学习啦【英语散文】 编辑:韦彦 发布时间:2016-09-19



  Mother’s Hands


  Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years.


  Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.


  I don’t remember when it first started annoying me — her hands pushing my hair that way.


  But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin.


  Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don’t do that anymore — your hands are too rough!”


  She didn’t say anything in reply.


  But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.


  Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night.


  By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead.


  Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away.


  But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.


  Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore.


  Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family.


  She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe the boy’s scraped knee.


  She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...


  Now, my own children are grown and gone.


  Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her.


  So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth,


  a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead.


  Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.


  In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained,


  “Don’t do that anymore — your hands are too rough!”


  Catching Mom’s hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night.


  I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about.


  She had forgotten — and forgiven — long ago.


  That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands.


  And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.



  three passions i have lived for

  bertrand russell

  three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. these passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

  i have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy—ecstasy so great that i would often have sacrificed all the rest of my life for a few hours for this joy. i have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness—that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. i have sought it, finally, because in the union of love i have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. this is what i sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what—at last—i have found.

  with equal passion i have sought knowledge. i have wished to understand the hearts of men. i have wished to know why the stars shine…a little of this, but not much, i have achieved.love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. but always pity brought me back to earth. echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. i long to alleviate the evil, but i cannot, and i too suffer.

  this has been my life. i have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.








  An Illusion 一种错觉

  William S. Maugham威廉. S. 毛姆

  It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life.

  They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail drivens into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment add to it in his turn,, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself.




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