thinking_as_a_hobby修辞+短语

合集下载

(完整版)翻译：Thinking_as_a_Hobby

Unit1思考作为一种嗜好还是个孩子的时候我就得出了思考分为三种等级的结论。

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

那个时候我一定是个很让大人头疼的小孩。

当然我已经忘记自己当初在他们眼里是什么样子了,但却记得他们一开始在我眼中就是如何不可理喻的。

第一个把思考这个问题带到我面前的是我文法学校的校长，当然这样的方式，这样的结果是他始料不及的。

他的办公室里有一些小雕像，就在他书桌后面一个高高的橱柜上面。

其中一位女士除了一条浴巾外一丝不挂。

她好像被永远地冻结在对浴巾再往下滑的恐惧中了。

而不幸的是她没有手臂，所以无法把浴巾拉上来。

在她的身边蜷伏着一头美洲豹，好像随时都会往下跳到档案橱柜最上层的抽屉上去，我懵懵懂懂地把那个抽屉上标着的"A-AH"理解成为猎物临死前绝望的哀鸣/惨叫。

在豹子的另一边端坐着一个健硕的裸体男子，他手肘支在膝头，手握拳托着腮帮子，全然一副痛苦不堪的样子。

过了一些时候，我对这些雕像有了一些了解,才知道把它们放在正对着犯错的孩子的位置是因为对校长来说这些雕像象征着整个生命。

那位裸体的女士是米洛斯的维纳丝。

她象征着爱。

她不是在为浴巾担心，而是忙着显示美丽。

美洲豹象征着自然，它在那里显得很自然而已。

那位健硕的裸体男子并不痛苦，他是洛丁的思索者，一个纯粹思索的象征。

要买到表达生活在你心中的意义的小石膏像是很容易的事情。

我想我得解释一下，我是校长办公室的常客，为我最近做过或者没做的事情。

用现在的话来说我是不堪教化的。

其实应该说，我是顽劣不羁，头脑迷糊的。

大人们从来不讲道理。

每次在校长桌前接受处罚，那些雕像在他上方白晃晃地耀眼时，我就会垂下头，在身后紧扣双手，两只鞋不停地蹭来蹭去。

校长透过亮晶晶的眼镜片眼神暗淡地看着我，：“我们该拿你怎么办呢？”哦，他们要拿我怎么办呢？我盯着旧地毯更狠命地蹂躏我的鞋。

“抬起头来，孩子！你就不能抬起头来吗？”然后我就会抬起头来看橱柜，看着裸体女士被冻结在恐惧中，健硕的男子无限忧郁地凝视着猎豹的后腿。

thinking as a hobby文章结构

thinking as a hobby文章结构1954年，在被21家出版社拒绝过后，《蝇王》终于成功出版。

此时，距戈尔丁发表处女作——一本包含29首小诗的诗集——已经过去了20年。

这20年间，戈尔丁当过编导和演员，经历了结婚生子、成家立业，还参加了二战；所谓好事多磨，参战给他的思想打上了深刻的烙印。

戈尔丁事后说到：“经历过那些岁月的人，如果还不了解，‘恶’出于人犹如‘蜜’出于蜂，那他不是瞎了眼，就是脑子出了毛病。

”这个观点，贯穿他的全部著作；而“蝇王”就是丑恶、污秽的同义词。

《蝇王》正是突出了他一直不停探讨的主题：人类天生的野蛮与文明的理性的斗争。

《大学英语精读4》收录了戈尔丁的文章《Thinking as a hobby》，此文中戈尔丁阐述了“思考有三个等级”的结论；本文则是依托这个金字塔状的结构，对《蝇王》中的人物进行分析。

