Little Primrose dames of the English classic, the wife and daughters of the Vicar of Wakefield have no claim whatever to this name of lady. It is given to them in this page because Goldsmith himself gave it to them in the yet undepreciated state of the word, and for the better reason that he obviously intended them to be the equals of the men to whom he marries them, those men being, with all their faults, gentlemen. Goldsmith, in a word, meant them to be ladies, of country breeding, but certainly fit for membership of that large class of various fortune within which the name makes a sufficient equality.
He, their author, thought them sufficient. Having amused himself ingeniously throughout the story with their nameless vulgarities, he finally hurries them into so much sentiment as may excuse the convention of heroes in love. He plays with their coarseness like a perfectly pleased and clever showman, and then piously and happily shuts up his couples-the gentle Dr. Primrose with his abominable Deborah； the excellent Mr. Burchell with the paltry Sophia； Olivia—— but no, Olivia is not so certainly happy ever after； she has a captured husband ready for her in a state of ignominy, but she has also a forgotten farmer somewhere in the background——the unhappy man whom, with her father's permission, this sorry heroine had promised to marry in order that his wooing might pluck forward the lagging suit of the squire.
Olivia, then, plays her common trick upon the harmless Williams, her father conniving, with a provision that he urges with some demonstration of virtue： she shall consent to make the farmer happy if the proposal of the squire be not after all forthcoming. But it is so evident her author knew no better, that this matter may pass. It involves a point of honour, of which no one——neither the maker of the book nor anyone he made——is aware. What is better worth considering is the fact that Goldsmith was completely aware of the unredeemed vulgarity of the ladies of the Idyll, and cheerfully took it for granted as the thing to be expected from the mother-in-law of a country gentleman and the daughters of a scholar. The education of women had sunk into a degradation never reached before, inasmuch as it was degraded in relation to that of men. It would matter little indeed that Mrs. Primrose "could read any English book without much spelling" if her husband and son were as definitely limited to journeyman's field-labour as she was to the pickling and the gooseberry wine. Any of those industries is a better and more liberal business than unselect reading, for instance, or than unselect writing. Therefore let me not be misunderstood to complain too indiscriminately of that century or of an unlettered state. What is really unhandsome is the new, slovenly, and corrupt inequality whereinto the century had fallen.
That the mother of daughters and sons should be fatuous, a village worldling, suspicious, ambitious, ill-bred, ignorant, gross, insolent, foulmouthed, pushing, importunate, and a fool, seems natural, almost innocently natural, in Goldsmith's story； the squalid Mrs. Primrose is all this. He is still able, through his Vicar, in the most charmingly humorous passage in the book, to praise her for her "prudence, economy, and obedience." Her other, more disgusting, characteristics give her husband an occasion for rebuking her as "Woman！" This is done, for example, when, despite her obedience, she refuses to receive that unlucky schemer, her own daughter, returned in ruins, without insulting her by the sallies of a kitchen sarcasm.
She plots with her daughters the most disastrous fortune hunt. She has given them a teaching so effectual that the Vicar has no fear lest the paltry Sophia should lose her heart to the good, the sensible Burchell, who had saved her life； for he has no fortune. Mrs. Primrose begins grotesquely, with her tedious histories of the dishes at dinner, and she ends upon the last page, anxious, amid the general happiness, in regard to securing the head of the table. Upon these feminine humours the author sheds his Vicar's indulgent smile. What a smile for a self-respecting husband to be pricked to smile！ A householder would wince, one would think, at having opportunity to bestow its tolerance upon his cook.
Between these two housewifely appearances, Mrs. Primrose potters through the book； plots——always squalidly； talks the worst kinds of folly； takes the lead, with a loud laugh, in insulting a former friend； crushes her repentant daughter with reproaches that show envy rather than indignation, and kisses that daughter with congratulation upon hearing that she had, unconsciously and unintentionally, contracted a valid marriage （with a rogue）； spoils and makes common and unclean everything she touches； has but two really gentle and tender moments all through the story； and sets, once for all, the example in literature of the woman we find thenceforth, in Thackeray, in Douglas Jerrold, in Dickens, and un peu partout.
Hardly less unspiritual, in spite of their conventional romance of youth and beauty, are the daughters of the squalid one. The author, in making them simple, has not abstained from making them cunning. Their vanities are well enough, but these women are not only vain, they are so envious as to refuse admiration to a sister-in-law——one who is their rival in no way except in so much as she is a contemporary beauty. "Miss Arabella Wilmot," says the pious father and vicar, "was allowed by all （except my two daughters） to be completely pretty."
They have been left by their father in such brutal ignorance as to be instantly deceived into laughing at bad manners in error for humour. They have no pretty or sensitive instincts. "The jests of the rich," says the Vicar, referring to his own young daughters as audience, "are ever successful." Olivia, when the squire played off a dullish joke, "mistook it for humour. She thought him, therefore, a very fine gentleman." The powders and patches for the country church, the ride thither on Blackberry, in so strange a procession, the face-wash, the dreams and omens, are all good gentle comedy； we are completely convinced of the tedium of Mrs. Primrose's dreams, which she told every morning. But there are other points of comedy that ought not to precede an author's appeal to the kind of sentiment about to be touched by the tragic scenes of The Vicar of Wakefield.
In odd sidling ways Goldsmith bethinks himself to give his principal heroine a shadow of the virtues he has not bestowed upon her. When the unhappy Williams, above-mentioned, has been used in vain by Olivia, and the squire has not declared himself, and she is on the point of keeping her word to Williams by marrying him, the Vicar creates a situation out of it all that takes the reader roundly by surprise： "I frequently applauded her resolution in preferring happiness to ostentation." The good Goldsmith！ Here is Olivia perfectly frank with her father as to her exceedingly sincere preference for ostentation, and as to her stratagem to try to obtain it at the expense of honour and of neighbour Williams； her mind is as well known to her father as her father's mind is known to Oliver Goldsmith, and as Oliver Goldsmith's, Dr. Primrose's, and Olivia's minds are known to the reader. And in spite of all, your Goldsmith and your Vicar turn you this phrase to your very face. You hardly know which way to look； it is so disconcerting.
Seeing that Olivia （with her chance-recovered virtue） and Sophia may both be expected to grow into the kind of matronhood represented by their mother, it needs all the conditions of fiction to surround the close of their love-affairs with the least semblance of dignity. Nor, in fact, can it be said that the final winning of Sophia is an incident that errs by too much dignity. The scene is that in which Burchell, revealed as Sir William Thornhill, feigns to offer her in marriage to the good-natured rogue, Jenkinson, fellow prisoner with her father, in order that, on her indignant and distressed refusal, he may surprise her agreeably by crying, "What？ Not have him？ If that be the case, I think I must have you myself."
Even for an avowedly eccentric master of whims, this is playing with forbidden ironies. True, he catches her to his breast with ardour, and calls her "sensible." "Such sense and such heavenly beauty," finally exclaims the happy man. Let us make him a present of the heavenly beauty. It is the only thing not disproved, not dispraised, not disgraced, by a candid study of the Ladies of the Idyll.
2008年2月1日星期五
Butterfly Kisses
My newlywed husband said the same thing every morning. “You’re beautiful today.”
我的新婚丈夫每天早晨都对我说出同样的话。“你今天真美。”
One glance in the mirror revealed that it was far from the truth.
只需往镜子里一瞥就能揭示他说的根本不是事实。
A skinny girl with mashed hair on one side of her head and no makeup smiled back at me. I could feel my sticky morning breath.
镜中的女孩瘦瘦的，乱乱的头发倒向头的一侧，没有任何化妆，她微笑地望着我。我还能感到早晨起来嘴里不大好闻的气味。
“Liar，” I shot back with a grin.
