作者：章华
出版社：时代文艺出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
每天读一点英文：那些时光,那些风景(散文卷)(英汉对照) (每天读一点英文系列 3)试读：
成长的印记
The mark of growingThree Days to See
Helen Keller
If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness, I should divide the period into three parts.
The First Day
On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Anne Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character, which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity, which she has revealed, to me so often.
I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that "window of the soul", the eye. I can only "see" through my fingertips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their personalities by touch. I know their personalities, of course, through other means, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching their reactions to various expressed thoughts and circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.
Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from a handclasp, from spoken words which I take from their lips with my finger tips, or which they tap into the palm of my hand.
How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see into the inner nature of a friends or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face and let it go at that?
For instance can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of their wives' eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know. And, incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses, new hats, and changes in household arrangements.
The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal every day how inaccurately "eyewitnesses" see. A given event will be "seen" in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.
Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!
The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidences of the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty, which precedes the individual's consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.
And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs—the grave, canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful friendships are so comforting to me.
On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home. I want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house into home. My eyes would rest respectfully on the books in raised type which I have read, but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing people can read, for during the long night of my life, the books I have read and those which have been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse, revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.
In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of nature trying desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor which is constantly unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses ploughing in the field (perhaps I should see only a tractor!). And the serene content of men living close to the soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.
When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double delight of being able to see by artificial light which the genius of man has created to extend the power of his sight when nature decrees darkness.
In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be able to sleep, so full would be my mind of the memories of the day.
The Second Day
The next day—the second day of sight—I should arise with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping earth.
This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man's progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much be compressed into one day? Through the museums, of course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed there—animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of development in animals, in man, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for himself a secure home on this planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural history.
I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the face of living things as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course, have not had the opportunity, but I am sure that many who have had the opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place to use your eyes. You who can see spend many fruitful days there, but I with my imaginary three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.
My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the Museum of Natural History reveals the material aspects of the world, so does the Metropolitan show the myriad facets of the human spirit. Throughout the history of humanity the urge to artistic expression has been almost as powerful as the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in the vast chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my hands the sculptured gods and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have felt copies of Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of charging Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the Winged Victory of Samothrace are friends of my fingertips. The gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to me, for he, too, knew blindness.
My hands have lingered upon the living marble of roman sculpture as well as that of later generations. I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of Michelangelo's inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carvings. These arts which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were meant to be seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty which remains hidden from me. I can admire the simple lines of a Greek vase, but its figured decorations are lost to me.
So on this, my second day of sight; I should try to probe into the soul of man through this art. The things I knew through touch I should now see. More splendid still, the whole magnificent world of painting would be opened to me, from the ltalian Primitives, with their serene religious devotion, to the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into the canvases of Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, Rembrandt. I should want to feast my eyes upon the warm colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of El Greco, and catch a new vision of nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much rich meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!
Upon my short visit to this temple of art, I should not be able to review a fraction of that great world of art which is open to you. I should be able to get only a superficial impression. Artists tell me that for deep and true appreciation of art one must educated the eye. One must learn through experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I had eyes, how happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to many of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night, unexplored and unilluminated.
It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the Metropolitan Museum, which contains the key to beauty—a beauty so neglected. Seeing persons, however, do not need a metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the shelves of even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary sight, I should choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures in the shortest time.
The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a theatre or at the movies. Even now I often attend theatrical performances of all sorts, but the action of the play must be spelled into my hand by a companion. But how I should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure of Hamlet, or the gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I should like to follow each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And since I could see only one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned dilemma, for there are scores of plays I should want to see. You who have eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you gaze at a play, a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of sight which enables you to enjoy its color, grace, and movement?
I cannot enjoy the beauty of rhythmic movement except in a sphere restricted to the touch of my hands. I can vision only dimly the grace of a Pavlowa, although I know something of the delight of rhythm, for often I can sense the beat of music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well imagine that cadenced motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the world. I have been able to gather something of this by tracing with my fingers the lines in sculptured marble; if this static grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the thrill of seeing grace in motion.