1：三级思考者在弄清谁是三级思考者之前，我们得先搞明白什么是三级思考者？“一群三级思考者，围坐在偏见的火炉旁暖手，高声叫嚷。

你若指出他们信仰中的矛盾之处，他们绝不会对你感恩戴德。

人类喜欢跟风，就像牛都喜欢以同样的方式在一个山坡上吃草一样。

”在戈尔丁的定义中，三级思考是充斥着偏见、无知、虚伪和言行不一的。

“这根本算不上思考，充其量不过是感觉。

”在我看来，猪崽子和罗杰都属于三级思考者。

是的，猪崽子。

在我看的很多文学分析中，都把猪崽子视为文明理性、科学秩序的象征；而猪崽子也是第一个提出召集人员开会的人，在后续发展中也被拉尔夫视作智囊。

只是，猪崽子对于海螺的执著、对“大人”的信赖，与其说是他独立思考的结果，不如说是长期以来强权世界强加给他的观点。

我们可以看到，猪崽子的确是有过思考，他甚至是第一个点明杰克对拉尔夫的恨的人，作者戈尔丁借猪崽子之口，说出了人性的虚伪。

但是评价一个人，不是看他说了什么，而是看他做了什么。

猪崽子对全局有很多“衣冠楚楚”的分析，可是每当突发事件降临，他要么吓得不知所措，要么直接逃开。

现代大学英语精读4--thinking-as-a-hobby-原文、课文对比版

现代大学英语精读4--t h i n k i n g-a s-a-h o b b y-原文、课文对比版-CAL-FENGHAI.-(YICAI)-Company One1Thinking as a Hobbyby William GoldingWhile I was still a boy, I came to the conclusion that there were three grades of thinking; and since I was later to claim thinking as my hobby, I came to an even stranger conclusion - namely, that I myself could not think at all.I must have been an unsatisfactory child for grownups to deal with. I remember how incomprehensible they appeared to me at first, but not, of course, how I appeared to them. It was the headmaster of my grammar school who first brought the subject of thinking before me - though neither in the way, nor with the result he intended. He had some statuettes in his study. They stood on a high cupboard behind his desk. One was a lady wearing nothing but a bath towel. She seemed frozen in an eternal panic lest the bath towel slip down any farther, and since she had no arms, she was in an unfortunate position to pull the towel up again. Next to her, crouched the statuette of a leopard, ready to spring down at the top drawer of a filing cabinet labeled A-AH. My innocence interpreted this as the victim's last, despairing cry. Beyond the leopard was a naked, muscular gentleman, who sat, looking down, with his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee. He seemed utterly miserable.Some time later, I learned about these statuettes. The headmaster had placed them where they would face delinquent children, because they symbolized to him to whole of life. The naked lady was the Venus of Milo. She was Love. She was not worried about the towel. She was just busy being beautiful. The leopard was Nature, and he was being natural. The naked, muscular gentleman was not miserable. He was Rodin's Thinker, an image of pure thought. It is easy to buy small plaster models of what you think life is like.I had better explain that I was a frequent visitor to the headmaster's study, because of the latest thing I had done or left undone. As we now say, I was not integrated. I was, if anything, disintegrated; and I was puzzled. Grownups never made sense. Whenever I found myself in a penal position before the headmaster's desk, with the statuettes glimmering whitely above him, I would sink my head, clasp my hands behind my back, and writhe one shoe over the other.The headmaster would look opaquely at me through flashing spectacles. "What are we going to do with you"Well, what were they going to do with me I would writhe my shoe some more and stare down at the worn rug."Look up, boy! Can't you look up"Then I would look at the cupboard, where the naked lady was frozen in her panic and the muscular gentleman contemplated the hindquarters of the leopard in endless gloom. I had nothing to say to the headmaster. His spectacles caught the light so that you could see nothing human behind them. There was no possibility of communication."Don't you ever think at all"No, I didn't think, wasn't thinking, couldn't think - I was simply waiting in anguish for the interview to stop."Then you'd better learn - hadn't you"On one occasion the headmaster leaped to his feet, reached up and plonked Rodin's masterpiece on the desk before me."That's what a man looks like when he's really thinking."I surveyed the gentleman without interest or comprehension."Go back to your class."Clearly there was something missing in me. Nature had endowed the rest of the human race with a sixth sense and left me out. This must be so, I mused, on my way back to the class, since whether I had broken a window, or failed to remember Boyle's Law, or been late for school, my teachers produced me one, adult answer: "Why can't you think"As I saw the case, I had broken the window because I had tried to hit Jack Arney with a cricket ball and missed him; I could not remember Boyle's Law because I had never bothered to learn it; and I was late for school because I preferred looking over the bridge into the river. In fact, I was wicked. Were my teachers, perhaps, so good that they could not understand the depths of my depravity Were they clear, untormented people who could direct their every action by this mysterious business of thinking The whole thing was incomprehensible. In my earlier years, I found even the statuette of the Thinker confusing. I did not believe any of my teachers were naked, ever. Like someone born deaf, but bitterly determined to find out about sound, I watched my teachers to find out about thought.There was Mr. Houghton. He was always telling me to think. With a modest satisfaction, he would tell that he had thought a bit himself. Then why did he spend so much time drinking Or was there more sense in drinking than there appeared to be But if not, and if drinking were in fact ruinous to health - and Mr. Houghton was ruined, there was no doubt about that - why was he always talking about the clean life and the virtues of fresh air He would spread his arms wide with the action of a man who habitually spent his time striding along mountain ridges."Open air does me good, boys - I know it!"Sometimes, exalted by his own oratory, he would leap from his desk and hustle us outside into a hideous wind."Now, boys! Deep breaths! Feel it right down inside you - huge draughts of God's good air!"He would stand before us, rejoicing in his perfect health, an open-air man. He would put his