книги / Striving For Happiness. I Am a Part of All that I Have Met

Write what you think of thefollowing:

1.Money gives freedom.

2.People who think that money can buy everything, can themselves be easily bought with money.

3.Meanness ruins the soul.

4."Money is the fruit of evil as often as the root of it." (Henry Fielding)

Read the text and comment on Romen Rollan’s phrase: "We take care o f the eggs that we have layed ourselves and don't worry about the ones we came out."

Sarah

After M Lucado

Sarah sat alone. Her hands, freckled with age, rested in her lap. She wore her finest dress. Her nursing-home room spoke of springtime: daisies in the vase, a tree blooming out­ side her window.

"Sundays are special, you know."

Her nursing-home wall spoke of family: an enlargement of grandson Jason hugging Brando the terrier; a framed portrait of her son Jerry, the dentist, and his family in Phoenix; Sarah and her late husband cutting their fortieth wedding anniversary cake. "It would have been fifty years next May."

Sarah sat alone. "They came last Christmas," she said brightly (as if defending her family).

A telegram and a birthday card were taped to the dresser mirror. A church group sang hymns down the hall. She had done her best to make the small room look homey, but a person can only do so much.

Sarah is not sick or ugly. She is not useless or decrepit. Sarah is simply old. Sarah is not senile, though at times, she confesses, the naivete of senility is tempting. She doesn't suffer from cancer or arthritis. She hasn't had a stroke. No, her 'disease' is much more severe. She suffers from rejection.

Our society has little room for the aged. People like Sarah come in scores. No one intentionally forgets them. Maybe that’s why it is so painful. If there were a reason: a fight, a mistake, a dispute.... But usually it's unintentional.

Unintentional rejection. It will kill Sarah; she'll die of loneliness. It doesn't matter how nice the convalescent home is; nurses and old folk don't replace a grandbaby's smile or a son's kiss.

Spend all your love on her now. Forget not the hands, though spotted, The hair, though thinning,

The eyes, though dim. For they are a part ofyou.

And when they are gone, apart ofyou is gone.

"They came last Christmas," Sarah said with a sigh.

Not only old people can be lonely. Sometimes children also suffer from loneliness and misunderstanding.

Read the story and say ifyou experienced loneliness and misunderstanding at school.

The Teacher

After Catherine Lim

'Look,' said the teacher to the colleague who was sitting beside him in the staffroom. 'Look at this composition written by a student in Secondary Four. She's supposed to have had ten years of studying English, and see what she's written! I'll read it to you. The title of the composition is "My Happiest Day".

The teacher read, pausing at those parts which he wanted his colleague to take particu­ lar note of: "'My happiest day it is on that 12 July. I will tell you o f that happiest day. My father wanted me to help him in his cakes stall to sell cakes and earn money. He say I must leave school and stay home and help him. My younger brothers and sisters they are too young to work so they can go to school. My mother is too sick and weak as she just born a baby." Can anything be more atrocious than this? And she's going to sit for her exams in three months' time! And listen to this:

"I was very sad because I don't like to sell cakes I like to learn in school. But I am scare myfather he will beat me if I disobeyed him so I cannot say anything to him. He ask me to tell my principal o f my school that I am not going to learn any more. I was scare my principal will ask me questions. Lucky my mother came home from the hospital where she born the baby, and my mother say to my father that I should learn in school and become nurse later. So I can earn more money. Sell cakes not earn so much money. She begged my father and at last myfather agree. I think he agree because he was in good mood. If in bad mood like drunk he will beat my mother up and make trouble in the house. So my mother told me I was no need to stop learning in school. And that was the happiest day in my life which I shall neverforget."

The teacher said slowly and thoughtfully, 'I wonder why most of them write like that? Day in, day out, we teach grammar and usage. For my part, I've taught them the use of the Tenses till I'm blue in the face, but they still make all kinds of Tense mistakes! I've drummed into them that when narrating a story, they have to use the Past Tense, but I still get awful mistakes such as the ones you heard just now.'

A week later, the teacher was correcting composition exercises in the staffroom again. And again he dropped his head into his hands in despair. It was a different colleague sitting beside him this time. He showed her a page from an exercise book and said: 'What do you think of this as a specimen of Secondary Four Composition? I give up! I resign!'