One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph Jefferson allowed me to touch his face and hands as he went through some of the gestures and speeches of his beloved Rip Van Winkle. I was able to catch thus a meager glimpse of the world of drama, and I shall never forget the delight of that moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure you seeing ones can derive from watching and hearing the interplay of speech and movement in the unfolding of a dramatic performance! If I could see only one play, I should know how to picture in my mind the action of a hundred plays which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium of the manual alphabet.
So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of sight, the great figures of dramatic literature would crowd sleep from my eyes.
The Third Day
The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover new delights, for I am sure that, for those who have eyes which really see, the dawn of each day must be a perpetually new revelation of beauty.
This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle, is to be my third and last day of sight. I shall have no time to waste in regrets or longings; there is too much to see. The first day I devoted to my friends, animate and inanimate. The second revealed to me the history of man and nature. Today I shall spend in the workaday world of the present, amid the haunts of men going about the business of life. And where can one find so many activities and conditions of men as in New York? So the city becomes my destination.
I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest Hills, Long Island. Here, surrounded by green lawns, trees, and flowers, are neat little houses, happy with the voices and movements of wives and children, havens of peaceful rest for men who toil in the city. I drive across the lacy structure of steel which spans the East River, and I get a new and startling vision of the power and ingenuity of the mind of man. Busy boats chug and scurry about the river—racy speedboat, stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight ahead, I should spend many of them watching the delightful activity upon the river.
I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic towers of New York, a city that seems to have stepped from the pages of a fairy story. What an awe-inspiring sight, these glittering spires. These vast banks of stone and steel-structures such as the gods might build for themselves! This animated picture is a part of the lives of millions of people every day. How many, I wonder, give it so much as a second glance? Very few, I fear, their eyes are blind to this magnificent sight because it is so familiar to them.
I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic structures, the Empire State Building, for there, a short time ago; I "saw" the city below through the eyes of my secretary. I am anxious to compare my fancy with reality. I am sure I should not be disappointed in the panorama spread out before me, for to me it would be a vision of another world.
Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at a busy corner, merely looking at people, trying by sight of them to understand something of their lives. I see smiles, and I am happy. I see serious determination, and I am proud, I see suffering, and I am compassionate.
I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of focus, so that I see no particular object but only a seething kaleidoscope of colors. I am certain that in the colors of women's dresses moving in a throng must be a gorgeous spectacle of which I should never tire. But perhaps if I had sight I should be like most other women—too interested in styles and the cut of individual dresses to give much attention to the splendor of color in the mass. And I am convinced; too, that I should become an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight to the eye to view the myriad articles of beauty on display.
From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city—to Park Avenue, to the slums, to factories, to parks where children play. I take a stay-at-home trip abroad by visiting the foreign quarters. Always my eyes are open wide to all the sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe deep and add to my understanding of how people work and live. My heart is full of the images of people and things. My eye passes lightly over no single trifle; it strives to touch and hold closely each thing its gaze rests upon. Some sights are pleasant, filling the heart with happiness; but some are miserably pathetic. To these latter I do not shut my eyes, for they, too, are part of life. To close the eye on them is to close the heart and mind.
My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps there are many serious pursuits to which I should devote the few remaining hours, but I am afraid that on the evening of that last day I should again run away to the theater, to a hilariously funny play, so that I might appreciate the overtones of comedy in the human spirit.
At midnight my temporary respite from blindness would cease, and permanent night would close in on me again.Naturally in those three short days I should not have seen all I wanted to see. Only when darkness had again descended upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen. But my mind would be so crowded with glorious memories that I should have little time for regrets. Therefore the touch of every object would bring a glowing memory of how that object looked.
Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days of sight does not agree with the program you would set for yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind. I am, however, sure that if you actually faced that fate your eyes would open to things you had never seen before, storing up memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes as never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you. Your eyes would touch and embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then, at last, you would really see, and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.
I who am blind can give one hint to those who see—one admonition to those who would make full use of the gift of sight: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to the other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf tomorrow. Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense: glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you through the several means of contact which nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.
