介绍:
2021年7月29日《古大叔小木屋》（60）直播实况录制 私人定制
晚9:00——10:00
英语文本
4. Sounds(1)
BUT WHILE WE are confined to books, though the most select and classic, and read only particular written languages, which are themselves but dialects and provincial[prəˈvɪnʃəl], we are in danger of forgetting the language which all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is copious and standard[ˈstændəd]. Much is published, but little printed. The rays which stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed. No method nor discipline[ˈdɪsɪplɪn] can supersede[ˌsuːpəˈsiːd] the necessity of being forever on the alert. What is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine[ruːˈtiːn] of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen? Will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer? Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on /into futurity[fjuːˈtjʊərɪtɪ].
[2] I did not read books the first summer; I hoed beans. Nay, I often did better than this. There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice[ˈsækrɪˌfaɪs] the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hands. I love a broad margin to my life. Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt[ræpt] in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories[ˈhɪkərɪz] and sumachs[ˈsuːmæks], in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in /at my west window, or the noise of some traveller's wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance. I realized what the Orientals[ˌɔːrɪˈentls] mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works. For the most part, I minded not how the hours went. The day advanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo[ləʊ], now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished. Instead of singing like the birds, I silently smiled at my incessant good fortune. As the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so had I my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my nest. My days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any heathen deity, nor were they minced[mɪnsd] into hours and fretted by the ticking of a clock; for I lived like the Puri['puːrɪ] Indians, of whom it is said that "for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for yesterday/ forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing day." This was sheer[ʃɪə] idleness to my fellow-townsmen, no doubt; but if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard, I should not have been found wanting. A man must find his occasions in himself, it is true. The natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove his indolence[ˈɪndələns].
