高级英语1课文原文

我这个人头脑冷静，逻辑思维能力强。敏锐、慎重、聪慧、深刻、机智一一这些就是我的特点。我的大脑像发电机一样发达，孳化学家的天平一样精确，像手术刀一样锋利。一一你知道吗?我才十八岁呀。 年纪这么轻而智力又如此非凡的人并不常有。就拿在明尼苏达大学跟我同住一个房间的皮蒂·伯奇来说吧，他跟我年龄相哆’经历一样，可他笨得像头驴。小伙子长得年轻漂亮，可惜脑子里却空空如也。他易于激动，情绪反复无常，容易受别人的影响。最糟的是他爱赶时髦。我认为，赶时髦就是最缺乏理智的表现。见到一 q9种新鲜的东西就跟着学，以为别人都在那么干，自己也就卷进去傻干——这在我看来，简直愚蠢至极，但皮蒂却不以为然。 一天下午我看见皮蒂躺在床上，脸上显露出一种痛苦不堪的表情，我立刻断定他是得了阑尾炎。“别动，”我说，“别吃泻药，我就请医生来。” “浣熊，”他咕哝着说。 “浣熊?”我停下来问道。 “我要一件浣熊皮大衣，”他痛苦地哭叫着。 我明白了，他不是身体不舒服，而是精神上不太正常。“你为什么要浣熊皮大衣?” “我本早该知道，”他哭叫着，用拳头捶打着太阳穴，“我早该知道查尔斯登舞再度流行时，浣熊皮大衣也会时兴起来的。我真傻，钱都买了课本，可现在不能买浣熊皮大衣了。” 我带着怀疑的眼神问道：“你是说人们真的又要穿浣熊皮大衣吗?” “校园里有身分的人哪个不穿?你刚从哪儿来?” “图书馆，”我说了一个有身分的人不常去的地方。 他从床上一跃而起，在房间里踱来踱去。“我一定要弄到一件浣熊皮大衣，”他激动地说，“非弄到不可!” “皮蒂，你怎么啦?冷静地想一想吧，浣熊皮大衣不卫生，掉毛，味道难闻，既笨重又不好看，而且…… “你不懂，”他不耐烦地打断我的话。“这就叫时髦。难道你不想赶时髦吗?” “不想，”我坦率地回答。 “好啦，我可想着呢!”他肯定地说。“只要有浣熊皮大衣，要我什么我都给，什么都行!” 我的大脑一一这件精密的仪器一一即刻运转起来。我仔细地打量着他，问道：“什么都行?” “什么都行!”他斩钉截铁地说。 我若有所思地抚着下巴。好极了，我知道哪儿能弄到浣熊皮大衣。我父亲在大学读书时就穿过一件，现在还放在家里顶楼的箱子里。恰好皮蒂也有我需要的东西。尽管他还没有弄到手，但至少他有优先权。我说的是他的女朋友波利.埃斯皮。 我早已钟情于波利埃斯皮了。我要特别说明的是，我想得到这妙龄少女并不是由于感情的驱使。她确实是个易于使人动情的姑娘。可我不是那种让感情统治理智的人，我想得到波利是经过了慎重考虑的，完全是出于理智上的原因。 我是法学院一年级的学生，过不了几年就要挂牌当律师了。我很清楚，一个合适的妻子对一个律师的前途来说是非常重要的。我发现大凡有成就的律师几乎都是和美丽、文雅、聪明的女子结婚的。波利只差一条就完全符合这些条件了。 她漂亮。尽管她的身材还没有挂在墙上的美女照片那么苗条，但我相信时间会弥补这个不足。她已经大致不差了。 她温文尔雅——我这里是指她很有风度。她婷婷玉立，落落大方，泰然自若，一眼就看得出她很有教养。她进餐时，动作是那样的优美。我曾看见过她在“舒适的校园之角”吃名点——一块夹有几片带汁的炖肉和碎核桃仁的三明治，还有一小杯泡菜——手指儿一点儿也没有沾湿。 她不聪明，实际上恰好相反。但我相信有我的指导，她会变得聪明的。无论如何可以试一试，使一个漂亮的笨姑娘变得聪明比使一个聪明的丑姑娘变得漂亮毕竟要容易些。 “皮蒂，”我说，“你在跟波利谈恋爱吧?” “我觉得她是一个讨人喜欢的姑娘，”他回答说，“但我不知道这是不是就叫做爱情。你问这个干吗?” “你和她有什么正式的安排吗?我是说你们是不是常有约会，或者有诸如此类的事情?”我问。 “没有，我们常常见面。但我们俩各自有别的约会。你问这个干嘛?” “还有没有别人使她特别喜欢呢?”我问道。 “那我可不知道。你问这些干吗?” 我满意地点点头说：“这就是说。如果你不在，场地就是空着的。你说是吗?” “我想是这样。你这话是什么意思?” “没什么，没什么，”我若无其事地说，接着把手提皮箱从壁橱里拿了出来。 “你去哪儿?”皮蒂问。 “回家过周末。”我把几件衣服扔进了提箱。 “听着，”他焦急的抓住我的胳膊说，“你回家后，从你父亲那儿弄点钱来借给我买一件浣熊皮大衣，好吗?” “也许不仅只是这样呢。”我神秘地眨着眼睛说，随后关上皮箱就走了。 星期一上午我回到学校时对皮蒂说：“你瞧!”我猛地打开皮箱，那件肥大、毛茸茸、散发着怪味的东西露了出来，这就是我父亲1925年在施图茨比尔凯特汽车里穿过的那一件浣熊皮大衣。 “太好了!”皮蒂恭敬的说。他把两只手插进那件皮大衣，然后把头也埋了进去。“太好啦!”他不断地重复了一二十遍。 “你喜欢吗?”我问道。 “哦，喜欢!”他高声叫着，把那满是油腻的毛皮紧紧地搂在怀里。接着他眼里露出机警的神色，说着：“你要什么换呢?” “你的女朋友，”我毫不讳言地说。 “波利?”他吃惊了，结结巴巴地说，“你要波利?” “是的。” 他把皮大衣往旁一扔，毫不妥协的说：“那可不行。” 我耸了耸肩膀说：“好吧，如果你不想赶时髦，那就随你的便好了。” 我在一把椅子上坐了下来，假装读书，暗暗地瞟着皮蒂。他神情不安，用面包店窗前的流浪儿那种馋涎欲滴的神情望着那件皮大衣，接着扭过头去，坚定地咬紧牙关。过了一会儿，他又回过头来把目光投向那件皮大衣，脸上露出更加渴望的神情。等他再扭过头去，已经不那么坚决了。他看了又看，越看越爱，慢慢地决心也就减弱了。最后他再也不扭过头去，只是站在那儿，贪婪地盯着那件皮大衣。 “我和波利好像不是在谈恋爱，”他含含糊糊地说。“也说不上经常约会或有诸如此类的事情。” “好的，”我低声地说。 “波利对我算得了什么?我对波利又算得了什么?” “只不过是一时高兴-----不过是说说笑笑罢了，如此而已。” “试试大衣吧。”我说 “他照办了。衣领蒙住了他的耳朵，下摆一直拖到脚跟。他看起 来活像一具浣熊尸体。他高兴地说：“挺合身的。” “我从椅子上站了起来。“成交了吗?”我说着，把手伸向他。 他轻易地接受了。“算数．”他说，并跟我握了握手。 第二天晚上，我与波利第一次约会了。这一次实际上是我对她的考察。我想弄清要作多大的努力才能使她的头脑达到我的要求。我首先请她去吃饭。“哈，这顿饭真够意思，”离开餐馆时她说。然后我请她去看电影。“嘿，这片子真好看，”走出影院时她说。最后我送她回家。和我道别时她说：“嘿，今晚玩得真痛快。” 我带着不大痛快的心情回到了房间。我对这任务的艰巨性估计得太低了。