英語(yǔ)文章欣賞
英語(yǔ)是世界上詞匯最豐富的語(yǔ)言之一,英語(yǔ)中有許多形式簡(jiǎn)潔、意思精辟的習(xí)語(yǔ)，下面就是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編給大家整理的英語(yǔ)文章欣賞，希望大家喜歡。
英語(yǔ)文章欣賞：A Letter to my Future Self
In 1994 I wrote a letter. I stuck it in an envelope, put it away and completely forgot about it.
It wasn't until we moved into our new home in 2006 that I found it again. It was addressed to me with explicit(明確的) instructions not to open until my birthday 2005. It was now 2006 so I decided to open it. This is what it said:
Dear Sherri
By the time you read this you will be 30. At the age of 18 I had so many hopes and dreams about where you'd be, what you'd be doing and with whom you'd spend your life with.
Right now I hope that you have traveled and seen everything you've always wanted to, both in Canada and overseas, and maybe even settled down somewhere in Australia doing some research in the field of biology (genetics).
I hope you're married to the man of your dreams. The man of mine is Gwynn. He is originally from South Africa (another place I wish to visit).
You'll probably have two children of your own – a girl(Michaela Anne) and a boy (name yet to be decided).
If everything goes according to plan you'll be living in Australia in a big house in a small town outside of a big city with a lot of land, a dog, Gwynn and your two beautiful children. Hopefully you have a career in the medical field, maybe doing research in genetics. Gwynn will be a computer programmer and you will be doing alright for yourselves.
However, if things don't go according to plan for you, I wish you all the love, happiness and joy in the world and don't settle for anything less than the best since that is absolutely what you deserve.
Live long, be happy and live life to it's fullest.
Love Sherri "18″
When I read this for the first time since writing it I was floored. Even now having dug this up again another 4 years later I still can't help but think this is really cool.
So much of what I wanted for myself has materialized.
After writing this I quickly forgot about what I had put in here actually. The things that materialized were all met with quite a bit of resistance (all internal) but I suppose these were things that I really did want. Having never strayed too far from home overseas travel was a huge deal. Having never been away from my family moving to Australia for several years was an incredibly huge decision.
I find it fascinating how the dreams of a young and naive little girl can become a grown woman's reality.
I'm curious if you guys have ever written anything to your future self and how it stacks up to your current reality. If you haven't, will you join me in writing a letter now to yourself in say 10 years from now? It's an interesting little experiment.
英語(yǔ)文章欣賞：The Long Goodbye
"They grow up too soon," everyone told me. Eighteen years later, I finally understand what they meant.
It's nearly the end of summer break and my son goes out with friends. Ten minutes after he leaves home, I receive his text: Here. It's the same message I've received hundreds of times before -- our agreed-upon shorthand to reassure me, and probably him, in some still-unexamined way, that he has arrived safely at his destination. In a matter of days he'll head to college, and this routine, along with many others that have framed our days and nights, will come to an end. Reading that text triggers images stored safely away in my memory, a tiny flip book of our lives together.
My constant companion of nine months emerges with his eyes wide open. He's placed on my chest. I feel his heartbeat reverberating(回彈，反射) through mine. All I see are beginnings. Friends who visit caution that time is elusive(難懂的) , that he'll grow up faster than I can imagine, and to savor every moment. But I can't hear them; it's all too clichéd and my child has only just arrived. He's intoxicating: the beautiful bracelet-like creases in his wrists, the way he sounds like a little lamb when he cries. I'm filled with a renewed sense of purpose, of hope, of love. The first few months after he's born are topsy-turvy -- day is night, night is day. When sleep finally returns, so does work. My business suit is tight, my mind preoccupied. I pump milk in a cold, gray bathroom stall.
His teeth begin to appear. Baby bottles give way to solid foods. He points high above his chair to the clock on the wall. "Clock," he says. It's his first word, minus the "l," and it makes me laugh. Soon he is walking, skipping, making angels in the snow.
I'm promoted at work. It becomes harder to find the time to make playdates(上映期) and pediatrician(兒科醫(yī)師) appointments. At lunch I read books about nurturing, teaching, inspiring your child. He calls my office with the help of his babysitter. "Momma," he says, "I'm making you a present."
The tooth fairy arrives and leaves him handwritten notes. He discovers knock-knock jokes and learns how to add, subtract, and read. He builds giant castles with giant Legos, rides his shiny bike down a country road with his feet off the pedals.
I quit my job to do freelance writing -- everything from training programs to marketing brochures(小冊(cè)子) to essays - usually when the rest of the family is sleeping. There's never enough money, but now at least we have time.
Saturday nights are always family nights, spent at home. There are countless sporting events. He tries baseball, soccer, and track, then falls head over heels for basketball. He swings from tree limbs, wears superhero costumes, develops crushes, friendships, and fevers.
I volunteer at his school: cut, paste, read, nourish, fund-raise, chaperone. I like this job.
