My fury was not going to be acknowledged by a like fury. Even my two sisters copied my parents' pretense that nothing unusual and anti-American had occurred. I was left to write my angry letter to the president of the United States all by myself, although my father did promise I could type it out on the office typewriter next week, after I showed it to him in my copybook diary.19. The waitress was white, and the counter was white, and the ice cream I never ate in Washington D.C., that summer I left childhood was white, and the white heat and the white pavement and the white stone monuments of my first Washington summer made me sick to my stomach for the whole rest of that trip and it wasn't much of a graduation present after all.我第一次去华盛顿是在那年刚入夏，这个夏天也是我从此告别孩提时代的开始。

我的祖母不识字, 可是她有一箩筐的神话和传奇故事。

Although my grandmother was illiterate, she had a good stock of myths and legends.小时候我总是缠着她，一直要她给我讲故事。

When I was young I gave her no peace, constantly asking her to tell me stories.而她在忙完家务之后，总会把我抱到膝上，一边讲故事一边有节奏地晃动我。

After she had finished her housework, she would lift me onto her lap and tell stories, all the while rocking me in rhythm.我父母发现了我对故事的浓厚兴趣后，不失时机地引导我进行阅读。

Having noticed my interest in stories, my parents lost no time in initiating me into reading.他们给我买了许多带插图的故事书，有空的时候就一遍遍地读给我听。

They bought many storybooks with illustrations, and whenever free, they would read these stories to me over and over again.慢慢地我认识了很多字，能够自行阅读了。

By and by I had a vocabulary large enough to read on my own.Unit2一项又一项的研究发现,食物和一些慢性病之间有密切关系。

Study after study has uncovered the fact that there is a close correlation between food and a number of chronic diseases.某些慢性病危险的降低和多吃以植物为基本成分的食物是相联系的。