'Ah, they're all like that,' sighed his colleague in sympathy. 'You should see the grammar mistakes I get from my Pre-University students, mind you, Pre-University.'

The teacher read the lines that had given him most pain. 'Now look at this: "7 would like is become a nurse and successful career so I have a lot o f money with luxuries," - by the way, I had asked them to write on "My Ambition" - "so I can buy a house for my mother and brothers and sisters" —this is the only sentence in the whole composition that is correct grammatically.

Listen to this one, can you make anything of it? "and my favourite ambition I must strive very hard if I have no ambition to help my mother and brothers and sisters they is sure to sufferfor myfather he don't care at all everytime come backfrom selling cakes only he must drink and spend all money on drinks and sometimes he beats my mother." It's that Tan Geok Feng from Secondary Four C, you know that timid, mousy-looking girl who looks ready to faint in fright the moment you call her to answer a question. You know, I'm getting very worried about the standard of English in my class. I think Tan Geok Feng and the likes of her need extra Saturday coaching, or they'll never pass the exams. Three months away, I tell them. Just three months in which to polish up your grammar and vocabulary, and write the first decent composition in your life!'

The extra coaching did not save the poor teacher from the despair he was experiencing. 'Ah!' he said, shaking his head sadly, 'what shall I do? Read this nonsense! Let me see - yes, it's from that girl, Tan Geok Feng again - that girl will be the death of me. Listen to this! She was supposed to write a story with the title "The Stranger" and all she did was write a great deal of trash about her father - "He canned me everytime, even when I did not do wrong things still he canned me" - she means "caned" of course - "and he beat my mother and even if she sick, he wallop her." This composition is not only terribly ungram­ matical but out of point. God, I wish I could help her!'

When the news reached the school, the teacher was very upset and said, 'Poor girl. What? She actually jumped from the eleventh floor? Such a shy, timid girl. If only she had told me of her problems. But she was always too shy and timid to speak up.'

Sometimes people live together but still feel lonely.

Read the story by Ernest Hemingway and render into English a short text commenting

on it.

Cat In The Rain

After Ernest Hemingway

There were only two Americans at the hotel. They did not know any of the people in the hotel. Their room was on the second floor. The windows of their room looked on the sea, the garden and the war monument. There were big trees and green benches in the garden. In good weather there was always an artist with brushes and colours in the garden. Artists liked the trees and the bright colours of the hotel. Italians came here to look at the war monument. It was a bronze monument and it shone in the rain. It was raining. The drops of water fell from the trees. Water stood on the paths. There were no cars in the square near the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the Cafe a waiter stood and looked at the empty street.

The American woman stood at the window. Outside right under their window a cat was sitting under one of the green tables. The drops of water were falling from the table and the cat was trying to keep dry.

"I am going down and get that little cat," the American woman said. "I'll do it," her husband offered from the bed.

"No, I'll get it. The poor cat is trying to keep dry under a table." The husband continued to read.

"Don't get wet," he said.

The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.

"It is raining," the woman said. She liked the hotel owner. "Yes, yes, madam. It's very bad weather."

He stood at his desk in the far end of the room. The woman liked him. She liked that he wanted to serve her. She liked his old face and big hands.

She opened the door and looked out. The rain was heavier now. A man in a cape was crossing the empty square to the cafe. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened over her. It was the maid who looked after their room.

"You must not get wet," she said and smiled.

The woman walked along the path until she was under their window. The maid held the umbrella over her. The table was there, bright green in the rain, but there was no cat. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.

"What are you looking for, madam?"

"There was a cat here," said the American woman. "A cat?"

"Yes, a cat."

"A cat?" the maid laughed. "A cat in the rain?"

"Yes," she said, "under the table." Then, "Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted

a little cat."

"Come, madam,' said the maid. "We must go back into the house. You will be wet." "I think so," said the American woman.

They went back along the path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella. As the American woman passed the office, the owner bowed from his desk. He made her feel very small and at the same time really important.

She went upstairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed. He was reading.