“说谎，”我咧着嘴笑，回敬了他一句。
It was my usual response. My mother’s first husband was not a kind man and his verbal and physical abuse forced her and her two children to find a safe place. He showed up on her doorstep one day with roses. She let him in and he beat her with those roses and took advantage of her. Nine months later she gave birth to a 9 lb. 13 oz. baby girl —— me.
我总是这样回敬我的丈夫。我母亲的第一个丈夫可不是个善良的男人，他粗暴的语言攻击和身体虐待迫使我母亲带着两个孩子去寻找一个安全的地方。有一天他出现在母亲的门前，手里拿着玫瑰花。她让他进了门，但他却用玫瑰花打她，并强行占了她的便宜。9个月后她生了一个9磅12盎司重的女孩——就是我。
The harsh words we heard growing up took root. I had trouble seeing myself as someone of value. I had been married two years when I surprised myself. My husband wrapped his arms around me and told me I was beautiful.
长大过程中我们听到的刺耳的话语也扎根在我心底。我难以把自己看作一个有价值的人。结婚两年后我感到惊讶了。我的丈夫双臂拥着我告诉我，我是美丽的。
“Thank you，” I said.
The same thin girl with the mousy3 brown hair still stared back at me in the mirror， but somehow the words had finally blossomed in my heart.
“谢谢你，”我说。
同样瘦弱，一头灰棕色头发的女孩在镜中盯着我，但是温柔的话语终于在我的心中开花了。
A lot of years have passed. My husband has grey in his hair. I’m no longer skinny. Last week I woke up and my husband’s face was inches from mine.
许多年过去了。我的丈夫己经长出了灰发。我也不再骨瘦如柴。上周的一天早晨我醒来时，我丈夫的脸离我只有几英寸。
“What are you doing？” I asked.
“你在干什么？” 我问。
I covered my mouth， trying to hide my morning breath. He reached down and kissed my face.
我捂住嘴，不想让他闻到嘴里的气味。他俯身过来亲吻我的脸。
“What I do every morning，” he said.
“做我每天早晨都做的事。”他说。
He leaves in the early hours of the morning while I sleep. I miss our morning conversations， but I had not realized that he continued to tell me that he loved me even while I slept. When he left， I rolled over and hugged my pillow. I envisioned4 the picture of me lightly snoring5 with my mouth open and giggled.
他清晨就得离开家，我常常还在熟睡。我因我们早上没有谈话而感到遗憾，但是我还未曾意识到他一直在告诉我他爱我，哪怕是在我还睡着时。当他离开后，我在床上翻过身去，抱着我的枕头。我想象着我睡觉时轻轻打鼾，嘴巴还微微张着的样子，不禁咯咯笑了。
What a man！ My husband understands my past. He’s been beside me as I’ve grown from an unsure young girl to a confident woman， mother， speaker and author.
这样一个男人！我丈夫知道我的过去。在我从一个不自信的年轻女子变成一个成熟自信的女人、母亲、演讲者、作家的过程中，他一直在我身边。
But I’m not sure that he understands the part he played in that transition6. The words I heard growing up pierced7 my soul， yet his words pierced even deeper.
但是我不确信他是否知道在这一变化过程中他起着怎样的作用。伴我长大的话语曾刺入我的灵魂，但他的话语更是深深地感动了我的灵魂。
This Anniversary Day I plan to wake early. I want to tell Richard how much I love him. He may look in the mirror and see an extra pound or two， or wish for the day when his hair was dark and curly8， but all I’ll see is the man who saw something in me when I couldn’t see it myself， and who leaves butterfly kisses， even after twenty-three years of marriage.
我的新婚丈夫每天早晨都对我说出同样的话。“你今天真美。”
One glance in the mirror revealed that it was far from the truth.
只需往镜子里一瞥就能揭示他说的根本不是事实。
A skinny girl with mashed hair on one side of her head and no makeup smiled back at me. I could feel my sticky morning breath.
镜中的女孩瘦瘦的，乱乱的头发倒向头的一侧，没有任何化妆，她微笑地望着我。我还能感到早晨起来嘴里不大好闻的气味。
“Liar，” I shot back with a grin.
“说谎，”我咧着嘴笑，回敬了他一句。
It was my usual response. My mother’s first husband was not a kind man and his verbal and physical abuse forced her and her two children to find a safe place. He showed up on her doorstep one day with roses. She let him in and he beat her with those roses and took advantage of her. Nine months later she gave birth to a 9 lb. 13 oz. baby girl —— me.
我总是这样回敬我的丈夫。我母亲的第一个丈夫可不是个善良的男人，他粗暴的语言攻击和身体虐待迫使我母亲带着两个孩子去寻找一个安全的地方。有一天他出现在母亲的门前，手里拿着玫瑰花。她让他进了门，但他却用玫瑰花打她，并强行占了她的便宜。9个月后她生了一个9磅12盎司重的女孩——就是我。
The harsh words we heard growing up took root. I had trouble seeing myself as someone of value. I had been married two years when I surprised myself. My husband wrapped his arms around me and told me I was beautiful.
长大过程中我们听到的刺耳的话语也扎根在我心底。我难以把自己看作一个有价值的人。结婚两年后我感到惊讶了。我的丈夫双臂拥着我告诉我，我是美丽的。
“Thank you，” I said.
The same thin girl with the mousy3 brown hair still stared back at me in the mirror， but somehow the words had finally blossomed in my heart.
“谢谢你，”我说。
同样瘦弱，一头灰棕色头发的女孩在镜中盯着我，但是温柔的话语终于在我的心中开花了。
A lot of years have passed. My husband has grey in his hair. I’m no longer skinny. Last week I woke up and my husband’s face was inches from mine.
许多年过去了。我的丈夫己经长出了灰发。我也不再骨瘦如柴。上周的一天早晨我醒来时，我丈夫的脸离我只有几英寸。
“What are you doing？” I asked.
“你在干什么？” 我问。
I covered my mouth， trying to hide my morning breath. He reached down and kissed my face.
我捂住嘴，不想让他闻到嘴里的气味。他俯身过来亲吻我的脸。
“What I do every morning，” he said.
“做我每天早晨都做的事。”他说。
He leaves in the early hours of the morning while I sleep. I miss our morning conversations， but I had not realized that he continued to tell me that he loved me even while I slept. When he left， I rolled over and hugged my pillow. I envisioned4 the picture of me lightly snoring5 with my mouth open and giggled.
他清晨就得离开家，我常常还在熟睡。我因我们早上没有谈话而感到遗憾，但是我还未曾意识到他一直在告诉我他爱我，哪怕是在我还睡着时。当他离开后，我在床上翻过身去，抱着我的枕头。我想象着我睡觉时轻轻打鼾，嘴巴还微微张着的样子，不禁咯咯笑了。
What a man！ My husband understands my past. He’s been beside me as I’ve grown from an unsure young girl to a confident woman， mother， speaker and author.
这样一个男人！我丈夫知道我的过去。在我从一个不自信的年轻女子变成一个成熟自信的女人、母亲、演讲者、作家的过程中，他一直在我身边。
But I’m not sure that he understands the part he played in that transition6. The words I heard growing up pierced7 my soul， yet his words pierced even deeper.
但是我不确信他是否知道在这一变化过程中他起着怎样的作用。伴我长大的话语曾刺入我的灵魂，但他的话语更是深深地感动了我的灵魂。
This Anniversary Day I plan to wake early. I want to tell Richard how much I love him. He may look in the mirror and see an extra pound or two， or wish for the day when his hair was dark and curly8， but all I’ll see is the man who saw something in me when I couldn’t see it myself， and who leaves butterfly kisses， even after twenty-three years of marriage.