狱中学习马尔科姆·艾克斯今天，许多在什么地方直接听我讲话的人，或在电视上听我讲话的人，或读过我写的东西的人，都会以为我上学远不止只读到8年级。

这一印象完全归之于我在监狱里的学习。

其实这事要从查尔斯顿监狱说起，一开始宾比就让我对他的知识渊博羡慕不已。

宾比总是主宰谈话话题，我总想效仿他。

可是，我随便打开一本书，几乎没有一个句子不是少则一两个字，多则差不多所有的字都不认识。

我只好跳过这些字，结果自然是对书上说的几乎一无所知了。

因此，我被解送到诺福克拘留所时，读书还只是为了摆摆样子而已。

要不是我真的获得了学习动力，我恐怕没多久就会连读书的样子也懒得去摆了。

我认识到，最要紧的是得到一本字典好认字学字。

幸好我还认识到得好好练习写字。

说来悲伤，我写字都不能写得齐整成行。

这两个想法促使我向诺福克拘留所学校要了字典，还有本子和笔。

整整两天，我把字典一页页翻了个遍，不知该怎么学。

我压根儿没想过会有那么多字。

我不知道自己需要学哪些字。

最后，总得有所行动吧，我便开始抄写。

我写字又慢又费劲，而且歪歪斜斜，但我在本子上抄写下了第一页上包括标点在内的所有印刷符号。

记得我抄写了一天。

然后,我把本子上抄写下的所有字大声朗读给自己听。

一遍又一遍，我大声朗读自己抄写的字。

我第二天早上醒来，仍想着那些字——想到自己不仅一次写了那么多字，而且还写了以前根本不认识的字，不由得深感自豪。

更何况，略加回想，我还能记住其中许多字的意思。

没记住的字我都复习了一遍。

有趣的是，此时此刻，那本字典第一页上"aardvark"这个字跃入了我的脑海。

字典上有一幅画它的插图，那是一种长尾巴长耳朵会掘洞的非洲哺乳动物，像食蚁兽捕食蚂蚁那样伸出舌头捕食白蚁。

我完全着迷了，于是继续抄——我又抄写了字典的第二页。

我学这一页上的字时体验到了同样的感受。

每学一页字，我还学到了一点有关人物、地方和历史事件的知识。

字典实际上就像是一部小型百科全书。

全新版《大学英语》综合教程5 学生用书课后翻译Unit 1 Love of Reading我的祖母不识字，可是她有一箩筐的神话和传奇故事。

小时候我总是缠着她，要她给我讲故事。

而她在忙完家务后，总会把我抱在膝上，一边讲故事一边有节奏地晃动我。

这些故事加上她丰富的表情，深深地吸引住了我。

我父母发现了我对故事的浓厚兴趣，不失时机地引导我进行阅读。

他们给我买了许多带插图的故事书，有空的时候就一遍遍地读给我听。

慢慢地我认识了很多字，能自行阅读了。

直到今天，我还要感谢祖母和双亲。

没有他们，我今天不可能成为一名作家。

Although my grandmother was illiterate, she had a good stack of myths and legends. When I was young I gave her no peace, constantly asking her to tell me stories. After she had finished her housework, she would lift me onto her lap and tell stories, all the while rocking me in rhythm. These stories and her expressive face appealed profoundly to me.Having noticed my interest in stories, my parents lost no time in initiating me into reading. They bought many storybooks with illustations, and whenever free, they would read these stories to me over and over again. By and by I had a vocabulary large to read on my own .Today, I still live in gratitude to my grandmother and my parents. Without them, I could never have become a writer.Unit 2 Diet一项又一项的研究发现，食物和一些慢性病之间有密切关系。

One W‎r iter‎'s Be‎g inni‎n gs‎ 1 I‎lear‎n ed f‎r om t‎h e ag‎e of ‎t wo o‎r thr‎e e th‎a t an‎y roo‎m in ‎o ur h‎o use,‎at a‎n y ti‎m e of‎day,‎was ‎t here‎to r‎e ad i‎n, or‎to b‎e rea‎d to.‎My m‎o ther‎read‎to m‎e. Sh‎e'd r‎e ad t‎o me ‎i n th‎e big‎bedr‎o om i‎n the‎morn‎i ngs,‎when‎we w‎e re i‎n her‎rock‎e r to‎g ethe‎r, wh‎i ch t‎i cked‎in r‎h ythm‎as w‎e roc‎k ed, ‎a s th‎o ugh ‎w e ha‎d a c‎r icke‎t acc‎o mpan‎y ing ‎t he s‎t ory.‎She'‎d rea‎d to ‎m e in‎the ‎d inin‎g roo‎m on ‎w inte‎r aft‎e rnoo‎n s in‎fron‎t of ‎t he c‎o al f‎i re, ‎w ith ‎o ur ‎c ucko‎o clo‎c ken‎d ing ‎t he s‎t ory ‎w ith ‎"Cuck‎o o", ‎a nd a‎t nig‎h t wh‎e n I'‎d got‎in m‎y own‎bed.‎I mu‎s t ha‎v egi‎v en h‎e r no‎peac‎e. So‎m etim‎e s sh‎e rea‎d to ‎m e in‎the ‎k itch‎e n wh‎i le s‎h e sa‎t chu‎r ning‎, and‎the ‎c hurn‎i ng s‎o bbed‎alon‎g wit‎h any‎stor‎y. It‎was ‎m y am‎b itio‎n to ‎h ave ‎h er r‎e ad t‎ome ‎w hile‎I ch‎u rned‎; onc‎e she‎gran‎t ed m‎y wis‎h, bu‎t she‎read‎off ‎m y st‎o ry b‎e fore‎I br‎o ught‎her ‎b utte‎r. Sh‎e was‎an e‎x pres‎s ive ‎r eade‎r. Wh‎e n sh‎e was‎read‎i ng "‎P uss ‎i n Bo‎o ts,"‎for ‎i nsta‎n ce, ‎i t wa‎s imp‎o ssib‎l e no‎t to ‎k now ‎t hat ‎s he d‎i stru‎s ted ‎a ll c‎a ts.‎作家起步时‎‎我从两‎三岁起就知‎道，家中随‎便在哪个房‎间里，白天‎无论在什么‎时间，都可‎以念书或听‎人念书。

Take This Fish and Look at It1 It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassiz, and told him I had enrolled my name in the Scientific School as a student of natural history . He asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which I afterwards proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and, finally, whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied that while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoology, I purposed to devote myself especially to insects.把这条鱼拿去好好看看我是在15余年前进入阿加西兹教授的实验室的，告诉他我已在科学学院注册读博物学。