"Did you get the cat?" he asked and put the book down. "There was no cat there."

"I wonder, where it went to," he said. She sat down on the bed.

"I wanted it so much," she said. "I don't know why I wanted it so much. I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor little cat. It isn't good for a poor little cat to be in the rain."

George was reading again.

She went over and sat in front of the mirror. Another mirror was in her hand. She studied her face, first one side and then the other! Then she studied the back of her head.

"I don't like my short hair. I look like a boy. I am tired of it." George looked up and saw the back of her head.

"You look pretty," he said.

She put the mirror on the table and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.

"I want to have long hair," she said. "I want to have a little cat." "Yeah?" George said from the bed.

"And I want to eat at a table with my own silver. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my long hair in front of a mirror and I want a little cat and I want some new clothes."

"Oh, shut up and get something to read," George said. He was reading again.

His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the

trees.

"In any case I want a cat," she said. "I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can't have long hair, I can have a cat."

George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window.

Somebody knocked at the door.

"Come in," George said. He looked up from his book. In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big cat.

"Excuse me," she said, "the hotel owner asked me to bring this for the lady."

RENDERING

Рассказ Эрнеста Хемингуэя «Кошка под дождем» является характерным приме­ ром того, как простое по языку, сюжету и композиции произведение представляет, тем не менее, большую сложность для восприятия и понимания переживания героев. Эго связано с особенностью стиля автора, который отличается лаконичностью и на­ личием подтекста. В данном рассказе речь идет о двух американцах, муже и жене, живущих в Италии. Жене американца надоел бродячий образ жизни. Она истоскова­ лась по простым человеческим радостям, теплым отношениям. В отношениях с му­ жем ей недостает тепла и чувства защищенности. Кошка, которую ей захотелось спрятать от дождя и пригреть у себя на коленях, олицетворяет для неё простые здоро­ вые человеческие радости и является для неё символом дома, уюта, стабильности. Женщина говорит мужу, что ей надоело носить коротко остриженные, как у мальчи­ ка, волосы, что она хочет «есть за своим столом, и чтоб были свои ножи и вилки, и чтоб горели свечи». Она хочет, «чтоб была весна», и хочет «расчёсывать волосы пе­

ред зеркалом». В сущности, это простое и элементарное стремление - почувствовать себя женщиной, если не матерью, то хотя бы хозяйкой своего дома. Американка

витальянской гостинице хочет приласкать мокнущую под дождем кошку. Внешнее действие на первый взгляд совершенно незначительно, но за этой внешней малозна­ чительностью стоит горькая судьба женщины, которая лишена простейших, но таких необходимых радостей. Обо всем этом автор не говорит прямо. Но именно это звучит

внапряженном однообразии повторяющихся слов, в настойчивой просьбе-требова­ нии: «Не знаю почему, но мне так хотелось эту бедную кошку». Упрямо повторяемое желание становится как бы рефреном, и в нем слышится тоска одинокого человека, одинокого - вдвоем.

Fears

The only thing we have tofear isfear itself (Franklin D. Roosevelt)

— I've talked to people who are afraid of flying in airplanes and I've talked to somebody who is afraid of mice. Are you afraid ofanything?

—Not necessarily, but I'm afraid of the dark, a bit. But apartfrom that, no. —How do youfeel when it's dark?

—When it's dark without any light on, Ifeel a bit shivery and cold.

—Mm-hm. And ... you are not afraid ofanything else? -No.

—Are you afraid ofghosts?

—Mm-hm. Um, how about big dogs?

—Only if they chase me. Or any dog if itjumps at me. Or runs at me. —Mm-hm. Are there any other animals you're afraid of?

—Well, lions and tigers, but I don't normally get any near me - except in cages.

STUDY

Study the list of words concerning fears.

1.To be afraid of smth.

to be frightened of smth. to be scared of smth.

to be horrified of smth. to be terrified of smth.