Every Living Person Has Problems
风雨过后见彩虹-正视困难
Every Living Person Has Problems
人人有本难念的经
What is the secret ingredientof tough people that enables them to succeed?Why do they survive the tough times when others are overcome by them? Why do they win when others lose? Why do they soar when others sink? 坚韧不拨的人成功的秘诀是什么？他们为什么能挺过艰难的时刻，而其他人却被困难所压倒？为什么成功的是他们，而失败的是其他人？为什么他们一飞冲天，而其他人都深陷泥沼？
The answer is very simple. It's allin how they perceive their problems. Yes, every living person has problems. A problem-free life isanillusion-a miragein the desert. Accept that fact. 答案很简单，全看他们是如何看待自己面临的难题。不错，人人有本难念的经。没有难题困扰的人生只能是一个幻想，是沙漠中的海市蜃楼。还是接受这个事实吧。
Every mountain has a peak. Every valley has its low point. Life has its ups and downs, its peaks and its valleys.No one is up all the time,nor are they down all the time. Problems do end. They are all resolved in time. 每一座山都有巅峰，每一个峡谷都有深底。人生也有兴衰起伏，不会有人一生都时乖命蹇。难题总有了结的一天。随着时间的推移，一切难题都会迎刃而解。
You may not be able to control the times, but you can compose your response. You can turn your pain into profanity -or into poetry. The choice is up to you. You may not have chosen your tough time, but you can choose how you will react to it. 你也许不能控制时势，可是你能够冷静应对。你既可以把痛苦转换为怨天尤人的诅咒，也可以赋予之以诗意，这全在于你自己的选择。时运不济的你或许无从选择，但是你可以选择应对的方略。
For instance, what is the positive reaction to a terrible financial setback? In this situation would it be the positive reaction to copout and runaway? Escape through alcohol, drug, or suicide? No! Such negative reactions only produce greater problems by promising a temporary solution to the pressing problem. 譬如，遭遇一次严重的经济挫折，究竟怎么做才称得上积极应对呢？放弃而后潜逃？借酒浇愁？吸毒麻醉？抑或自杀？这样的逃避是积极应对吗？当然不是！这样一些消极的反应似乎暂时解决了迫在眉睫的难题，但事实上只会招致更棘手的难题。
The positive solution to a problem may require courage to initiate it. When you control your reaction to the seemingly un-controllable problemof life, then in fact you do control the problem's effect on you. Your reaction to the problem is the last word! That's the bottom line. What will you let this problem do to you? It can make you tender or tough.It can make you better or bitter. It all depends on you. 积极的应对只能是鼓起勇气着手解决。对于人生中看似无法控制的难题，当你能够控制自己的应对，那么你就事实上控制了难题对你的影响。你对难题的应对是至关重要的、最根本的。难题能对你产生什么样的影响呢？它可以使你脆弱，也可以使你坚强；它可以使你升华，也可以使你痛苦。全在于你自己。
In the final analysis, the tough people who survive the tough times do so because they've chosen to react positively to their predicament. Tough times never last, but tough people do. Tough people stick it out. History teaches us that every problem has a lifespan. 归根结底，坚韧的人之所以能挺过艰难的岁月，是因为他们选择积极地去应对困境。艰难的岁月不会没完没了，坚韧的人会始终不懈，坚持到底。历史告诉我们，每一个难题都有始有终，任何难题都不会永远存在。
No problem is permanent. Storms always give way to the sun. Winter always thaws into springtime. Your storm will pass. Your winter will thaw. Your problem will be solved.
Every Living Person Has Problems
人人有本难念的经
What is the secret ingredientof tough people that enables them to succeed?Why do they survive the tough times when others are overcome by them? Why do they win when others lose? Why do they soar when others sink? 坚韧不拨的人成功的秘诀是什么？他们为什么能挺过艰难的时刻，而其他人却被困难所压倒？为什么成功的是他们，而失败的是其他人？为什么他们一飞冲天，而其他人都深陷泥沼？
The answer is very simple. It's allin how they perceive their problems. Yes, every living person has problems. A problem-free life isanillusion-a miragein the desert. Accept that fact. 答案很简单，全看他们是如何看待自己面临的难题。不错，人人有本难念的经。没有难题困扰的人生只能是一个幻想，是沙漠中的海市蜃楼。还是接受这个事实吧。
Every mountain has a peak. Every valley has its low point. Life has its ups and downs, its peaks and its valleys.No one is up all the time,nor are they down all the time. Problems do end. They are all resolved in time. 每一座山都有巅峰，每一个峡谷都有深底。人生也有兴衰起伏，不会有人一生都时乖命蹇。难题总有了结的一天。随着时间的推移，一切难题都会迎刃而解。
You may not be able to control the times, but you can compose your response. You can turn your pain into profanity -or into poetry. The choice is up to you. You may not have chosen your tough time, but you can choose how you will react to it. 你也许不能控制时势，可是你能够冷静应对。你既可以把痛苦转换为怨天尤人的诅咒，也可以赋予之以诗意，这全在于你自己的选择。时运不济的你或许无从选择，但是你可以选择应对的方略。
For instance, what is the positive reaction to a terrible financial setback? In this situation would it be the positive reaction to copout and runaway? Escape through alcohol, drug, or suicide? No! Such negative reactions only produce greater problems by promising a temporary solution to the pressing problem. 譬如，遭遇一次严重的经济挫折，究竟怎么做才称得上积极应对呢？放弃而后潜逃？借酒浇愁？吸毒麻醉？抑或自杀？这样的逃避是积极应对吗？当然不是！这样一些消极的反应似乎暂时解决了迫在眉睫的难题，但事实上只会招致更棘手的难题。
The positive solution to a problem may require courage to initiate it. When you control your reaction to the seemingly un-controllable problemof life, then in fact you do control the problem's effect on you. Your reaction to the problem is the last word! That's the bottom line. What will you let this problem do to you? It can make you tender or tough.It can make you better or bitter. It all depends on you. 积极的应对只能是鼓起勇气着手解决。对于人生中看似无法控制的难题，当你能够控制自己的应对，那么你就事实上控制了难题对你的影响。你对难题的应对是至关重要的、最根本的。难题能对你产生什么样的影响呢？它可以使你脆弱，也可以使你坚强；它可以使你升华，也可以使你痛苦。全在于你自己。
In the final analysis, the tough people who survive the tough times do so because they've chosen to react positively to their predicament. Tough times never last, but tough people do. Tough people stick it out. History teaches us that every problem has a lifespan. 归根结底，坚韧的人之所以能挺过艰难的岁月，是因为他们选择积极地去应对困境。艰难的岁月不会没完没了，坚韧的人会始终不懈，坚持到底。历史告诉我们，每一个难题都有始有终，任何难题都不会永远存在。
No problem is permanent. Storms always give way to the sun. Winter always thaws into springtime. Your storm will pass. Your winter will thaw. Your problem will be solved.
Love Is Just a Thread
Sometimes I really doubt whether there is love between my parents. Every day they are very busy trying to earn money in order to pay the high tuition for my brother and me. They don’t act in the romantic ways that I read in books or I see on TV. In their opinion， “I love you” is too luxurious for them to say. Sending flowers to each other on Valentine’s Day is even more out of the question. Finally my father has a bad temper. When he’s very tired from the hard work， it is easy for him to lose his temper.
有时候，我真的怀疑父母之间是否有真爱。他们天天忙于赚钱，为我和弟弟支付学费。他们从未像我在书中读到，或在电视中看到的那样互诉衷肠。他们认为“我爱你”太奢侈，很难说出口。更不用说在情人节送花这样的事了。我父亲的脾气非常坏。经过一天的劳累之后，他经常会发脾气。
One day， my mother was sewing a quilt. I silently sat down beside her and looked at her.
“Mom， I have a question to ask you，” I said after a while.
“What？” she replied， still doing her work.
“Is there love between you and Dad？” I asked her in a very low voice.