这姑娘的知识少得叫人吃惊。只是给她增加知识还不够，首先得教她学会思考。这可不是一件容易的事，当时我真想把她还给皮蒂算了。但我一想到她那充满魅力的身材，她那进屋时的模样，她那拿刀叉的姿式，我还是决定再作一番努力。 就像做其他的事情一样，我开始有计划地干了起来。我开始给她上辑课。幸好我是一个学法律的学生，我自己也正在学逻辑学，所以对要教的内容我都很熟悉。当我接她赴第二次约会时，我对她说：“今晚上咱们去‘小山’谈谈吧”。 “啊，好极了，”她回答道。对这姑娘我要补充一句的是，像她这么好商量的人是不多见的。 我们去了“小山”，这是校园里人们幽会的地方。我们坐在一棵老橡树下，她用期待的眼神看着我。“我们谈些什么呢?”她问。 她想了一会儿，觉得不错，便说：“好极了。” “逻辑学，”我清了清嗓了，“就是思维的科学。在我们能正确地思维之前，首先必须学会判别逻辑方面的常见谬误。我们今晚就要来谈谈这些。” “哇!”她叫了起来，高兴地拍着手。 我打了个寒噤，但还是鼓足勇气讲下去：“首先我们来考究一下被称为绝对判断的谬误。” “好呀!”她眨了眨眼，催促着。 “绝对判断指的是根据一种无条件的前提推出的论断。譬如说，运动是有益的，因此人人都要运动。” “不错，”波利认真地说，“运动是非常有益的，它能增强体质，好处太多了!” “波利，”我温和地说，“这种论点是谬误。运动有益是一种无条件的前提。比方说，假设你得了心脏病，运动不但无益，反而有害，有不少人医生就不准他们运动。你必须给这种前提加以限制。你应该说，一般来说运动是有益的。或者说，对大多数人是有益的。否则就是犯了绝对判断的错误，懂吗?” “不懂，”她坦率地说。“这可太有意思了，讲吧!往下讲吧!” “你最好别拉我袖子了，”我对她说。等她松了手，我继续讲：“下面我们讲一种被称为草率结论的谬误。你仔细听：你不会讲法语，我不会讲法语，皮蒂也不会讲法语。因此我就会断定在明尼苏达大学谁也不会讲法语。” “真的?”波利好奇的问道，“谁也不会吗?” 我压住火气。“波利，这是一种谬误，这是一种草率的结论。能使这种结论成立的例证太少了。” “你还知道其他的谬误吗?”她气喘吁吁地说：“这真比跳舞还有意思啦!” 我极力地使自己不灰心。我真拿这姑娘没办法，的确是毫无办法。可是，如果我不坚持下去，我就太没有用了。因此，我继续讲下去。 “现在听我讲讲‘牵强附会’的谬误。听着：我们不要带比尔出去野餐。每次带他一起去，天就下雨。” “我就见过这样的人，”她感叹地说。“我们家乡有个女孩，名叫尤拉·蓓克尔。从没有例外，每次我们带她去野餐……” “波利，”我严厉地说，“这是一种谬误。下雨并不是尤拉蓓克尔造成的，下雨与她没有任何关系。如果你责怪尤拉·蓓克尔，你就是犯了牵强附会的错误。” “我再也不这样了，”她懊悔地保证说。“你生我的气了吗?” 我深深地叹了一口气：“不，波利，我没生气。” “那么，给我再讲些谬误吧!” “好，让我们来看看矛盾前提吧。” “行，行，”她叽叽喳喳地叫着，两眼闪现出快乐的光芒。 我皱了皱眉头，但还是接着讲下去。“这里有一个矛盾前提的例子：如果上帝是万能的，他能造出一块连他自己也搬不动的大石头吗?” “当然能，”她毫不犹豫地回答道。 “但是如果他是万能的，他就能搬动那块石头呀，”我提醒她。 “是嘛!”她若有所思地说，“嗯，我想他造不出那样的石头。” “但他是万能的啊，”我进一步提醒她。 她用手抓了抓她那漂亮而又空虚的脑袋。“我全搞糊涂了，”她承认说。 “你确实糊涂了。因为一种论点的各个前提相互问是矛盾的，这种论点就不能成立。如果有一种不可抗拒的力量．就不可能有一种不可移动的物体；如果有一种不可移动的物体，就不可能有一种不可抗拒的力量。懂吗?” “再给我讲些这类新奇的玩意儿吧，”她恳切地说。 我看了看表，说：“我想今晚就谈到这里。我现在该送你回去了。你把所学的东西复习一遍，我们明晚上再来上一课吧。” 我把她送到了女生宿舍，在那里她向我保证说这个晚上她过得非常痛快。我闷闷不乐地回到了我的房间，皮蒂正鼾声如雷地睡在床上。那件浣熊皮大衣像一头多毛的野兽扒在他的脚边。我当时真想把他叫醒，告诉他可以把他的女朋友要回去。看来我的计划会要落空了。这姑娘对逻辑简直是一点儿都不开窍。 但是我回过头一想，既然已经浪费了一个晚上，不妨还是再花一个晚上看看。天晓得，说不定她头脑里的死火山口中的什么地方，还有些火星会喷射出来呢。也许我会有办法能把这些火星扇成熊熊烈焰。当然，成功的希望是不大的，但我还是决定再试一次。 第二天晚上我们又坐在那棵橡树下，我说：“今晚上我们要谈的第一种谬误叫做文不对题。” 她高兴得都发抖了。 “注意听，”我说。“有个人申请工作，当老板问他所具备的条件时，他回答说他家有妻子和六个孩子。妻子完全残废了，孩子们没吃的，没穿的，睡觉没有床，生火没有煤，眼看冬天就要到了。” 两滴眼泪顺着波利那粉红的面颊往下滚。“啊，这太可怕了!太可怕了!”她抽泣着说。 “是的，是太可怕了，”我同意地说。“但这可不成其为申请工作的理由。那人根本没有回答老板提出的关于他的条件的间题，反而祈求老板的同情。他犯了文不对题的错误。你懂吗!” “你带手帕了没有?”她哭着说 我把手帕递给她。当她擦眼泪时，我极力控制自己的火气。“下面，”我小心地压低声调说，“我们要讨论错误类比。这里有一个例子：应该允许学生考试时看课本。既然外科医生在做手术时可以看X光片，律师在审案时可以看案由，木匠在造房子时可以看蓝图，为什么学生在考试时不能看课本呢?” “这个，”她满怀激情地说，“可是我多少年来听到的最好的主意。” “波利，”我生气地说，“这种论点全错了。医生、律师和木匠并不是以参加考试的方式去测验他们所学的东西。学生们才是这样。情况完全不同，你不能在不同的情况之间进行类比”。 “我还是觉得这是个好主意，”波利说。 “咳!”我嘀咕着，但我还是执意地往下讲，“接下去我们试试与事实相反的假设吧。” 波利的反应是：“倒挺好。” “你听着：如果居里夫人不是碰巧把一张照相底片放在装有一块沥清铀矿石的抽屉里，那么世人今天就不会知道镭。” “对，对，”波利点头称是。“你看过那部影片吗?哦，真好看。沃尔特·皮金演得太好了．我是说他让我着迷了。” “如果你能暂时忘记皮金先生，”我冷冰冰地说，“我会愿意指出这种说法是错误的。也许居里夫人以后会发现镭的，也许由别人去发现，也许还会发生其他的事情。