2.To burst into tears

to tremble / to shiver / to shake to shudder

to panick

to be out of breath to freeze up

to be petrified to be paralysed

to be dumbfounded

3.To have a phobia (a pathological fear or dislike which is irrational): agoraphobia - fear of open spaces and public spaces

claustrophobia - fear of small closed spaces hydrophobia - fear of water

photophobia - fear of light arachnophobia - fear of spiders aerophobia —fear of flying by airplane mesophobia - fear of infections erotophobia - fear of the opposite sex fear of hights

fear of the dark

situational phobias: fear of loneliness, old age, loosing a job and fear of bad news 4. To overcome some fear.

READING

Read the story and pay attention to the way the author creates the atmosphere ofsuspense.

The Hitchhiker

As Andrea turned off the motorway onto the road to Brockboume, the small village in which she lived, it was four o'clock in the afternoon, but already the sun was falling behind the hills. At this time in December, it would be completely dark by five o'clock. Andrea shivered. The interior of the car was not cold, but the trees bending in the harsh wind and the patches of yesterday's snow still heaped in the fields made her feel chilly inside. It was another ten miles to the cottage where she lived with her husband Michael, and the dim light and wintry weather made her feel a little lonely. She would have liked to listen to the radio, but it had been stolen from her car when it was parked outside her office in London about two weeks ago, and she had not got around to replacing it yet.

She was just coming out of the little village of Mickley when she saw an old lady standing by the road. She was holding a hand-written sign saying "Brockboume" in her hand. Andrea was surprised. She had never seen an old lady hitchhiking before. However, the weather and the coming darkness made her feel sorry for the lady, waiting hopefully on a country road like this with so little traffic.

Normally, Andrea would never pick up a hitchhiker when she was alone, thinking it was too dangerous, but what was the harm in doing a favour for a little old lady like this? Andrea pulled up a little way down the road, and the lady, holding a big shopping bag, hurried over to climb in the door which Andrea had opened for her.

When she did get in, Andrea could see that she was not, in fact, so little. Broad and fat, the old lady had some difficulty climbing in through the car door, with her big bag, and when she had got in, she more than filled the seat next to Andrea. She wore a long, shabby old dress, and she had a yellow hat pulled down low over her eyes. Panting noisily from her effort, she pushed her big brown canvas shopping bag down onto the floor under her feet, and said in a voice which was almost a whisper:

"Thank you, dearie - I'm just going to Brockboume."

"Do you live there?" asked Andrea, thinking that she had never seen the old lady in the village in the four years she had lived there herself.

"No, dearie," answered the passenger, in her soft voice, "I'm just going to visit a friend. He was supposed to meet me back there at Mickley, but his car broke down, so I decided to hitchhike - there isn't a bus until seven, and I didn't want to wait. I knew some kind soul would give me a lift."

Something in the way the lady spoke, and the way she never turned her head, but stared continuously into the darkness ahead from under her old yellow hat, made Andrea

uneasy about this strange hitchhiker. She did not know why, but she felt instinctively that there was something wrong, something odd, something... dangerous.

But how could an old lady be dangerous? It was absurd.

Careful not to turn her head, Andrea looked sideways at her passenger. She studied the hat, the dirty collar of the dress, the shapeless body, the arms with their thick black hairs...

Thick black hairs?

Hairy arms? Andrea's blood froze. This wasn't a woman. It was a man.

At first, she didn't know what to do. Then suddenly, an idea came to her mind. Swinging the wheel suddenly, she brought the car to a halt.

"My God!" she shouted. "A child! Did you see the child? I think I've hit her!" The "old lady" was clearly shaken.

"I didn't see anything, dearie," she said. "I don't think you've hit anything."

"I'm sure it was a child!" insisted Andrea. "Could you just get out and have a look? Just see if there's anything on the road?"

She held her breath. Would her plan work?

It did. The passenger slowly opened the car door, leaving her bag inside, and climbed out to investigate. As soon as she was out of the car, Andrea drove quickly away.

It was only ten minutes later that she thought about the bag lying on the floor in front of her. Maybe the bag would provide some information about the real identity of the old woman who was not an old woman. Pulling into the side of the road, Andrea lifted the heavy bag onto her lap and opened it curiously.

It contained only one item - a small hand axe, with a razor-sharp blade. The axe, and the inside of the bag, were covered with the dark red stains of dried blood.

Andrea began to scream.