假如给我三天光明
［美］海伦·凯勒
如果因为某种奇迹，我获得了能看见东西的三天，随后又将沉陷于一片黑暗之中，我会将这段时间分为三个部分。
第一天
第一天，我想看到这些人，他们的善良，温柔和友情使我的生命变得有价值。首先我想长时间凝视我亲爱的老师安妮·萨利文·梅西夫人的脸。当我还是一个孩子的时候，她来到我面前，为我打开了外面的世界。我不仅要看她脸部的轮廓，以便能把它珍藏在我的记忆中，而且还要研究这张脸庞，在那里找到富有同情心、温柔和耐心的生动迹象，她就是以这种温柔和耐心完成了教育我的艰难任务。我要看她眼睛里所包含的那种使得她在困难面前坚强的性格力量，我要看她经常对我流露出来的，那对所有人的同情心。
我无法理解通过“心灵的窗口”——眼睛，看透一个朋友的内心是怎么一回事。我只能通过我的指尖“看“到一张面孔的轮廓。我能察觉欢笑、悲伤和其他许多明显的情感。我是通过触摸朋友们的脸来认识他们的，但我无法凭触摸确切地描绘出他们的性格。当然，我可以通过其他方式了解他们的性格——通过他们对我表达的思想、他们对我表露的任何动作，但我仍然无法有更深刻的了解。我确信，只有看到他们，观察他们对各种表达出来的思想和情况的反应，注意他们的眼神和脸色在刹那间的变化，才可以深入地了解他们。
我对身边的朋友非常了解，因为他们经年累月地在我面前表现着自己的各个方面。而对那些偶然相遇的朋友，我只有一个不完全的印象，一种我从以下方式中得到的印象：一次握手，当我的指尖触摸他们的嘴唇感受他们所说的话，或者是他们在我掌心上写下来。
对你们能看见的人来说，通过观察对方微妙的面部表情、肌肉的颤抖、手的摆动，就能很快地了解对方所要表达的意思的实质，这是多么容易又多么令人满足的事情。但是你们曾经有过用你们的视觉去看透一个朋友或熟人的内在本质的时候吗？你们大多数人难道不是漫不经心地看着每一张脸孔的外部特征而不去深入思考吗？
举例来说，你们能精确地描述5个好朋友的面貌吗？有些人可以，但许多人做不到。我曾做过一个实验，我问那些与妻子相处多年的丈夫们，他们妻子的眼睛是什么颜色。他们常常显得窘迫含糊，承认他们不知道。而且，顺便说一句，妻子们也经常抱怨，他们的丈夫不注意自己的新衣服、新帽子和家里摆设的变化。
正常人的眼睛很快就习惯了他们周围的东西。他们实际上仅仅注意到令人吃惊的事和引人注意的壮观之事，而即使是那些最壮观的景象，他们的眼睛也是懒洋洋的。法庭记录每天都透露出“目击者”看得多么不准确，一个特定的事件，在不同的人眼中也不尽相同，有些人看得比另一些人要多些，而没有几个人能看到在他们的视线范围内的所有事情。
啊，如果我要有哪怕3天的视力，我该看多少事啊！
第一天会是很忙碌的，我要把我所有的亲爱的朋友们都叫到我这里来，长久地注视着他们的面容，把体现他们内在美的外貌深深地印在我的脑海中。我也会让我的目光停留在婴儿的脸上，去捕捉那种渴望生活的天真无邪的美，那种婴儿在意识到生活的冲突之前的纯真与美丽。
而且，我也要看看我的狗们那忠诚、充满信任的眼睛——那严肃、机灵的小苏格兰狗达基和那高大健壮、善解人意的大丹麦狗赫尔加，和它们建立的热诚、细腻、愉快的友谊让我很开心。
在这繁忙的第一天，我还要看看我家的那些简单的小东西。我想看看我脚下的地毯和墙壁上的图画的明朗愉快的色彩，那些使这间屋子成为一个家的亲切的琐碎物件。我也要带着敬重将目光停留在那些我读过的盲文书籍上，但那些能看见的人所读的出版物我会更加感兴趣，因为在我生命的漫漫长夜里，我读过的书和别人读给我听的书已筑成一座巨大的闪光的灯塔，为我指引了人生及心灵的最深远的航道。
在能看见东西的第一天的下午，我要到森林里进行一次远足，让我的目光陶醉在大自然的美景之中。在几个小时中，拼命地吸收对那些能看见的人是司空见惯了的无穷的壮丽景色，在返回家的途中，我
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