hands on his waist and take a tremendous breath. You could hear the wind trapped in the cavern of his chest and struggling with all the unnatural impediments. His body would reel with shock and his ruined face go white at the unaccustomed visitation. He would stagger back to his desk and collapse there, useless for the rest of the morning.Mr. Houghton was given to high-minded monologues about the good life, sexless and full of duty. Yet in the middle of one of these monologues, if a girl passed the window, tapping along on her neat little feet, he would interrupt his discourse, his neck would turn of itself and he would watch her out of sight. In this instance, he seemed to me ruled not by thought but by an invisible and irresistible spring in his nape.His neck was an object of great interest to me. Normally it bulged a bit over his collar. But Mr. Houghton had fought in the First World War alongside both Americans and French, and had come - by who knows what illogic- to a settled detestation of both countries. If either country happened to be prominent in current affairs, no argument could make Mr. Houghton think well of it. He would bang the desk, his neck would bulge still further and go red. "You can say what you like," he would cry, "but I've thought about this - and I know what I think!"Mr. Houghton thought with his neck.There was Miss. Parsons. She assured us that her dearest wish was our welfare, but I knew even then, with the mysterious clairvoyance of childhood, that what she wanted most was the husband she never got. There was Mr. Hands - and so on.I have dealt at length with my teachers because this was my introduction to the nature of what is commonly called thought. Through them I discovered that thought is often full of unconscious prejudice, ignorance, and hypocrisy. It will lecture on disinterested purity while its neck is being remorselessly twisted toward a skirt. Technically, it is about as proficient as most businessmen's golf, as honest as most politician's intentions, or - to come near my own preoccupation - as coherent as most books that get written. It is what I came to call grade-three thinking, though more properly, it is feeling, rather than thought.True, often there is a kind of innocence in prejudices, but in those days I viewed grade-three thinking with an intolerant contempt and an incautious mockery. I delighted to confront a pious lady who hated the Germans with the proposition that we should love our enemies. She taught me a great truth in dealing with grade-three thinkers; because of her, I no longer dismiss lightly a mental process which for nine-tenths of the population is the nearest they will ever get to thought. They haveimmense solidarity. We had better respect them, for we are outnumbered and surrounded. A crowd of grade-three thinkers, all shouting the same thing, all warming their hands at the fire of their own prejudices, will not thank you for pointing out the contradictions in their beliefs. Man is a gregarious animal, and enjoys agreement as cows will graze all the same way on the side of a hill.Grade-two thinking is the detection of contradictions. I reached grade two when I trapped the poor, pious lady. Grade-two thinkers do not stampede easily, though often they fall into the other fault and lag behind. Grade-two thinking is a withdrawal, with eyes and ears open. It became my hobby and brought satisfaction and loneliness in either hand. For grade-two thinking destroys without having the power to create. It set me watching the crowds cheering His Majesty the King and asking myself what all the fuss was about, without giving me anything positive to put in the place of that heady patriotism. But there were compensations. To hear people justify their habit of hunting foxes and tearing them to pieces by claiming that the foxes like it. To her our Prime Minister talk about the great benefit we conferred on India by jailing people like Pandit Nehru and Gandhi. To hear American politicians talk about peace in one sentence and refuse to join the League of Nations in the next. Yes, there were moments of delight.But I was growing toward adolescence and had to admit that Mr. Houghton was not the only one with an irresistible spring in his neck. I, too, felt the compulsive hand of nature and began to find that pointing out contradiction could be costly as well as fun. There was Ruth, for example, a serious and attractive girl. I was an atheist at the time. Grade-two thinking is a menace to religion and knocks down sects like skittles. I put myself in a position to be converted by her with an hypocrisy worthy of grade three. She was a Methodist - or at least, her parents were, and Ruth had to follow suit. But, alas, instead of relying on the Holy Spirit to convert me, Ruth was foolish enough to open her pretty mouth in argument. She claimed that the Bible (King James Version) was literally inspired. I countered by saying that the Catholics believed in the literal inspiration of Saint Jerome's Vulgate, and the two books were different. Argument flagged. At last she remarked that there were an awful lot of Methodists and they couldn't be wrong, could they - not all those millionsThat was too easy, said I restively (for the nearer you were to Ruth, the nicer she was to be near to) since there were more Roman Catholics than Methodists anyway; and they couldn't be wrong, could they - not all those hundreds of millionsAn awful flicker of doubt appeared in her eyes. I slid my arm round her waist and murmured breathlessly that if we were counting heads, the Buddhists were the boys for my money. But Ruth has really wanted to do me good, because I was so nice. The combination of my arm and those countless Buddhists was too much for her. That night her father visited my father and left, red-cheeked and indignant. I was given the third degree to