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.What makes the story frightening?

2.Did the main character have a premonition?

3.Why did she do what she had never done?

4.What would you do if you were her?

5.What helps people to survive in a dangerous situation?

6.What is the climax point of the story and in what part of the story is it?

Read the story.

The Waxwork

After A. Burrage

The manager of Marriner's Museum of Waxworks sat in his office and interviewed Raymond Hewson. The manager was a youngish man, well-dressed, stout and rather tall. Raymond Hewson looked different. He was a small, pale man with a tired face and thin brown hair. His clothes, which had been good when new and which were still clean and carefully pressed, were beginning to show signs of their owner's losing battle with the world. The manager was speaking.

"There is nothing new in your request," he said. "In fact we refuse it to different people - mostly young idlers who try to make bets - about three times a week. If I permitted it and some young idiot lost his senses, what, would be my position? But you being a journalist alters the matter."

Hewson smiled.

"You mean that journalists have no senses to lose?"

"No, no," laughed the manager, "but they are supposed to be responsible people. Besides, it can give us publicity. Er - what is your newspaper, Mr. Hewson?"

"I don't work for any definite paper at present," Hewson confessed. "However, I would have no difficulty in publishing the story. THE MORNING ECHO would take it immediately. A Night with Mariner's Murderers. No paper will refuse it."

The manager thought a little.

"And how do you propose to treat it?"

"I shall make it thrilling, of course, thrilling but with a touch of humour." The manager nodded and offered Hewson his cigarette case.

"Very well, Mr. Hewson," he said. "Get your story published in THE MORNING ECHO, and there will be a five-pound note waiting for you here. But first of all I must warn you that it's not an easy job that you are going to take. I shouldn't take it on myself. I've seen those figures dressed and undressed. I know all about the process of their manufacture. I can walk about the museum in company as indifferently as if I were walking among manikins, but I should never sleep there alone among them."

"Why?" asked Hewson.

"I don't know. There isn't any reason. I don't believe in ghosts. It's just that I can't sit alone among them all night, with their eyes seeming to stare at me. The whole atmosphere of the place is unpleasant, and if you are sensitive to atmosphere you will have a very uncomfortable night."

Hewson had known it himself from the moment when the idea first occurred to him. His soul protested against the prospect, though he smiled at the manager. But he had a wife and children to keep and for the last months he had not had any regular work and he was living on his small savings. Here was a chance to earn some money - the price of a special story in THE MORNING ECHO and a five-pound note promised by the manager. Besides, if he wrote the story well, it might lead to the offer of a regular job.

"The way of newspaper men is hard," he said. "I have already promised myself an uncomfortable night because your Murderers' den is certainly not a hotel bedroom. But I don't think your waxworks will worry me much. I'm not superstitious."

The manager smiled and rose.

"All right," he said. "I think the last of the visitors have gone. Wait a moment. I'll let the watchmen know that you'll be here. Then I'll take you down and show you round."

He spoke on a house telephone and then said:

"I must ask you not to smoke there. We had a fire alarm in the Murderers' den this evening. I don't know who gave it but it was a false one. And now, if you're ready, we'll go."

They went through an open barrier and down dimly lit stone stairs, which gave a sinister impression of leading to a prison. In a room at the bottom of the stairs were a few relics of the Inquisition and other mementos of man's cruelty to man. Beyond this room was the Murderers' den.

It was a long room, ill-lit by electric lights burning behind glass lamps. It was, by design, a mysterious and uncomfortable chamber - a chamber whose atmosphere made visitors speak in whisper.

The waxwork murderers stood on low pedestals with labels at their feet. The manager, walking around with Hewson, pointed out several of the more interesting of these figures.

"That's Crippen! I think you recognize him. Insignificant little beast who looks as if he couldn't kill a fly. And of course this..."

"Who's that?" Hewson interrupted in a whisper, pointing.

"Oh, I was coming to him," said the manager. "Come and have a good look at him. This is our star. He's the only one of this company that hasn't been hanged."

The figure which Hewson had indicated was that of a small, thin man not much more than five feet tall. It wore little moustaches, large spectacles and a long coat. He could not