一天，母亲正在缝被子，我静静地坐在她旁边看着她。
过了一会，我说：“妈妈，我想问你一个问题。”
“什么问题？”她一边继续缝着，一边回答道。
我低声地问道：“你和爸爸之间有没有爱情啊？”
My mother stopped her work and raised her head with surprise in her eyes. She didn’t answer immediately. Then she bowed her head and continued to sew the quilt.
I was very worried because I thought I had hurt her. I was in a great embarrassment and I didn’t know what I should do. But at last I heard my mother say the following words：
母亲突然停下了手中的活，满眼诧异地抬起头。她没有立即作答。然后低下头，继续缝被子。
我担心伤害了她。我非常尴尬，不知道该怎么办。不过，后来我听见母亲说：
“Susan，” she said thoughtfully， “Look at this thread. Sometimes it appears， but most of it disappears in the quilt. The thread really makes the quilt strong and durable. If life is a quilt， then love should be a thread. It can hardly be seen anywhere or anytime， but it’s really there. Love is inside.”
“苏珊，看看这些线。有时候，你能看得见，但是大多数都隐藏在被子里。这些线使被子坚固耐用。如果生活就像一床被子，那么爱就是其中的线。你不可能随时随地看到它，但是它却实实在在地存在着。爱是内在的。”
I listened carefully but I couldn’t understand her until the next spring. At that time， my father suddenly got sick seriously. My mother had to stay with him in the hospital for a month. When they returned from the hospital， they both looked very pale. It seemed both of them had had a serious illness.
我仔细地听着，却无法明白她的话，直到来年的春天。那时候，我父亲得了重病。母亲在医院里待了一个月。当他们从医院回来的时候，都显得非常苍白。就像他们都得了一场重病一样。
After they were back， every day in the morning and dusk， my mother helped my father walk slowly on the country road. My father had never been so gentle. It seemed they were the most harmonious couple. Along the country road， there were many beautiful flowers， green grass and trees. The sun gently glistened through the leaves. All of these made up the most beautiful picture in the world.
他们回来之后，每天的清晨或黄昏，母亲都会搀扶着父亲在乡村的小路上漫步。父亲从未如此温和过。他们就像是天作之合。在小路旁边，有许多美丽的野花、绿草和树木。阳光穿过树叶的缝隙，温柔地照射在地面上。这一切形成了一幅世间最美好的画面。
The doctor had said my father would recover in two months. But after two months he still couldn’t walk by himself. All of us were worried about him.
医生说父亲将在两个月后康复。但是两个月之后，他仍然无法独立行走。我们都很为他担心。
“Dad， how are you feeling now？” I asked him one day.
有一天，我问他：“爸爸，你感觉怎么样？”
“Susan， don’t worry about me.” he said gently. “To tell you the truth， I just like walking with your mom. I like this kind of life.” Reading his eyes， I know he loves my mother deeply.
他温和地说：“苏珊，不用为我担心。跟你说吧，我喜欢与你妈妈一块散步的感觉。我喜欢这种生活。”从他的眼神里，我看得出他对母亲的爱之深刻。
Once I thought love meant flowers， gifts and sweet kisses. But from this experience， I understand that love is just a thread in the quilt of our life. Love is inside， making life strong and warm……
我曾经认为爱情就是鲜花、礼物和甜蜜的亲吻。但是从那一刻起，我明白了，爱情就像是生活中被子里的一根线。爱情就在里面，使生活变得坚固而温暖。
有时候，我真的怀疑父母之间是否有真爱。他们天天忙于赚钱，为我和弟弟支付学费。他们从未像我在书中读到，或在电视中看到的那样互诉衷肠。他们认为“我爱你”太奢侈，很难说出口。更不用说在情人节送花这样的事了。我父亲的脾气非常坏。经过一天的劳累之后，他经常会发脾气。
One day， my mother was sewing a quilt. I silently sat down beside her and looked at her.
“Mom， I have a question to ask you，” I said after a while.
“What？” she replied， still doing her work.
“Is there love between you and Dad？” I asked her in a very low voice.
一天，母亲正在缝被子，我静静地坐在她旁边看着她。
过了一会，我说：“妈妈，我想问你一个问题。”
“什么问题？”她一边继续缝着，一边回答道。
我低声地问道：“你和爸爸之间有没有爱情啊？”
My mother stopped her work and raised her head with surprise in her eyes. She didn’t answer immediately. Then she bowed her head and continued to sew the quilt.
I was very worried because I thought I had hurt her. I was in a great embarrassment and I didn’t know what I should do. But at last I heard my mother say the following words：
母亲突然停下了手中的活，满眼诧异地抬起头。她没有立即作答。然后低下头，继续缝被子。
我担心伤害了她。我非常尴尬，不知道该怎么办。不过，后来我听见母亲说：
“Susan，” she said thoughtfully， “Look at this thread. Sometimes it appears， but most of it disappears in the quilt. The thread really makes the quilt strong and durable. If life is a quilt， then love should be a thread. It can hardly be seen anywhere or anytime， but it’s really there. Love is inside.”
“苏珊，看看这些线。有时候，你能看得见，但是大多数都隐藏在被子里。这些线使被子坚固耐用。如果生活就像一床被子，那么爱就是其中的线。你不可能随时随地看到它，但是它却实实在在地存在着。爱是内在的。”
I listened carefully but I couldn’t understand her until the next spring. At that time， my father suddenly got sick seriously. My mother had to stay with him in the hospital for a month. When they returned from the hospital， they both looked very pale. It seemed both of them had had a serious illness.
我仔细地听着，却无法明白她的话，直到来年的春天。那时候，我父亲得了重病。母亲在医院里待了一个月。当他们从医院回来的时候，都显得非常苍白。就像他们都得了一场重病一样。
After they were back， every day in the morning and dusk， my mother helped my father walk slowly on the country road. My father had never been so gentle. It seemed they were the most harmonious couple. Along the country road， there were many beautiful flowers， green grass and trees. The sun gently glistened through the leaves. All of these made up the most beautiful picture in the world.
他们回来之后，每天的清晨或黄昏，母亲都会搀扶着父亲在乡村的小路上漫步。父亲从未如此温和过。他们就像是天作之合。在小路旁边，有许多美丽的野花、绿草和树木。阳光穿过树叶的缝隙，温柔地照射在地面上。这一切形成了一幅世间最美好的画面。
The doctor had said my father would recover in two months. But after two months he still couldn’t walk by himself. All of us were worried about him.
医生说父亲将在两个月后康复。但是两个月之后，他仍然无法独立行走。我们都很为他担心。
“Dad， how are you feeling now？” I asked him one day.
有一天，我问他：“爸爸，你感觉怎么样？”
“Susan， don’t worry about me.” he said gently. “To tell you the truth， I just like walking with your mom. I like this kind of life.” Reading his eyes， I know he loves my mother deeply.
他温和地说：“苏珊，不用为我担心。跟你说吧，我喜欢与你妈妈一块散步的感觉。我喜欢这种生活。”从他的眼神里，我看得出他对母亲的爱之深刻。
Once I thought love meant flowers， gifts and sweet kisses. But from this experience， I understand that love is just a thread in the quilt of our life. Love is inside， making life strong and warm……
我曾经认为爱情就是鲜花、礼物和甜蜜的亲吻。但是从那一刻起，我明白了，爱情就像是生活中被子里的一根线。爱情就在里面，使生活变得坚固而温暖。
A WOMAN IN GREY
A WOMAN IN GREY
The mothers of Professors were indulged in the practice of jumping at conclusions, and were praised for their impatience of the slow process of reason.