find out what had happened. It was lucky we were both of us only fourteen. I lost Ruth and gained an undeserved reputation as a potential libertine.So grade-two thinking could be dangerous. It was in this knowledge, at the age of fifteen, that I remember making a comment from the heights of grade two, on the limitations of grade three. One evening I found myself alone in the school hall, preparing it for a party. The door of the headmaster's study was open. I went in. The headmaster had ceased to thump Rodin's Thinker down on the desk as an example to the young. Perhaps he had not found any more candidates, but the statuettes were still there, glimmering and gathering dust on top of the cupboard. I stood on a chair and rearranged them. I stood Venus in her bathtowel on the filing cabinet, so that now the top drawer caught its breath in a gasp of sexy excitement. "A-ah!" The portentous Thinker I placed on the edge of the cupboard so that he looked down at the bath towel and waited for it to slip.Grade-two thinking, though it filled life with fun and excitement, did not make for content. To find out the deficiencies of our elders bolsters the young ego but does not make for personal security. I found that grade two was not only the power to point out contradictions. It took the swimmer some distance from the shore and left him there, out of his depth. I decided that Pontius Pilate was a typical grade-two thinker. "What is truth?" he said, a very common grade two thought, but one that is used always as the end of an argument instead of the beginning. There is still a higher grade of thought which says, "What is truth"and sets out to find it.But these grade-one thinkers were few and far between. They did not visit my grammar school in the flesh though they were there in books. I aspired to them partly because I was ambitious and partly because I now saw my hobby as an unsatisfactory thing if it went no further. If you set out to climb a mountain, however high you climb, you have failed if you cannot reach the top.I did meet an undeniably grade one thinker in my first year at Oxford. I was looking over a small bridge in Magdalen Deer Park, and a tiny mustached and hatted figure came and stood by my side. He was a German who had just fled from the Nazis to Oxford as a temporary refuge. His name was Einstein. But Professor Einstein knew no English at that time and I knew only two words of German. I beamed at him, trying wordlessly to convey by my bearing all the affection and respect that the English felt for him. It is possible - and I have to make the admission - that I felt here were two grade-one thinkers standing side by side; yet I doubt if my face conveyed more than a formless awe. I would have given my Greek and Latin and French and a good slice of my English for enough German to communicate. But we were divided; he was as inscrutable as my headmaster. For perhaps five minutes we stood together on the bridge, undeniable grade-one thinker and breathless aspirant. With true greatness, Professor Einstein realized that any contact was better than none. He pointed to a trout wavering in midstream.He spoke: "Fisch."My brain reeled. Here I was, mingling with the great, and yet helpless as the veriest grade-three thinker. Desperately I sought for some sign by which I might convey that I, too, revered pure reason. I nodded vehemently. In a brilliant flash I used up half of my German vocabulary. "Fisch. Ja. Ja."For perhaps another five minutes we stood side by side. Then Professor Einstein, his whole figure still conveying good will and amiability, drifted away out of sight.I, too, would be a grade-one thinker. I was irrelevant at the best of times. Political and religious systems, social customs, loyalties and traditions, they all came tumbling down like so many rotten apples off a tree. This was a fine hobby and a sensible substitute for cricket, since you could play it all the year round. I came up in the end with what must always remain the justification for grade-one thinking, its sign, seal, and charter. I devised a coherent system for living. It was a moral system, which was wholly logical. Of course, as I readily admitted, conversion of the world to my way of thinking might be difficult, since my system did away with a number of trifles, such as big business, centralized government, armies, marriage...It was Ruth all over again. I had some very good friends who stood by me, and still do. But my acquaintances vanished, taking the girls with them. Young women seemed oddly contented with the world as it was. They valued the meaningless ceremony with a ring. Young men, while willing to concede the chaining sordidness of marriage, were hesitant about abandoning the organizations which they hoped would give them a career. A young man on the first rung of the Royal Navy, while perfectly agreeable to doing away with big business and marriage, got as red-necked as Mr. Houghton when I proposed a world without any battleships in it.Had the game gone too far? Was it a game any longer? In those prewar days, I stood to lose a great deal, for the sake of a hobby.Now you are expecting me to describe how I saw the folly of my ways and came back to the warm nest, where prejudices are so often called loyalties, where pointless actions are hallowed into custom by repetition, where we are content to say we think when all we do is feel.But you would be wrong. I dropped my hobby and turned professional.If I were to go back to the headmaster's study and find the dusty statuettes still there, I would arrange them differently. I would dust Venus and put her aside, for I have come to love her and know her for the fair thing she is. But I would put the Thinker, sunk in his desperate thought, where there were shadows before him - and at his back, I would put the leopard, crouched and ready to spring.。