你不能从一个不实际的假设出发，从中得出任何可站得住脚的结论。” “人们真应该让沃尔特皮金多拍些照片，”波利说，“我几乎再也看不到他了。” 我决定再试一次，但只能一次。一个人的忍耐毕竟是有限度的。我说：“下一个谬误叫做井下放毒。” “多聪明啊!”她咯咯笑了起来。 “有两个人在进行一场辩论。第一个人站起来说：‘我的论敌是个劣迹昭彰的骗子。他所说的每一句话都不可信。’……波利，现在你想想，好好想一想。这句话错在哪里?” 她紧锁着眉头，我凝神地看着她。突然，一道智慧的光芒——这是我从未看到过的一一闪现在她的眼中。“这不公平，”她气愤地说，“一点都不公平。如果第一个人不等第二个人开口就说他是骗子，那么第二个人还有什么可说的呢?” “对!”我高兴地叫了起来，“百分之百的对，是不公平。第一个人还不等别人喝到井水，就在井下放毒了。他还不等他的对手开口就已经 伤害了他。……波利，我真为你感到骄傲。” 她轻轻地“哼”了一声，高兴得脸郡发红了。 “你看，亲爱的，这些问题并不深奥，只要精力集中，就能对付。思考——分析—一判断。来，让我们把所学过的东西再复习一遍吧。” “来吧，”她说着。把手往上一晃。 看到波利并不那么傻，我的劲头上来了。于是，我便开始把对她讲过的一切，长时间地、耐心地复习了一遍。我给她一个一个地举出例子，指出其中的错误，不停地讲下去。就好比挖掘一条隧道，开始只有劳累、汗水和黑暗，不知道什么时候能见到光亮，甚至还不知道能否见到光亮。但我坚持着，凿啊，挖啊，刮啊，终于得到了报偿。我见到了一线光亮，这光亮越来越大，终于阳光洒进来了，一切都豁然开朗了。 我辛辛苦苦地花了五个晚上，但总算还是没有白费，我使波利变成一个逻辑学家了，我教她学会了思考。我的任务完成了，她最终还是配得上我的。她会成为我贤慧的妻子，我那些豪华公馆里出色的女主人。我那些有良好教养的孩子们的合格的母亲。 不要以为我不爱这姑娘了，恰恰相反。正如皮格马利翁珍爱他自己塑造的完美的少女像一样，我也非常地爱我的波利。我决定下次会面时把自己的感情向她倾吐。该是把我们师生式的关系转化为爱情的时候了。 “波利，”当我们又坐在我们那棵橡树下时，我说。“今晚我们不再讨论谬误了。” “怎么啦?”她失望地问道。 “亲爱的，”我友好地对她笑了笑，“我们已经一起度过了五个晚上，我们相处得很好。显然我们俩是很相配的。” “草率结论，”波利伶俐地说。 “你是说…?”我问道。 “草率结论，”她重复了一遍。“你怎么能凭我们仅有的五次约会就说我们俩很相配呢?” 我咯咯一笑，觉得挺有意思。这可爱的小家伙功课学得可真不错。“亲爱的，”我耐心地拍打着她的手说，“五次约会就不少了，毕竟你不必把整个蛋糕吃下去才知道蛋糕的甜味。” “错误类比，”波利敏捷地说。“我可不是蛋糕，我是个女孩子。”我微微一笑，但这次不感到那么有意思了。这可爱的孩子功课或许是学得太好了。我决定改变策略。显然，最好的办法就是态度明朗，直接了当地向她表示爱。我沉默了一会儿，用我特别发达的脑袋挑选着合适的词句。然后我便开始说： “波利，我爱你。对我来说，你就是整个世界，是月亮，是星星，是整个宇宙。我亲爱的，请说你爱我吧。如果你不这样，我的生活就失去意义了。我将会萎靡不振，茶不饮，饭不思，到处游荡，成为一个步履蹒跚、双眼凹下的躯壳。” 我交叉着双手站在那里，心想这下子可打动了她。 “文不对题，”波利说。 我咬咬牙。我不是皮格马利翁，我是弗兰肯斯坦，我的喉咙似乎一下子让魔鬼卡住了。我极力地控制涌上心头的阵阵痛楚。无论怎样，我电要保持冷静。 “好了，波利，”我强装着笑脸说，“这些谬误你的确已学到家了。” “这可说得很对，”她使劲地点了点头说道。 “可是波利，这一切是谁教给你的?” “你教的嘛。” “是的，那你得感谢我呀。是吗，亲爱的?要是我不和你在一起，你永远也不会学到这些谬误的”。 “与事实相反的假设，”波利不加思索地说着。 我摔掉了额前的汗珠。“波利，”我用嘶哑的声音说道，“你不要死板地接受这些东西。我是说那只是课堂上讲的东西。你知道学校学的东西与现实生活毫不相关。” “绝对判断，”她说道，嬉戏地向我摇摇指头。 这一下可使我恼火了。我猛地跳了起来，像公牛似地吼叫着，“你到底想不想跟我相爱?” “我不想，”她答道。 “为什么不想?”我追问着。 “因为今天下午我答应了皮蒂伯奇，我愿意和他相爱。” 我被皮蒂这一无耻的行径气得一阵晕眩，情不自禁地向后退去。皮蒂答应了我，跟我成了交，还跟我握了手呢!“这个可耻的家伙!”我尖着嗓子大叫，把一块块草皮踢了起来。“你不能跟他在一起，波利。他是一个说谎的人，一个骗子，一个可耻的家伙!” “井下放毒，”波利说。“别叫嚷了，我认为大声叫嚷就是一种谬误。” 我以极大的意志力把语气缓和下来。“好吧，”我说，“你是一个逻辑学家。那就让我们从逻辑上来分析这件事吧。你怎么会看得中皮蒂，而看不起我呢?你瞧我一个才华横溢的学生，一个了不起的知识分子，一个前途无量的人；而皮蒂——一个笨蛋，一个反复无常的人，一个吃了上顿不知有没有下顿的家伙。你能给我一个合乎逻辑的理由来说明你为什么要跟皮蒂好吗?” “当然能，”波利肯定地说。“他有一件浣熊皮大衣。”

I will wait for her in the yard that Maggie and I made so clean and wavy yester day afternoon. A yard like this is more comfortable than most people know. It is not just a yard. It is like an extended living room. When the hard clay is swept clean as a floor and the fine sand around the edges lined with tiny, irregular grooves, anyone can come and sit and look up into the elm tree and wait for the breezes that never come inside the house.Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners, homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eying her sister with a mixture of envy and awe. She thinks her sister has held life always in the palm of one hand, that "no" is a word the world never learned to say to her.You've no doubt seen those TV shows where the child who has "made it" is confronted, as a surprise, by her own mother and father, tottering in weakly from backstage. (A Pleasant surprise, of course: What would they do if parent and child came on the show only to curse out and insult each other?) On TV mother and child embrace and smile into each other's face. Sometimes the mother and father weep, the child wraps them in her arms and leans across the table to tell how she would not have made it without their help. I have seen these programs.Sometimes I dream a dream in which Dee and I are suddenly brought together on a TV program of this sort. Out of a cark and soft-seated limousine I am ushered into a bright room filled with many people. There I meet a smiling, gray, sporty man like Johnny Carson who shakes my hand and tells me what a fine girl I have. Then we are on the stage and Dee is embracing me with tear s in her eyes. She pins on my dress a large orchid, even though she has told me once that she thinks or chides are tacky flowers.In real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands. In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day. I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man. My fat keeps me hot in zero weather. I can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing; I can eat pork liver cooked over the open tire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog. One winter I knocked a bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill be-fore nightfall. But of course all this does not show on television. I am the way my daughter would want me to be: a hundred pounds lighter, my skin like an uncooked barley pan-cake. My hair glistens in the hot bright lights. Johnny Car – son has much to do to keep up with my quick and witty tongue.But that is a mistake. I know even before I wake up. Who ever knew a Johnson with a quick tongue? Who can even imagine me looking a strange white man in the eye? It seems to me I have talked to them always with one toot raised in flight, with my head turned in whichever way is farthest from them. Dee, though. She would always look anyone in the eye. Hesitation was no part of her nature."How do I look, Mama?" Maggie says, showing just enough of her thin body enveloped in pink skirt and red blouse for me to know she's there, almost hidden by the door."Come out into the yard," I say.Have you ever seen a lame animal, perhaps a dog run over by some careless person rich enough to own a car, sidle