Professors have written of the mental habits of women as though they accumulated generation by generation upon women, and passed over their sons. Professors take it for granted, obviously by some process other than the slow process of reason, that women derive from their mothers and grandmothers, and men from their fathers and grandfathers. This, for instance, was written lately： "This power [it matters not what] would be about equal in the two sexes but for the influence of heredity, which turns the scale in favour of the woman, as for long generations the surroundings and conditions of life of the female sex have developed in her a greater degree of the power in question than circumstances have required from men." "Long generations" of subjection are, strangely enough, held to excuse the timorousness and the shifts of women to-day. But the world, unknowing, tampers with the courage of its sons by such a slovenly indulgence. It tampers with their intelligence by fostering the ignorance of women.
And yet Shakespeare confessed the participation of man and woman in their common heritage. It is Cassius who speaks： "Have you not love enough to bear with me When that rash humour
which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful？"
And Brutus who replies：
"Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth When you are over-earnest with
your Brutus He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so."
Dryden confessed it also in his praises of Anne Killigrew：
"If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul
so charming from a stock so good. Thy father was transfused into thy blood."
The winning of Waterloo upon the Eton playgrounds is very well； but there have been some other, and happily minor, fields that were not won that were more or less lost. Where did this loss take place, if the gains were secured at football？ This inquiry is not quite so cheerful as the other. But while the victories were once going forward in the playground, the defeats or disasters were once going forward in some other place, presumably. And this was surely the place that was not a playground, the place where the future wives of the football players were sitting still while their future husbands were playing football.
This is the train of thought that followed the grey figure of a woman on a bicycle in Oxford Street. She had an enormous and top- heavy omnibus at her back. All the things on the near side of the street -the things going her way - were going at different paces, in two streams, overtaking and being overtaken. The tributary streets shot omnibuses and carriages, cabs and carts - some to go her own way, some with an impetus that carried them curving into the other current, and other some making a straight line right across Oxford Street into the street opposite. Besides all the unequal movement, there were the stoppings. It was a delicate tangle to keep from knotting. The nerves of the mouths of horses bore the whole charge and answered it, as they do every day.
The woman in grey, quite alone, was immediately dependent on no nerves but her own, which almost made her machine sensitive. But this alertness was joined to such perfect composure as no flutter of a moment disturbed. There was the steadiness of sleep, and a vigilance more than that of an ordinary waking.
At the same time, the woman was doing what nothing in her youth could well have prepared her for. She must have passed a childhood unlike the ordinary girl's childhood, if her steadiness or her alertness had ever been educated, if she had been rebuked for cowardice, for the egoistic distrust of general rules, or for claims of exceptional chances. Yet here she was, trusting not only herself but a multitude of other people； taking her equal risk； giving a watchful confidence to averages - that last, perhaps, her strangest and greatest success.
No exceptions were hers, no appeals, and no forewarnings. She evidently had not in her mind a single phrase, familiar to women, made to express no confidence except in accidents, and to proclaim a prudent foresight of the less probable event. No woman could ride a bicycle along Oxford Street with any such baggage as that about her.
The woman in grey had a watchful confidence not only in a multitude of men but in a multitude of things. And it is very hard for any untrained human being to practise confidence in things in motion - things full of force, and, what is worse, of forces. Moreover, there is a supreme difficulty for a mind accustomed to search timorously for some little place of insignificant rest on any accessible point of stable equilibrium； and that is the difficulty of holding itself nimbly secure in an equilibrium that is unstable. Who can deny that women are generally used to look about for the little stationary repose just described？ Whether in intellectual or in spiritual things, they do not often live without it.
She, none the less, fled upon unstable equilibrium, escaped upon it, depended upon it, trusted it, was `ware of it, was on guard against it, as she sped amid her crowd her own unstable equilibrium, her machine's, that of the judgment, the temper, the skill, the perception, the strength of men and horses.
She had learnt the difficult peace of suspense. She had learnt also the lowly and self-denying faith in common chances. She had learnt to be content with her share - no more - in common security, and to be pleased with her part in common hope. For all this, it may be repeated, she could have had but small preparation. Yet no anxiety was hers, no uneasy distrust and disbelief of that human thing - an average of life and death.
To this courage the woman in grey had attained with a spring, and she had seated herself suddenly upon a place of detachment between earth and air, freed from the principal detentions, weights, and embarrassments of the usual life of fear. She had made herself, as it were, light, so as not to dwell either in security or danger, but to pass between them. She confessed difficulty and peril by her delicate evasions, and consented to rest in neither. She would not owe safety to the mere motionlessness of a seat on the solid earth, but she used gravitation to balance the slight burdens of her wariness and her confidence. She put aside all the pride and vanity of terror, and leapt into an unsure condition of liberty and content. She leapt, too, into a life of moments. No pause was possible to her as she went, except the vibrating pause of a perpetual change and of an unflagging flight. A woman, long educated to sit still, does not suddenly learn to live a momentary life without strong momentary resolution. She has no light achievement in limiting not only her foresight, which must become brief, but her memory, which must do more； for it must rather cease than become brief. Idle memory wastes time and other things. The moments of the woman in grey as they dropped by must needs disappear, and be simply forgotten, as a child forgets. Idle memory, by the way, shortens life, or shortens the sense of time, by linking the immediate past clingingly to the present. Here may possibly be found one of the reasons for the length of a child's time, and for the brevity of the time that succeeds. The child lets his moments pass by and quickly become remote through a thousand little successive oblivions. He has not yet the languid habit of recall.
"Thou art my warrior," said Volumnia. "I holp to frame thee." Shall a man inherit his mother's trick of speaking, or her habit and attitude, and not suffer something, against his will, from her bequest of weakness, and something, against his heart, from her bequest of folly？ From the legacies of an unlessoned mind, a woman's heirs-male are not cut off in the Common Law of the generations of mankind. Brutus knew that the valour of Portia was settled upon his sons.
The mothers of Professors were indulged in the practice of jumping at conclusions, and were praised for their impatience of the slow process of reason.
Professors have written of the mental habits of women as though they accumulated generation by generation upon women, and passed over their sons. Professors take it for granted, obviously by some process other than the slow process of reason, that women derive from their mothers and grandmothers, and men from their fathers and grandfathers. This, for instance, was written lately： "This power [it matters not what] would be about equal in the two sexes but for the influence of heredity, which turns the scale in favour of the woman, as for long generations the surroundings and conditions of life of the female sex have developed in her a greater degree of the power in question than circumstances have required from men." "Long generations" of subjection are, strangely enough, held to excuse the timorousness and the shifts of women to-day. But the world, unknowing, tampers with the courage of its sons by such a slovenly indulgence. It tampers with their intelligence by fostering the ignorance of women.
And yet Shakespeare confessed the participation of man and woman in their common heritage. It is Cassius who speaks： "Have you not love enough to bear with me When that rash humour
which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful？"
And Brutus who replies：
"Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth When you are over-earnest with
your Brutus He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so."
Dryden confessed it also in his praises of Anne Killigrew：
"If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul
so charming from a stock so good. Thy father was transfused into thy blood."
The winning of Waterloo upon the Eton playgrounds is very well； but there have been some other, and happily minor, fields that were not won that were more or less lost. Where did this loss take place, if the gains were secured at football？ This inquiry is not quite so cheerful as the other. But while the victories were once going forward in the playground, the defeats or disasters were once going forward in some other place, presumably. And this was surely the place that was not a playground, the place where the future wives of the football players were sitting still while their future husbands were playing football.
This is the train of thought that followed the grey figure of a woman on a bicycle in Oxford Street. She had an enormous and top- heavy omnibus at her back. All the things on the near side of the street -the things going her way - were going at different paces, in two streams, overtaking and being overtaken. The tributary streets shot omnibuses and carriages, cabs and carts - some to go her own way, some with an impetus that carried them curving into the other current, and other some making a straight line right across Oxford Street into the street opposite. Besides all the unequal movement, there were the stoppings. It was a delicate tangle to keep from knotting. The nerves of the mouths of horses bore the whole charge and answered it, as they do every day.
