英語(yǔ)晨讀美文欣賞
英語(yǔ)晨讀美文欣賞
優(yōu)美的文字于細(xì)微處傳達(dá)出美感，并浸潤(rùn)著人們的心靈。通過(guò)英語(yǔ)美文,不僅能夠感受語(yǔ)言之美,領(lǐng)悟語(yǔ)言之用，還能產(chǎn)生學(xué)習(xí)語(yǔ)言的興趣。度過(guò)一段美好的時(shí)光，即感悟生活，觸動(dòng)心靈。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編為大家?guī)?lái)英語(yǔ)晨讀美文欣賞，希望大家喜歡!
英語(yǔ)晨讀美文欣賞：愛(ài)的四重奏
Religious and spiritual sorts tend to bang on about love.1 God is love, some say. Practice the art of loving-kindness2, others commend. And I've found it hard to know what sense to make of these sentiments3. They can so easily lose weight4 and meaning in a thousand repetitions. Then there is the claim that love reveals and is the fundamental truth of reality.5 What can be made of that in a scientific age?
Then, I started to read up on developmental psychology6. It seems to me that the modern science illuminates7 the older, religious claims.
Psychologists and psychotherapists as diverse as Jean Piaget and Sigmund Freud, John Bowlby and Donald Winnicott seem to say that we learn about love in roughly three stages.8 Our first love is narcissistic9—not an entirely pleasant thought, though behaving as if we were the only creature of importance in the world is necessary for our early survival. Freud talked of His Majesty the Baby10.
Neonates are lovable and tyrannical.11 Winnicott showed that the good-enough parent is not perfect but is capable of being devoted to their child, especially in the early weeks. The aim is to instil a feeling that life can be trusted because, on the whole, it delivers what the child needs, physically and emotionally.12 A sense of wellbeing13 grows in the young body. It provides the basis for the kind of self-love that enables you to get over yourself and feel comfortable in your own skin. The myth of Narcissus conveys a similar insight.14 The problem the beautiful youth had was not that he loved himself too much, but that he couldn't love himself and drowned seeking reassurance15.
Narcissism might be called the love of one. Next follows love between two. It is a step into the unknown. It's frightening to awaken to16 the realisation that you are dependent upon another—a parent, in the child's case; a partner, in the adult equivalent17: romantic love. But the upside18 is that life expands. To be one of two promises deeper delights and wider horizons than narcissism can embrace.19
There is an assumption that dyadic love, also called falling in love, is the pinnacle of lovely experiences.20 But it is only the midpoint21 of the story according to developmental psychology. The next step comes with a secure-enough attachment22, as Bowlby put it. Equipped with such trust, the child is able to explore the world—to take tentative steps away from the cosy twosome.23
Then there's me, there's Mum or Dad, and now there's something else—a third dimension known in the reality of siblings, friends, interests, goals, a current of life that runs independently of me, though I'm somehow part of it.24 Again, taking that step is alarming, possibly traumatic.25 However, if negotiated OK, life becomes richer again, and more risky, and the individual's perception26 of reality grows.
At each transition—from one to two, from two to the triangular space—the individual realises that love was already there waiting for him or her. Narcissistic self-absorption27 relaxes with the realisation that I am held in the love of another. Lovers move from falling in love to standing in love, to recall Erich Fromm's phrase.
The life of faith detects28 that there is a fourth dimension to add to this third, a divine love that is there waiting. It holds all because it is the source of the love that flows through all. Fear and uncertainty do not cease29. Human love always feels a bit like that. But faith is the felt sense that love can be trusted because love is, in truth, the ground of reality.
英語(yǔ)晨讀美文欣賞：秋日私語(yǔ)
LAST night the waiter put the celery on with the cheese, and I knew that summer was indeed dead. Other signs of autumn there may be—the reddening leaf, the chill in the early-morning air, the misty evenings—but none of these comes home to me so truly. There may be cool mornings in July; in a year of drought the leaves may change before their time; it is only with the first celery that summer is over.
I knew all along that it would not last. Even in April I was saying that winter would soon be here. Yet somehow it had begun to seem possible lately that a miracle might happen, that summer might drift on and on through the months—a final upheaval to crown a wonderful year. The celery settled that. Last night with the celery autumn came into its own.
There is a crispness about celery that is of the essence of October. It is as fresh and clean as a rainy day after a spell of heat. It crackles pleasantly in the mouth. Moreover it is excellent, I am told, for the complexion. One is always hearing of things which are good for the complexion, but there is no doubt that celery stands high on the list. After the burns and freckles of summer one is in need of something. How good that celery should be there at one’s elbow.
A week ago—(“A little more cheese, waiter”)—a week ago I grieved for the dying summer. I wondered how I could possibly bear the waiting—the eight long months till May. In vain to comfort myself with the thought that I could get through more work in the winter undistracted by thoughts of cricket grounds and country houses. In vain, equally, to tell myself that I could stay in bed later in the mornings. Even the thought of after-breakfast pipes in front of the fire left me cold. But now, suddenly, I am reconciled to autumn. I see quite clearly that all good things must come to an end. The summer has been splendid, but it has lasted long enough. This morning I welcomed the chill in the air; this morning I viewed the falling leaves with cheerfulness; and this morning I said to myself, “Why, of course, I’ll have celery for lunch.” (“More bread, waiter.”)
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” said Keats, not actually picking out celery in so many words, but plainly including it in the general blessings of the autumn. Yet what an opportunity he missed by not concentrating on that precious root. Apples, grapes, nuts, and vegetable marrows he mentions specially—and how poor a selection! For apples and grapes are not typical of any month, so ubiquitous are they, vegetable marrows are vegetables pour rire and have no place in any serious consideration of the seasons, while as for nuts, have we not a national song which asserts distinctly, “Here we go gathering nuts in May”? Season of mists and mellow celery, then let it be. A pat of butter underneath the bough, a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread and—Thou.
How delicate are the tender shoots unfolded layer by layer. Of what a whiteness is the last baby one of all, of what a sweetness his flavor. It is well that this should be the last rite of the meal—finis coronat opus—so that we may go straight on to the business of the pipe. Celery demands a pipe rather than a cigar, and it can be eaten better in an inn or a London tavern than in the home. Yes, and it should be eaten alone, for it is the only food which one really wants to hear oneself eat. Besides, in company one may have to consider the wants of others. Celery is not a thing to share with any man. Alone in your country inn you may call for the celery; but if you are wise you will see than no other traveler wanders into the room, Take warning from one who has learnt a lesson. One day I lunched alone at an inn, finishing with cheese and celery. Another traveler came in and lunched too. We did not speak—I was busy with my celery. From the other end of the table he reached across for the cheese. That was all right! it was the public cheese. But he also reached across for the celery—my private celery for which I owed. Foolishly—you know how one does—I had left the sweetest and crispest shoots till the last, tantalizing myself pleasantly with the thought of them. Horror! to see them snatched from me by a stranger. He realized later what he had done and apologized, but of what good is an apology in such circumstances? Yet at least the tragedy was not without its value. Now one remembers to lock the door.
Yet, I can face the winter with calm. I suppose I had forgotten what it was really like. I had been thinking of the winter as a horrid wet, dreary time fit only for professional football. Now I can see other things—crisp and sparkling days, long pleasant evenings, cheery fires. Good work shall be done this winter. Life shall be lived well. The end of the summer is not the end of the world. Here’s to October—and, waiter, some more celery.
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