up to someone who is ignorant enough to be kind of him? That is the way my Maggie walks. She has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, ever since the fire that burned the other house to the ground.Dee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure. She's a woman now, though sometimes I forget. How long ago was it that the other house burned? Ten, twelve years? Sometimes I can still hear the flames and feel Maggie's arms sticking to me, her hair smoking and her dress falling off her in little black papery flakes. Her eyes seemed stretched open, blazed open by the flames reflect-ed in them. And Dee. I see her standing off under the sweet gum tree she used to dig gum out of; a look at concentration on her face as she watched the last dingy gray board of the house tall in toward the red-hot brick chimney. Why don't you do a dance around the ashes? I'd wanted to ask her. She had hated the house that much.I used to think she hated Maggie, too. But that was before we raised the money, the church and me, to send her to Augusta to school. She used to read to us without pity, forcing words, lies, other folks' habits, whole lives upon us two, sitting trapped and ignorant underneath her voice. She washed us in a river of make-believe, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn't necessarily need to know. Pressed us to her with the serious way she read, to shove us away at just the moment, like dimwits, we seemed about to understand.Dee wanted nice things. A yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school; black pumps to match a green suit she'd made from an old suit somebody gave me. She was determined to stare down any disaster in her efforts. Her eyelids would not flicker for minutes at a time. Often I fought off the temptation to shake her. At sixteen she had a style of her own' and knew what style was.

Everyday use 英文原版I will wait for her in the yard that Maggie and I made so clean and wavy yesterday afternoon. A yard like this is more comfortable than most people know. It is not just a yard. It is like an extended living room. When the hard clay is swept clean as a floor and the fine sand around the edges lined with tiny, irregular grooves, anyone can come and sit and look up into the elm tree and wait for the breezes that never come inside the house.Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners, homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eying her sister with a mixture of envy and awe. She thinks her sister has held life always in the palm of one hand, that "no" is a word the world never learned to say to her.You've no doubt seen those TV shows where the child who has "made it" is confronted, as a surprise, by her own mother and father, tottering in weakly from backstage. (A pleasant surprise, of course: What would they do if parent and child came on the show only to curse out and insult each other?) On TV mother and child embrace and smile into each other's faces. Sometimes the mother and father weep, the child wraps them in her arms and leans across the table to tell how she would not have made it without their help. I have seen these programs.Sometimes I dream a dream in which Dee and I are suddenly brought together on a TV program of this sort. Out of a dark and soft-seated limousine I am ushered into a bright room filled with many people. There I meet a smiling, gray, sporty man like Johnny Carson who shakes my hand and tells me what a fine girl I have. Then we are on the stage and Dee is embracing me with tears in her eyes. She pins on my dress a large orchid, even though she has told me once that she thinks orchids are tacky flowers. In real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands. In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day. I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man. My fat keeps me hot in zero weather. I can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing; I can eat pork liver cooked over the open fire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog. One winter I knocked a bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill before nightfall. But of course all this does not show on television. I am the way my daughter would want me to be: a hundred pounds lighter, my skin like an uncooked barley pancake. My hair glistens in the hot bright lights. Johnny Carson has much to do to keep up with my quick and witty tongue.But that is a mistake. I know even before I wake up. Who ever knew a Johnson with a quick tongue? Who can even imagine me looking a strange white man in the eye? It seems to me I have talked to them always with one foot raised in flight, with my head fumed in whichever way is farthest from them. Dee, though. She would always look anyone in the eye. Hesitation was no part of her nature."How do I look, Mama?" Maggie says, showing just enough of her thin body enveloped in pink skirt and red blouse for me to know she's there, almost hidden by the door."Come out into the yard," I say.Have you ever seen a lame animal, perhaps a dog run over by some careless person rich enough to own a car, sidle up to someone who is ignorant enough to be kind to him? That is the way my Maggie walks. She has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, ever since the fire that burned the other house to the