翻译ThinkingasaHobby

Unit1思考作为一‎种嗜好‎还‎是个孩子的时‎候我就得‎出了思考‎分为三种等级‎的结‎论。

后来思考成了‎嗜好，我进而得出了一‎个更加离奇的结论‎，那‎就是：我自己‎根本不会‎思考。

‎那个时候我‎一定‎是个很让大人头疼‎的小孩。

当然我已经忘‎记自己当初在他们‎眼里‎是什么样子了‎,但却记‎得他们一‎开始在我眼中‎就是‎如何不可理喻的。

‎第一个把思考这个问题‎带到我面前的是我‎文法‎学校的校长，‎当然这样‎的方式，‎这样的结果是‎他始‎料不及的。

他的办‎公室里有一些小雕像，‎就在他书桌后面一‎个高‎高的橱柜上面‎。

其中一‎位女士除‎了一条浴巾外‎一丝‎不挂。

她好像被永‎远地冻结在对浴巾再往‎下滑的恐惧中了。

‎而不‎幸的是她没有‎手臂，所‎以无法把‎浴巾拉上来。

‎在她‎的身边蜷伏着一头‎美洲豹，好像随时都会‎往下跳到档案橱柜‎最上‎层的抽屉上去‎，我懵懵‎懂懂地把‎那个抽屉上标‎着的‎"A-AH"理解‎成为猎物临死前绝望的‎哀鸣/惨叫。