The woman in grey, quite alone, was immediately dependent on no nerves but her own, which almost made her machine sensitive. But this alertness was joined to such perfect composure as no flutter of a moment disturbed. There was the steadiness of sleep, and a vigilance more than that of an ordinary waking.
At the same time, the woman was doing what nothing in her youth could well have prepared her for. She must have passed a childhood unlike the ordinary girl's childhood, if her steadiness or her alertness had ever been educated, if she had been rebuked for cowardice, for the egoistic distrust of general rules, or for claims of exceptional chances. Yet here she was, trusting not only herself but a multitude of other people； taking her equal risk； giving a watchful confidence to averages - that last, perhaps, her strangest and greatest success.
No exceptions were hers, no appeals, and no forewarnings. She evidently had not in her mind a single phrase, familiar to women, made to express no confidence except in accidents, and to proclaim a prudent foresight of the less probable event. No woman could ride a bicycle along Oxford Street with any such baggage as that about her.
The woman in grey had a watchful confidence not only in a multitude of men but in a multitude of things. And it is very hard for any untrained human being to practise confidence in things in motion - things full of force, and, what is worse, of forces. Moreover, there is a supreme difficulty for a mind accustomed to search timorously for some little place of insignificant rest on any accessible point of stable equilibrium； and that is the difficulty of holding itself nimbly secure in an equilibrium that is unstable. Who can deny that women are generally used to look about for the little stationary repose just described？ Whether in intellectual or in spiritual things, they do not often live without it.
She, none the less, fled upon unstable equilibrium, escaped upon it, depended upon it, trusted it, was `ware of it, was on guard against it, as she sped amid her crowd her own unstable equilibrium, her machine's, that of the judgment, the temper, the skill, the perception, the strength of men and horses.
She had learnt the difficult peace of suspense. She had learnt also the lowly and self-denying faith in common chances. She had learnt to be content with her share - no more - in common security, and to be pleased with her part in common hope. For all this, it may be repeated, she could have had but small preparation. Yet no anxiety was hers, no uneasy distrust and disbelief of that human thing - an average of life and death.
To this courage the woman in grey had attained with a spring, and she had seated herself suddenly upon a place of detachment between earth and air, freed from the principal detentions, weights, and embarrassments of the usual life of fear. She had made herself, as it were, light, so as not to dwell either in security or danger, but to pass between them. She confessed difficulty and peril by her delicate evasions, and consented to rest in neither. She would not owe safety to the mere motionlessness of a seat on the solid earth, but she used gravitation to balance the slight burdens of her wariness and her confidence. She put aside all the pride and vanity of terror, and leapt into an unsure condition of liberty and content. She leapt, too, into a life of moments. No pause was possible to her as she went, except the vibrating pause of a perpetual change and of an unflagging flight. A woman, long educated to sit still, does not suddenly learn to live a momentary life without strong momentary resolution. She has no light achievement in limiting not only her foresight, which must become brief, but her memory, which must do more； for it must rather cease than become brief. Idle memory wastes time and other things. The moments of the woman in grey as they dropped by must needs disappear, and be simply forgotten, as a child forgets. Idle memory, by the way, shortens life, or shortens the sense of time, by linking the immediate past clingingly to the present. Here may possibly be found one of the reasons for the length of a child's time, and for the brevity of the time that succeeds. The child lets his moments pass by and quickly become remote through a thousand little successive oblivions. He has not yet the languid habit of recall.
"Thou art my warrior," said Volumnia. "I holp to frame thee." Shall a man inherit his mother's trick of speaking, or her habit and attitude, and not suffer something, against his will, from her bequest of weakness, and something, against his heart, from her bequest of folly？ From the legacies of an unlessoned mind, a woman's heirs-male are not cut off in the Common Law of the generations of mankind. Brutus knew that the valour of Portia was settled upon his sons.
PICTURE this. A four-year-old girl is lying in the arms of a doctor. She has just become motherless
PICTURE this. A four-year-old girl is lying in the arms of a doctor. She has just become motherlessPICTURE this. A four-year-old girl is lying in the arms of a doctor. She has just become motherless. Her pink clothes are bloodied and her eyes stare at something only she can see. She has suffered from a bombing （轰炸） near her home in southern Iraq. 想象这刻骨铭心的一幕:一个四岁女孩正靠在医生的怀里。她刚刚失去母亲，身上粉色的衣服血迹斑斑。她在专注地盯着什么，但那东西却似乎只有她能够看得见。她仍然活在伊拉克南部的家园遭受轰炸的创伤之中。
Every day we see images like this on our televisions. We see young Iraqi children begging for food and water from American and British soldiers as they move through towns and cities towards the capital, Baghdad （巴格达）。 We see these children following grown-ups, carrying bags of belongings almost the same size as their small bodies as they flee their homes in Baghdad. 每天我们都会在电视上看到这样的镜头。我们看到伊拉克孩子向那些进军巴格达的美英士兵乞讨食物和水；我们看到这些孩子背着几乎和他们瘦弱的身体一样大的行李，随着大人们逃离他们在巴格达的家。
They represent just some of the young lives that have been turned upside down by the ongoing war. And they show the terrible price being paid by Iraqi children. 而我们所看到的也仅仅是遭受战争磨难的年轻生命中的一小部分，但仅仅这些就足以表明伊拉克孩子为这场战争付出了多么惨重的代价。
"Dad, why are the Americans striking us？ Are we going to be killed？" asks the son of Abu Sinar, an Iraqi engineer. Abu finds it hard to explain this war to his eight-year-old son. “爸爸，美国人为什么攻打我们？我们会死吗？”，面对8岁儿子提出的这个问题，伊拉克工程师阿布？希那尔（音译）竟不知道该怎样回答。
He tries to comfort him by saying: "The bombs are far away from us. The Americans are fighting the soldiers. We're going to be all right." Even though Abu knows this isn't always the truth. 阿布安慰儿子说:“轰炸离我们还很远。美国人是和士兵交战。我们会没事的。”但他知道，事实并非总是如此。
In southern parts of the country, like Iraq's second largest city, Basra, the United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund （UNICEF，联合国儿童基金会） is working to repair the damage caused by fighting. The organization is working to provide clean water and restore electrical power, said Geoffrey Keele, a UNICEF spokesman. 在包括伊拉克第二大城市巴士拉的南部地区，联合国儿童基金会正在修复被战争毁坏的设施。基金会发言人杰弗里？科尔（音译）说，他们正在致力于恢复供水、供电。
But little else can be done. In Baghdad, parents give their children sleeping pills （安眠药） to try and let them escape the sound of exploding bombs. And all the schools are closed. 但仅仅如此而已。在巴格达，为了让孩子们安睡而不被轰炸声惊醒，父母们让孩子服用安眠药。而且，所有的学校都关闭了。
"All they can do is listen to and hear the war," said Keele. "There is suffering in Baghdad. It is clear that the bombing is affecting the mental well-being （心理健康） of the children." “他们能做的就是湮没在战争的声音里，”科尔说。“显而易见，轰炸对孩子们的心理健康有很大影响。”