ground.Dee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure. She's a woman now, though sometimes I forget. How long ago was it that the other house burned? Ten, twelve years? Sometimes I can still hear the flames and feel Maggie's arms sticking to me, her hair smoking and her dress falling off her in little black papery flakes. Her eyes seemed stretched open, blazed open by the flames reflected in them. And Dee. I see her standing off under the sweet gum tree she used to dig gum out of; a look of concentration on her face as she watched the last dingy gray board of the house fall in toward the red-hot brick chimney. Why don't you do a dance around the ashes? I'd wanted to ask her. She had hated the house that much.I used to think she hated Maggie, too. But that was before we raised money, the church and me, to send her to Augusta to school. She used to read to us without pity; forcing words, lies, other folks' habits, whole lives upon us two, sitting trapped and ignorant underneath her voice. She washed us in a river of make-believe, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn't necessarily need to know. Pressed us to her with the serf' oust way she read, to shove us away at just the moment, like dimwits, we seemed about to understand.Dee wanted nice things. A yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school; black pumps to match a green suit she'd made from an old suit somebody gave me. She was determined to stare down any disaster in her efforts. Her eyelids would not flicker for minutes at a time. Often I fought off the temptation to shake her. At sixteen she had a style of her own: and knew what style was.I never had an education myself. After second grade the school was closed down. Don't ask my why: in 1927 colored asked fewer questions than they do now. Sometimes Maggie reads to me. She stumbles along good-naturedly but can't see well. She knows she is not bright. Like good looks and money, quickness passes her by. She will marry John Thomas (who has mossy teeth in an earnest face) and then I'll be free to sit here and I guess just sing church songs to myself. Although I never was a good singer. Never could carry a tune. I was always better at a man's job. I used to love to milk till I was hooked in the side in '49. Cows are soothing and slow and don't bother you, unless you try to milk them the wrong way.I have deliberately turned my back on the house. It is three rooms, just like the one that burned, except the roof is tin; they don't make shingle roofs any more. There are no real windows, just some holes cut in the sides, like the portholes in a ship, but not round and not square, with rawhide holding the shutters up on the outside. This