学习啦【英语美文欣赏】 韦彦时间：2016-09-18 11:08:27我要投稿
Passing on Small Change
The pharmacist handed me my prescription,apologized for the wait, and explained that his register had already closed. He asked if I would mind using the register at the front of the store. I told him not to worry and walked up front, where one person was in line ahead of me, a little girl no more than seven, with a bottle of medicine on the counter. She clenched a little green and white striped coin purse closely to her chest. The purse reminded me of the days when, as a child, I played dress-up in my grandma’s closet. I’d march around the house in oversized clothes, drenched in costume jewelry and hats and scarves, talking “grownup talk” to anyone who would listen. I remembered the thrill one day when I gave a pretend dollar to someone, and he handed back some real coins for me to put into my special purse. “Keep the change!”he told me with a wink. Now the clerk rang up the little girl’s medicine, while she shakily pulled out a coupon, a dollar bill and some coins. I watched her blush as she tried to count her money, and I could see right away that she was about a dollar short. With a quick wink to the clerk, I slipped a dollar bill onto the counter and signaled the clerk to ring up the sale. The child scooped her uncounted change into her coin purse, grabbed her package and scurried out the door. As I headed to my car, I felt a tug on my shirt. There was the girl, looking up at me with her big brown eyes. She gave me a grin, wrapped her arms around my legs for a long moment then stretched out her little hand. It was full of coins.“Thank you,” She whispered. “That’s okay,” I answered. I flashed her a smile and winked,“Keep the change!”
The Props to Help Man Endure (II)
Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love, but of lust, of defeats in whichnobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope, and most of all, without pity orcompassion. His grief weaves on no universal bone, leaving no scars. He writes not of theheart, but of the glands. Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood amongand watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It’s easy enough to say thatman is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom hasclanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tireless in the last red and dyingevening, that even then, there will still be one more sound: that of his puny and inexhaustiblevoice, still talking. I refuse to accept this.
I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he aloneamong creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable ofcompassion,and sacrifice, and endurance. The poets’, the writers’ duty is to write aboutthese things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of thecourage,and honor and hope and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been theglory of his past. The poets' voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of theprops, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
What Is Immortal
To see the golden sun and the azure sky, the outstretched ocean, to walk upon the greenearth, and to be lord of a thousand creatures, to look down giddy precipices or over distantflowery vales, to see the world spread out under one’s finger in a map, to bring the stars near,to view the smallest insects in a microscope, to read history,and witness the revolutions ofempires and the succession of generations, to hear of the glory of Sidon and Tyre, of Babylonand Susa, as of a faded pageant, and to say all these were, and are now nothing, to think thatwe exist in such a point of time,and in such a corner of space, to be at once spectators and apart of the moving scene, to watch the return of the seasons, of spring and autumn, to hear—The stock dove’s notes amid the forest deep, That drowsy forest rustles to the sighing gale.— to traverse desert wilderness,to listen to the dungeon's gloom, or sit in crowded theatresand see life itself mocked, to feel heat and cold, pleasure and pain, right and wrong, truth andfalsehood, to study the works of art and refine the sense of beauty to agony, to worshipfame and to dream of immortality, to have read Shakespeare and Beloit to the same species asSir Isaac Newton; to be and to do all this, and then in a moment to be nothing,to have it allsnatched from one like a juggler’ ball or a phantasmagoria...
Suppose Someone Gave You a Pen
Suppose someone gave you a pen — a sealed, solid-colored pen. You couldn’t see how muchink it had.
It might run dry after the first few tentative words or last just long enough to create amasterpiece (or several) that would last forever and make a difference in the scheme ofthings.
You don’t know before you begin. Under the rules of the game, you really never know. Youhave to take a chance! Actually, no rule of the game states you must do anything. Instead ofpicking up and using the pen, you could leave it on a shelf or in a drawer where it will dry up,unused. But if you do decide to use it, what would you do with it? How would you play thegame? Would you plan and plan before you ever wrote a word? Would your plans be soextensive that you never even got to the writing? Or would you take the pen in hand, plungeright in and just do it, struggling to keep up with the twists and turns of the torrents of wordsthat take you where they take you? Would you write cautiously and carefully,as if the pen mightrun dry the next moment, or would you pretend or believe (or pretend to believe) that thepen will write forever and proceed accordingly? And of what would you write:
Of love? Hate? Fun? Misery? Life? Death? Nothing? Everything? Would you write to please justyourself? Or others? Or yourself by writing for others? Would your strokes be tremblingly timidor brilliantly bold? Fancy with a flourish or plain? Would you even write? Once you have thepen, no rule says you have to write. Would you sketch? Scribble? Doodle or draw?Would youstay in or on the lines, or see no lines at all, even if they were there? Or are they? There’s a lotto think about here,isn’t there? Now, suppose someone gave you a life...