他略略询问了我来此的目的、我大致的经历、以后准备如何运用所学知识，最后问我是否希望修习某一特别学科。

对最后一个问题我回答说，我希望自己在动物学各个领域都具有一定的基础，但特别想研究昆虫。

2 "When do you wish to begin?" he asked.“你想什么时候开始呢？”他问。

3 "Now," I replied.“就现在，”我回答说。

英语专业综合教程5课文翻译综合教程第五册课文翻译Unit1TheFourthofJuly我第一次到华盛顿的时候是初夏那时我想我不应该再当一个孩子。

至少这是他们在八年级的毕业典礼上对我们说的。

我的姐姐菲利斯在同一时间从高中毕业。

我不知道她应该不再当一个什么。

但当作是送给我们俩的毕业礼物,我们全家在国庆日前往华盛顿旅游,那是传奇而著名的我国首都。

这是我第一次真正意义上在白天时乘坐火车。

当我还小的时候我们总是在夜晚乘坐运奶火车去康涅狄格海岸,因为它更便宜。

学期还没结束前家里就开始忙着准备旅行的事。

我们准备了两个星期。

父亲拿了两个大箱子和一个装满食物的盒子。

事实上,我第一次到华盛顿的旅途可以说是一个移动盛宴一在位子上安顿下来我就开始吃东西直到我们到了费城往后的某个地方才停下来。

我记得那是费城,是因为我们没有经过自由之钟对此我很失望。

母亲烤了两只鸡,然后把它们切成恰好一口一片的大小。

她打包了黑面包和黄油切片,青椒和胡萝卜条。

有来自Cushman面包店的亮黄色的周围有一圈扇贝形状的小冰蛋糕叫做“金盏花“。

有来自牛顿面包店的香辛小面包和岩皮饼,还有包裹着蛋黄酱的冰茶那是一家雷诺克斯大街上圣马可学校对面的西印度面包店。

还有母亲为我们准备的蜜桃和给父亲准备的莳萝腌菜,桃子上还有绒毛,单独包装,以免它们碰伤。

为了干净,母亲还准备了成堆的餐巾纸和一个小锡盒子里面装有浸了玫瑰水和甘油的毛巾,可以用来擦拭发粘的嘴巴。

我想要在餐车吃饭,因为我已经从书上读到过关于它们的一切,但母亲提醒了我无数次,餐车食品太贵,而且,你根本没法辨别那些食物上有谁的手在上面动过,也不知道,之前他们的手碰过什么地方。

我的母亲从未提及过直到1947年黑人还是不被允许进入前往南部的火车餐车。

通常,无论母亲是不喜欢的或无法改变的事她都会忽视。

可能她觉得如果把注意力转开事情就会过去。

后来我知道菲利斯的高中班级旅行去的就是华盛顿,但老师们私底下又把费用还回给了她,跟她解释说,班上的孩子除了菲利斯都是白人他们将住的那家旅馆会让菲利斯不高兴。

全新版大学英语综合教程5课文翻译1Unit1 One Writer's Beginnings作家起步时1.我从两三岁起就知道，家中随便在哪个房间里，白天无论在什么时间，都可以念书或听人念书。

母亲念书给我听。

上午她都在那间大卧室里给我念，两人一起坐在她那把摇椅里，我们摇晃时，椅子发出有节奏的滴答声，好像有只唧唧鸣叫的蟋蟀在伴着读故事。

冬日午后，她常在餐厅里烧着煤炭的炉火前给我念，布谷鸟自鸣钟发出“咕咕”声时，故事便结束了;晚上我在自己床上睡下后她也给我念。

想必我是不让她有一刻清静。

有时她在厨房里一边坐着搅制黄油一边给我念，故事情节就随着搅制黄油发出的抽抽搭搭的声响不断展开。

我的奢望是她念我来搅拌;有一次她满足了我的愿望，可是我要听的故事她念完了，她要的黄油我却还没弄好。

她念起故事来富有表情。

比如，她念《穿靴子的猫》时，你就没法不相信她对猫一概怀疑。

2 当我得知故事书原来是人写出来的，书本原来不是什么大自然的奇迹，不像草那样自生自长时，真是又震惊又失望。

不过，姑且不论书本从何而来，我不记得自己有什么时候不爱书——书本本身、封面、装订、印着文字的书页，还有油墨味、那种沉甸甸的感觉，以及把书抱在怀里时那种将我征服、令我陶醉的感觉。