house is in a pasture, too, like the other one. No doubt when Dee sees it she will want to tear it down. She wrote me once that no matter where we "choose" to live, she will manage to come see us. But she will never bring her friends. Maggie and I thought about this and Maggie asked me, "Mama, when did Dee ever have any friends?"She had a few. Furtive boys in pink shirts hanging about on washday after school. Nervous girls who never laughed. Impressed with her they worshiped the well-turned phrase, the cute shape, the scalding humor that erupted like bubbles in lye. She read to them.When she was courting Jimmy T she didn't have much time to pay to us, but turned all her faultfinding power on him. He flew to marry a cheap city girl from a family of ignorant flashy people. She hardly had time to recompose herself.When she comes I will meet—but there they are!Maggie attempts to make a dash for the house, in her shuffling way, but I stay her with my hand. "Come back here," I say. And she stops and tries to dig a well in the sand with her toe.It is hard to see them clearly through the strong sun. But even the first glimpse of leg out of the car tells me it is Dee. Her feet were always neat-looking, as if God himself had shaped them with a certain style. From the other side of the car comes a short, stocky man. Hair is all over his head a foot long and hanging from his chin like a kinky mule tail. I hear Maggie suck in her breath. "Uhnnnh, " is what it sounds like. Like when you see the wriggling end of a snake just in front of your foot on the road. "Uhnnnh."Dee next. A dress down to the ground, in this hot weather. A dress so loud it hurts my eyes. There are yellows and oranges enough to throw back the light of the sun. I feel my whole face warming from the heat waves it throws out. Earrings gold, too, and hanging down to her shoulders. Bracelets dangling and making noises when she moves her arm up to shake the folds of the dress out of her armpits. The dress is loose and flows, and as she walks closer, I like it. I hear Maggie go "Uhnnnh" again. It is her sister's hair. It stands straight up like the wool on a sheep. It is black as night and around the edges are two long pigtails that rope about like small lizards disappearing behind her ears."Wasuzo-Teano!" she says, coming on in that gliding way the dress makes her move. The short stocky fellow with the hair to his navel is all grinning and he follows up with "Asalamalakim, my mother and sister!" He moves to hug Maggie but she falls back, right up against the back of my chair. I feel her trembling there and when I look up I see the perspiration falling off her chin."Don't get up," says Dee. 待续。。