Despite UNICEF's efforts, dirty water is being blamed for cholera （霍乱） outbreaks in southern Iraq. Diarrhea （腹泻） is spreading among the children, sometimes leading to death. 尽管联合国儿童基金会进行着不懈的努力，不洁饮用水还是导致了霍乱肆虐伊拉克南部。腹泻在孩子们中迅速蔓延，有时甚至导致死亡。
Nearly 50 per cent of Iraq's population is under 15 years old. And 30 per cent of them already suffered before the war from malnutrition （营养不良）, according to international aid organizations. 伊拉克近一半人口是不满15岁的儿童。国际援助组织资料显示，在战前他们中已有30%饱受营养不良之苦。
Now the situation is worse, but continual fighting makes it impossible to count the number who are hungry, sick, injured or even dead. 现在，形势更是每况愈下。但持续的战争让人们无法统计究竟有多少儿童在忍饥挨饿，多少受着疾病、伤痛困扰，而又有多少在战争中丧生。
Every day we see images like this on our televisions. We see young Iraqi children begging for food and water from American and British soldiers as they move through towns and cities towards the capital, Baghdad （巴格达）。 We see these children following grown-ups, carrying bags of belongings almost the same size as their small bodies as they flee their homes in Baghdad. 每天我们都会在电视上看到这样的镜头。我们看到伊拉克孩子向那些进军巴格达的美英士兵乞讨食物和水；我们看到这些孩子背着几乎和他们瘦弱的身体一样大的行李，随着大人们逃离他们在巴格达的家。
They represent just some of the young lives that have been turned upside down by the ongoing war. And they show the terrible price being paid by Iraqi children. 而我们所看到的也仅仅是遭受战争磨难的年轻生命中的一小部分，但仅仅这些就足以表明伊拉克孩子为这场战争付出了多么惨重的代价。
"Dad, why are the Americans striking us？ Are we going to be killed？" asks the son of Abu Sinar, an Iraqi engineer. Abu finds it hard to explain this war to his eight-year-old son. “爸爸，美国人为什么攻打我们？我们会死吗？”，面对8岁儿子提出的这个问题，伊拉克工程师阿布？希那尔（音译）竟不知道该怎样回答。
He tries to comfort him by saying: "The bombs are far away from us. The Americans are fighting the soldiers. We're going to be all right." Even though Abu knows this isn't always the truth. 阿布安慰儿子说:“轰炸离我们还很远。美国人是和士兵交战。我们会没事的。”但他知道，事实并非总是如此。
In southern parts of the country, like Iraq's second largest city, Basra, the United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund （UNICEF，联合国儿童基金会） is working to repair the damage caused by fighting. The organization is working to provide clean water and restore electrical power, said Geoffrey Keele, a UNICEF spokesman. 在包括伊拉克第二大城市巴士拉的南部地区，联合国儿童基金会正在修复被战争毁坏的设施。基金会发言人杰弗里？科尔（音译）说，他们正在致力于恢复供水、供电。
But little else can be done. In Baghdad, parents give their children sleeping pills （安眠药） to try and let them escape the sound of exploding bombs. And all the schools are closed. 但仅仅如此而已。在巴格达，为了让孩子们安睡而不被轰炸声惊醒，父母们让孩子服用安眠药。而且，所有的学校都关闭了。
"All they can do is listen to and hear the war," said Keele. "There is suffering in Baghdad. It is clear that the bombing is affecting the mental well-being （心理健康） of the children." “他们能做的就是湮没在战争的声音里，”科尔说。“显而易见，轰炸对孩子们的心理健康有很大影响。”
Despite UNICEF's efforts, dirty water is being blamed for cholera （霍乱） outbreaks in southern Iraq. Diarrhea （腹泻） is spreading among the children, sometimes leading to death. 尽管联合国儿童基金会进行着不懈的努力，不洁饮用水还是导致了霍乱肆虐伊拉克南部。腹泻在孩子们中迅速蔓延，有时甚至导致死亡。
Nearly 50 per cent of Iraq's population is under 15 years old. And 30 per cent of them already suffered before the war from malnutrition （营养不良）, according to international aid organizations. 伊拉克近一半人口是不满15岁的儿童。国际援助组织资料显示，在战前他们中已有30%饱受营养不良之苦。
Now the situation is worse, but continual fighting makes it impossible to count the number who are hungry, sick, injured or even dead. 现在，形势更是每况愈下。但持续的战争让人们无法统计究竟有多少儿童在忍饥挨饿，多少受着疾病、伤痛困扰，而又有多少在战争中丧生。
Salzburg (Austria)
The Netherlands Architecture Institute is much more than a museum. It is a cultural institution， open to the general public， that concerns itself in a variety of ways with architecture， urban design and spatial planning.
The resilient（本意指有弹力的，迅速恢复精力的）port city of Rotterdam has come back from the dark days of World War II， reborn as a modern metropolis from the ashes of the German bombing raids in 1940. The bombing virtually destroyed the port and harbor areas， which were rebuilt， however， with modern facilities that gave it an edge（优势）over older ports. Today， Rotterdam is the major terminus （终点港）not only for shipping produce and other goods from Europe； it's also the world's most important oil terminal （集散地）， with five major oil refineries（炼油厂）located at the port.
The city's reconstruction also gave a new generation of Dutch architects a chance to build on their talents. The result： A cityscape （都市风景）alive with the kinds of quirky （古怪的） constructions more commonly found in newer cities like Miami. Piet Blom's Picasso-esque cubist （立体主义的；立体派画家的）houses at the Blaakse Bos are local landmarks of weirdness， where furnishings have to be adapted to the tilted（倾斜的，翘起的）structures. The new Netherlands Architectuurinstitute （即Architecture Institute）showcases the best of Dutch design， while the Boymans-Van Beuningen Museum offers a world-class collection of modern art and earlier masterpieces. These houses in the Blaak were designed as cubes resting on vertices of poles. They look like trees， hence the name Blaakse Bos （wood）。 They are also called cube or pole houses.
Though Rotterdam's one-time harbor， the Oude Haven， was decimated（被毁灭）by the bombing， the medieval Grote Kerk was lovingly rebuilt by the locals. And in front of the church， the 1622 bronze statue of Erasmus （born in Rotterdam in 1469） still holds court. The former harbor itself has become a maritime museum. At the nearby Leuvehaven harbor， the Prins Hendrik Maritime Museum traces the city's watery heritage. Also moored（停泊）there is the Museumschip Buffel， a 19th century warship-turned-museum.
Today's Rotterdam still owes its fortune and fame to the watery ways that have long made it an international destination for trade and tourism. Butnow，its lost history is part of its allure（魅力）， and its present dominance as a world trade center is steering the city's course （带引本市的发展方向）into the next century.
The resilient（本意指有弹力的，迅速恢复精力的）port city of Rotterdam has come back from the dark days of World War II， reborn as a modern metropolis from the ashes of the German bombing raids in 1940. The bombing virtually destroyed the port and harbor areas， which were rebuilt， however， with modern facilities that gave it an edge（优势）over older ports. Today， Rotterdam is the major terminus （终点港）not only for shipping produce and other goods from Europe； it's also the world's most important oil terminal （集散地）， with five major oil refineries（炼油厂）located at the port.
The city's reconstruction also gave a new generation of Dutch architects a chance to build on their talents. The result： A cityscape （都市风景）alive with the kinds of quirky （古怪的） constructions more commonly found in newer cities like Miami. Piet Blom's Picasso-esque cubist （立体主义的；立体派画家的）houses at the Blaakse Bos are local landmarks of weirdness， where furnishings have to be adapted to the tilted（倾斜的，翘起的）structures. The new Netherlands Architectuurinstitute （即Architecture Institute）showcases the best of Dutch design， while the Boymans-Van Beuningen Museum offers a world-class collection of modern art and earlier masterpieces. These houses in the Blaak were designed as cubes resting on vertices of poles. They look like trees， hence the name Blaakse Bos （wood）。 They are also called cube or pole houses.
Though Rotterdam's one-time harbor， the Oude Haven， was decimated（被毁灭）by the bombing， the medieval Grote Kerk was lovingly rebuilt by the locals. And in front of the church， the 1622 bronze statue of Erasmus （born in Rotterdam in 1469） still holds court. The former harbor itself has become a maritime museum. At the nearby Leuvehaven harbor， the Prins Hendrik Maritime Museum traces the city's watery heritage. Also moored（停泊）there is the Museumschip Buffel， a 19th century warship-turned-museum.
