学习啦【英语美文欣赏】 韦彦时间:2016-09-18 11:25:12我要投稿




  Struggling in America

  The United States of America is often seen as a nation in which the pursuit of happiness is not a dream but a reality. The sad truth is that although portrayed as an unusually easy life, life in America is as much of a struggle as in any other nation. For example, higher level education for Americans does not come easy. Although there are scholarships, grants and loans available, if the student fails to meet the criteria he is left with only personal resources to draw from.

  This takes him into a life with not only a school schedule to follow but perhaps, also, a work schedule and family life. These are often the difficulties that are not portrayed through the TV and movies. These are also the difficulties which many believe they will not encounter by attending an American college. In the second place, there is financial security. Many times what is portrayed of life in America is a life where “money is no object”.

  The fallacy in this is that each person has their own personal struggle and money is an object for the majority of the people, in spite of the comparatively higher wages available, the cost of living is also higher. Even though it may seem like one is making more money, just as much is spent in surviving.

  Thirdly is the belief that in the American way of life everyone has a good job. With the increasing advancements in technology, a well-paying job for those currently in the work force is getting harder to find. Those who have not been exposed to computers and other new methods of communication are finding this to be true. As it stands now, the job market is requiring at least a two-year degree from college, in order to make enough to live comfortably. Even then well-paid jobs are not easy to find, as it is sometimes believed because of the portrayal of life in America.



  Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, butthere is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again.

  Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? If they had beenstolen by someone, who could it be?

  Where could he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could theystay at the moment?

  I don’t know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are gettingempty.

  Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away fromme. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days aredripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless.

  Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes. Those that havegone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how fast is the shift, insuch a rush?

  When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two orthree oblongs.

  The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively;and I am caught, blankly, in hisrevolution.

  Thus — the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowlwhen I eat my meal,

  and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now,so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands.

  In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way.The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone.

  I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

  What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but tohesitate, to rush.

  What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygonedays have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morningsun. What traces have I left behind me?

  Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world, stark naked; am Ito go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I havemade such a trip for nothing!

  You the wise, tell me,why should our days leave us, never to return?


  A Summer Day

  One day thirty years ago Marseilles lay in the burning sun.

  A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France than at anyother time before or since.

  Everything in Marseilles and about Marseilles had stared at the fervid sun, and had been staredat in return, until a staring habit had become universal there.

  Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white streets,staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things tobe seen not fixedly staring and glaring

  were the vines drooping under their loads of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, asthe hot air barely moved their faint leaves. The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towardsthe distant blue of the Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist slowlyrising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere else.

  Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous waysideavenues of parched trees without shade, dropped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So didthe horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so didtheir recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhaustedlaborers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew was oppressed by the glare; except thelizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and cicada, chirping its dry hot chirp, like arattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if theair itself were panting. Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to deepout the stare.Grant it but a chink or a keyhole, and it shot in like a white-hot arrow.



  Night has fallen over the country.Through the trees rises the red moon and the stars arescarcely seen. In the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the dews descend. I sit at theopen window to enjoy them; and hear only the voice of the summer wind. Like black hulks, theshadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass. I cannot see the red andblue flowers, but I know that they are there.Far away in the meadow gleams the silver Charles.The tramp of horses' hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge.

  Then all is still save the continuous wind or the sound of the neighboring sea. The village clockstrikes; and I feel that I am not alone. How different it is in the city! It is late, and the crowd isgone. You step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy night as ifyou folded her garments about you.

  Beneath lies the public walk with trees, like a fathomless, black gulf. The lamps are still burningup and down the long street. People go by with grotesque shadows, now foreshortened, andnow lengthening away into the darkness and vanishing, while a new one springs up behind thewalker, and seems to pass him revolving like the sail of a windmill.

  The iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang. There are footsteps and loud voices; —atumult; —a drunken brawl; —an alarm of fire; —then silence again. And now at length the cityis asleep, and we can see the night. The belated moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one towelcome her. The moonlight is broken. It lies here and there in the squares and the opening ofthe streets—angular like blocks of white marble.

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