还没识字，我就想读书了，一心想读所有的书。

3 我的父母都不是来自那种买得起许多书的家庭。

然而，虽然买书准得花去他不少薪金，作为一家成立不久的保险公司最年轻的职员，父亲一直在精心挑选、不断订购他和母亲认为儿童成长应读的书。

他们购书首先是为了我们的前程。

4 除了客厅里有一向被称作“图书室”的书橱，餐厅的窗子下还有几张摆放百科全书的桌子和一个字典架。

这里有伴随我们在餐桌旁争论着长大的《韦氏大词典》、《哥伦比亚百科全书》、《康普顿插图百科全书》、《林肯资料文库》，以及后来的《知识库》。

“图书馆”书橱里的书没过多久我就能读了——我的确读了，全都读了，按着顺序，一排接着一排读，从最上面的书架一直读到最下面的书架。

Unit 11、我自己还没有看过，不过大家都认为这是一部好片子。

（suppose）I haven’t seen it myself, but it is supposed to be a really good movie.2、女主人把奶酪切成刚好一口的小片。

（bite-size）The hostess cut the cheese into bite-size pieces.3、倘若睡眠不足的话，没有人能够正常生活。

（deprive）No one can function properly if they are deprived of adequate sleep.4、他细心地学我的样子，装作没发生什么怪事。

（copy）He carefully copied my pretense that nothing unusual had occurred.5、外面热得灼人，游客都躲到有电扇凉快的小屋里。

（fan-cooled）It was scorching outside; all the tourists escaped into the fan-cooled hut.6、我就是来看他那被说得神乎其神的脚法的。

（fabled）I’ve come to see his fabled footwork that people talk so much about.7、我不是一个严格意义上的教师，因为我没有接受过训练，但是我有丰富的教学经验。

（proper）I’m not a teacher proper, since I haven’t been trained, but I’ve a lot of teaching experience.8、学生通常都会在考试前猜测题目。

（anticipate）Students tend to anticipate what questions they will be asked on the examination.Unit 29、现在有些家长对子女的要求太高，要他们学很多东西。

SUBJECT 1我和JOHNSON 在PAOLI将军家用餐。

我们提出了一个问题，是否结婚对于人类来说是自然的。

JOHNSON说道, “男人和女人结婚生活在一起一点也不自然，我们发现，所有维系他们婚姻关系的动因以及文明社会为防止他们分离而强加的限制都很难使他们维系在一起。

”将军则说，在自然状态下，（以婚姻）结合在一起的男人和女人由于相互获得愉悦将会产生一种强烈而又稳定的感情；因此，争吵、意见不和也不会发生，文明社会夫妻之间的关系正是如此。

JOHNSON 反驳说，“他们之间会产生足够的争吵及意见不和，只是这种不和将以别的形式出现。

他们中一个…另一个…; 因此，他们注定会分离。

而且，（从本能上说，男人和女人偶然地结合后）野蛮的男人和野蛮的女人会不期而遇；男人和女人不期而遇，可本性上，当男人看到另一个更能使他愉悦的女人，他就会抛弃以前的女人。

”当然，家庭存在的基础就在于父母对自己的孩子有种特殊的情感，这种情感不同于他们之间的情感，也不同于他们对别的孩子的情感。

的确，一些父母对自己的孩子少有感情或没有感情；也确有一些父母对他人孩子的情感与对自己孩子的情感一样深厚。

但总的来说，父母之情是一个正常的人所能体验的、对自己孩子的（而非对他人的）特殊情感。

这种情感是我们从动物祖先那遗传而来的。

从这一点来看，我认为弗洛伊德并没有完全从生物学观点出发。

因为只要观察过带着幼仔的雌性动物，谁都会发现：这个雌性动物对自己的孩子与其对其性伙伴的行为方式是极为不同的。

动物的这种区别性的出于本能的行为方式也同样存在于人类中，（虽然是以一种经过改良难以定性的形式出现。

）尽管其形式经过改良而更难以定性。

如果没有这种特殊的情感，家庭就很难成其为一个(家庭)机构，毕竟孩子们也同样可由专业人士来照顾。

然而，事实是，如果父母对孩子爱的本性没有消失，他们的爱对他们自己和他们的孩子都很有价值。

父母对孩子的爱，其价值在于它比其它形式的爱更为可靠。