Today's Rotterdam still owes its fortune and fame to the watery ways that have long made it an international destination for trade and tourism. Butnow，its lost history is part of its allure（魅力）， and its present dominance as a world trade center is steering the city's course （带引本市的发展方向）into the next century.
North side of the Mall， 14th St NW and Constitution Ave； closest Metro Smithsonian.
If you like kitsch， you won't want to miss the bizarre melange of cultural artefacts at the National Museum of American History. George Washington's wooden teeth， Muhammad Ali's boxing gloves， and the ruby slippers Judy Garland wore in the Wizard of Oz are set among didactic displays tracing the country's development. It's not so much a center for scholarly study as a sanctuary for vanishing Americana， incorporating Model T Fords， old post offices and even a restored， turn-of-the-century ice-cream parlor， which still serves up banana splits.
As you enter from the Mall， directly on to the second floor， a sound-and-light display showcases the battered red， white and blue flag that inspired the US national anthem the Star-Spangled Banner itself， which survived the British bombing of Baltimore harbor during the War of 1812. The worthier exhibits are also on this floor： an account of the rural farm-based society of the early US stands across from an examination of the mass movement of African-Americans from Southern farms to the wartime industries of northern cities. A lunch counter from Woolworths in Greensboro， North Carolina， evokes the sit-in of 1960， while "American Encounters" focuses on New Mexico， looking at how tourism has affected communities such as the pueblo of Santa Clara and Hispanic Chimayo. On the first floor， the "Information Age" gallery traces communications from Morse's first telegraph to Apple Macintoshes， while separate galleries display in glorious profusion the artefacts and machines that have shaped modern America from lightbulbs and motorbikes to trains and atomic clocks. The top floor holds political memorabilia （much of it over a century old）， stamp and coin collections， old TV sets and typewriters， though two final outstanding exhibits inject a serious tone "Personal Legacy： the Healing of a Nation" brings together some of the 25，000 items left by relatives at the Vietnam Memorial in DC， while "A More Perfect Union" deals candidly with the shameful internment of Japanese-American citizens during World War II.
As you enter from the Mall， directly on to the second floor， a sound-and-light display showcases the battered red， white and blue flag that inspired the US national anthem the Star-Spangled Banner itself， which survived the British bombing of Baltimore harbor during the War of 1812. The worthier exhibits are also on this floor： an account of the rural farm-based society of the early US stands across from an examination of the mass movement of African-Americans from Southern farms to the wartime industries of northern cities. A lunch counter from Woolworths in Greensboro， North Carolina， evokes the sit-in of 1960， while "American Encounters" focuses on New Mexico， looking at how tourism has affected communities such as the pueblo of Santa Clara and Hispanic Chimayo. On the first floor， the "Information Age" gallery traces communications from Morse's first telegraph to Apple Macintoshes， while separate galleries display in glorious profusion the artefacts and machines that have shaped modern America from lightbulbs and motorbikes to trains and atomic clocks. The top floor holds political memorabilia （much of it over a century old）， stamp and coin collections， old TV sets and typewriters， though two final outstanding exhibits inject a serious tone "Personal Legacy： the Healing of a Nation" brings together some of the 25，000 items left by relatives at the Vietnam Memorial in DC， while "A More Perfect Union" deals candidly with the shameful internment of Japanese-American citizens during World War II.
North side of the Mall at Seventh Street and Constitution Avenue NW
North side of the Mall at Seventh Street and Constitution Avenue NW； closest Metro Archives-Navy Memorial. April to Labor Day daily 10am9pm； rest of year daily 10am5.30pm. 202/501-5000. Admission free.
As well as a copy of the Magna Carta， dating from 1297， the National Archives hold exhibitions and serve as the official repository of all US national records census data， treaties （including the surrender of Japan in World War II）， passport applications， as well as genealogical records most of which are kept in storage. On display inside the impressive Neoclassical Greek temple designed by the National Gallery's John Russell Pope are the three short texts upon which the United States is founded： the Declaration of Independence， the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. These three original sheets of parchment （the three further pages of the Constitution are not on display）， drafted respectively in 1776， 1787 and 1789， are now contained in helium-filled glass cases， which drop underground in case of fire or other threat. You can usually look at them as long as you like， but if there's a crowd you have to shuffle on past.
As well as a copy of the Magna Carta， dating from 1297， the National Archives hold exhibitions and serve as the official repository of all US national records census data， treaties （including the surrender of Japan in World War II）， passport applications， as well as genealogical records most of which are kept in storage. On display inside the impressive Neoclassical Greek temple designed by the National Gallery's John Russell Pope are the three short texts upon which the United States is founded： the Declaration of Independence， the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. These three original sheets of parchment （the three further pages of the Constitution are not on display）， drafted respectively in 1776， 1787 and 1789， are now contained in helium-filled glass cases， which drop underground in case of fire or other threat. You can usually look at them as long as you like， but if there's a crowd you have to shuffle on past.
South side of the Mall between Fourth and Seventh streets SW； closest Metro L'Enfant Plaza.
The National Air and Space Museum is by far DC's most popular attraction， drawing nearly ten million people every year. Most of them may seem to be here on the day you come， but the hangar-like building can accommodate everyone without feeling crowded， and you can always see the hundreds of historic aircraft close up. Hanging from the rafters in the main entrance gallery， the "Milestones in Flight" include the handmade plane in which the Wright Brothers made the first powered flight in 1903； Charles Lindbergh's Spirit of St Louis， in which he made the first solo transatlantic crossing in 1927； the claustrophobic Mercury capsule in which John Glenn orbited the earth in 1962； and the ultra-light Voyager， which flew around the world non-stop in 1986.
Most of the museum is taken up with exploring the space race from both American and Soviet perspectives， using models and actual spacecraft to show the development from von Braun's V1 rockets up to a gawky-looking lunar module. "Apollo to the Moon" is one of the most fascinating galleries， centering on the Apollo 11 （1969） and 17 （1972） missions， the first and last respectively there's Neil Armstrong's and Buzz Aldrin's spacesuits， navigation aids， space-food， clothes and charts， and an astronaut's survival kit （complete with shark repellant）。 Further galleries include "Stars"， a history of astronomy； "Looking at Earth"， where the aerial photographs include Boston snapped from a balloon in 1860 and German castles recorded by camera-toting pigeons； and "The Great War in the Air"， bursting with dogfighting biplanes.
The museum also shows a rotating program of super-large-screen IMAX movies （$4； 202/357-1686 for times）， all of which have some connection with flying； the most spectacular， The Dream is Alive， was shot from an orbiting space shuttle. The Flight Line cafeteria and the Wright Place restaurant enable star-struck families to stay in the building all day.
Most of the museum is taken up with exploring the space race from both American and Soviet perspectives， using models and actual spacecraft to show the development from von Braun's V1 rockets up to a gawky-looking lunar module. "Apollo to the Moon" is one of the most fascinating galleries， centering on the Apollo 11 （1969） and 17 （1972） missions， the first and last respectively there's Neil Armstrong's and Buzz Aldrin's spacesuits， navigation aids， space-food， clothes and charts， and an astronaut's survival kit （complete with shark repellant）。 Further galleries include "Stars"， a history of astronomy； "Looking at Earth"， where the aerial photographs include Boston snapped from a balloon in 1860 and German castles recorded by camera-toting pigeons； and "The Great War in the Air"， bursting with dogfighting biplanes.
The museum also shows a rotating program of super-large-screen IMAX movies （$4； 202/357-1686 for times）， all of which have some connection with flying； the most spectacular， The Dream is Alive， was shot from an orbiting space shuttle. The Flight Line cafeteria and the Wright Place restaurant enable star-struck families to stay in the building all day.
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