There are marathon bedtime story rituals, endless questions about how things work, and monsters under the bed. Lego pieces grow smaller and castles more intricate. He tries the guitar, plays the trombone, saves quarters to buy video games, and collects trading cards, which he keeps in a shoe box under his bed.
We get a dog. He loves this dog with all his heart. The dog loves him back.
One day his height surpasses mine and, seemingly the next, his father's.
He reads an essay by a sportswriter. It lights a fire in him. He starts to write his own stuff, wandering into my office as I try to juggle(雜耍，欺騙) freelance assignments.
I feel privileged to read his work.
Orthodontics are removed to reveal straight pearly whites. He earns his first paycheck as a baseball referee(裁判員) but wishes that it had been as a writer.
He learns to do the laundry, scrub the bathroom, and make pasta, though he often professes to forget how to do all three.
He turns 18.
On a cold and rainy Election Day we head out together to vote. After two hours waiting in line, he's the only teen in sight. It's not lost on him -- by the next morning he has written all about it.
He gets a job as a blogger, then starts his own website. And all the while there are macroeconomics(宏觀經(jīng)濟(jì)學(xué)) , physics, and college applications.
The flip book's down to its last pages.
I've defined myself as a mother for 18 years. Who am I now? I look in the mirror. In my quest to help him grow wings, I forgot to grow some of my own. Can I find a new sense of purpose, rechannel the love?
Before I was a mother I was a daughter, infused with energy and the unspoken reassurance that my parents would always be there. But I can't be a daughter again. I'm on my own.
Does purpose -- mine, yours, anyone's -- require someone to nurture it, or is it inherent in all of us?
I'll soon be putting these competing theories to the test.
As I sit down to write this piece, I receive his text: Where are you?
Here, I text back.
For now.
英語(yǔ)文章欣賞：The beautiful sound of violin
When Dad played his fiddle(小提琴) , the world became a bright star. To him violin was an instrument of faith, hope and charity. At least a thousand times, my mother said, "Your papa would play his fiddle if the world was about to blow up."
And once Dad came about as close to that as could ever be possible.
Everything on Nubbin Ridge—and on a majority of the small farms in Texas—was built around cotton as the money crop. But in the early years of the century, the boll weevil(棉子橡皮蟲) began devastating the cotton farms in the south.
And in May of 1910 folks all over the nation were in a space-age state of turmoil over Halley's Comet. There were all sorts of frightening stories about the comet, the main one being that the world would pass through its tail, said to be millions of miles long.
Between the threats of comet and weevils, the farmers were running low on optimism. One night, the farmers gathered at our farm to discuss what to do. When everyone had found seats, Will Bowen suggested, "Charley, how about getting down your fiddle and bow and giving us a little music?"
"Aw, I don't think anybody'd want to hear me saw the gourd(葫蘆) tonight,"Dad replied.
"Come on, Mr Nordyke," one of the younger women urged, "why don't you play for us."
Dad had a knack for getting people in the mood for his music. Knowing of the scattered prejudice against the fiddle, he eased into a song titled Gloryland. It was a church song with church tones, but it was fairly fast with some good runs. He shifted from Gloryland to The Bonnie Blue Flag, a Confederate war song, which created a big stir—foot stamping, hand clapping and a few rebel yells.
Will Bowen, apparently having forgotten Halley's Comet, shouted, "How about giving us Sally Goodin?" Dad played the old breakdown with vigor. Several men jumped up and jigged around. Children gathered around and gazed wide-eyed at the performance.
All our neighbors went home whistling or humming. Very few remembered to look toward the northwest to see whether the comet and its wicked tail were still around...
One evening, Will Bowen called dad on the telephone and said, "Charley, I'm downhearted(無精打采的) and blue. Every time a square forms, there are four boll weevils waiting there to puncture it with their snouts. Just wondered if you could play a tune or two for me?"
"I sure could, Will," Dad said. "Could you come over?"
"No. I mean play on the phone box."
"The phone box?"
"Sure," Mr Bowen said. "I can hear you talk. Why couldn't I hear the fiddle?"
Dad took the fiddle to the telephone and thumped the strings. Putting the receiver to his ear, he said, "Hear anything. Will?"
"Sure can," Mr Bowen said. "Could you try Sally Goodin and play it just like you did the other night?" Dad handed the receiver to me. He stepped up to the mouthpiece on the wall box and cut loose on Sally Goodin. I could bear Mr Bowen whistling and yelling.
By the time the tune was finished there were half a dozen neighbors on the line, and they talked about how wonderful the music sounded over the telephone. They made numerous requests; I relayed them to Dad and he played the numbers.
Our party line broadcasts became regular features of community life. On rough-weather days of winter when farm folks were forced to remain in the house, someone would ring us and ask Dad to play, and usually it developed into a network affair. Our phone kept ringing with requests for music until radio came in.
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