在豹‎子的‎另一边端坐着‎一个健硕‎的裸体男‎子，他手肘支‎在膝‎头，手握拳托着腮‎帮子，全然一副痛苦不‎堪的样子。

过‎了一‎些时候，我对‎这些雕像‎有了一些‎了解,才知道‎把它‎们放在正对着犯错‎的孩子的位置是因为对‎校长来说这些雕像‎象征‎着整个生命。

‎那位裸体‎的女士是‎米洛斯的维纳‎丝。

‎她象征着爱。

她不‎是在为浴巾担心，而是‎忙着显示美丽。

美‎洲豹‎象征着自然，‎它在那里‎显得很自‎然而已。

那位‎健硕‎的裸体男子并不痛‎苦，他是洛丁的思索者‎，一个纯粹思索的‎象征‎。

要买到表达‎生活在你‎心中的意‎义的小石膏像‎是很‎容易的事情。

‎我想我得解释一下，我‎是校长办公室的常‎客，‎为我最近做过‎或者没做‎的事情。

‎用现在的话来‎说我‎是不堪教化的。

其‎实应该说，我是顽劣不‎羁，头脑迷糊的。

‎大人‎们从来不讲道‎理。

每次‎在校长桌‎前接受处罚，‎那些‎雕像在他上方白晃‎晃地耀眼时，我就会垂‎下头，在身后紧扣‎双手‎，两只鞋不停‎地蹭来蹭‎去。

thinking_as_a_hobby修辞+短语

Devices to create humor
• Irony • Defamiliarization • Exaggeration/hyperbole • Pun • contrast
WB T L E
A
3
Irony （反语)
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
Definition: Irony is the expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.
• As we now say, I was not integrated. I was, if anything, disintegrated;
• You could hear the wind, trapped in the cavern of his chest and struggling with all the unnatural impediments. His body would reel with shock and his ruined face go white at the unaccustomed visitation. He would stagger back to his desk and collapse there, useless for the rest of the morning.
WB T L E
A
1
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
Humorous Writing style
• The essay is written with a great sense of humor.

翻译：Thinking_as_a_Hobby

Unit1思考作为一种嗜好还是个孩子的时候我就得出了思考分为三种等级的结论。

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

那个时候我一定是个很让大人头疼的小孩。

当然我已经忘记自己当初在他们眼里是什么样子了,但却记得他们一开始在我眼中就是如何不可理喻的。

第一个把思考这个问题带到我面前的是我文法学校的校长，当然这样的方式，这样的结果是他始料不及的。

他的办公室里有一些小雕像，就在他书桌后面一个高高的橱柜上面。

其中一位女士除了一条浴巾外一丝不挂。

她好像被永远地冻结在对浴巾再往下滑的恐惧中了。

而不幸的是她没有手臂，所以无法把浴巾拉上来。

在豹子的另一边端坐着一个健硕的裸体男子，他手肘支在膝头，手握拳托着腮帮子，全然一副痛苦不堪的样子。

过了一些时候，我对这些雕像有了一些了解,才知道把它们放在正对着犯错的孩子的位置是因为对校长来说这些雕像象征着整个生命。

那位裸体的女士是米洛斯的维纳丝。

她象征着爱。

她不是在为浴巾担心，而是忙着显示美丽。

美洲豹象征着自然，它在那里显得很自然而已。

那位健硕的裸体男子并不痛苦，他是洛丁的思索者，一个纯粹思索的象征。

要买到表达生活在你心中的意义的小石膏像是很容易的事情。

我想我得解释一下，我是校长办公室的常客，为我最近做过或者没做的事情。

用现在的话来说我是不堪教化的。

其实应该说，我是顽劣不羁，头脑迷糊的。

大人们从来不讲道理。

每次在校长桌前接受处罚，那些雕像在他上方白晃晃地耀眼时，我就会垂下头，在身后紧扣双手，两只鞋不停地蹭来蹭去。

校长透过亮晶晶的眼镜片眼神暗淡地看着我，：“我们该拿你怎么办呢？”哦，他们要拿我怎么办呢？我盯着旧地毯更狠命地蹂躏我的鞋。

“抬起头来，孩子！你就不能抬起头来吗？”然后我就会抬起头来看橱柜，看着裸体女士被冻结在恐惧中，健硕的男子无限忧郁地凝视着猎豹的后腿。

现代大学英语精读4 Unit1 Thinking as a hobby_language study

Examples:
His pocket was bulging with sweets.
The baby boom created a bulge in school
enrollment.
WB T L E
To be continued on the next page.
Synonyms
protrude project stick out
WB T L E
Unit 1—Thinking as a Hobby
Unit 1—Thinking as a Hobby
I. Word Study
1. acquaintance
n. a. (CN) a person whom one knows b. (UN) knowledge or information about something or someone
n. acquaintanceship v. acquaint: to come to know personally; to make
familiar; to inform; Examples:
Mrs. Bosomley has become merely a nodding acquaintance.
WB T L E
Unit 1—Thinking as a Hobby
I. Word Study
4. confer
v. a. to bestow (e.g. an honor) 授予 b. to invest with (a characteristic) 赋予；使带有 c. (vi.) to meet in order to deliberate together or compare views 协商

Thinking as a hobby 未删减原文及参考译文

Thinking as a Hobby思考作为一种嗜好While I was still a boy, I came to the conclusion that there were three grades of thinking; and since I was later to claim thinking as my hobby, I came to an even stranger conclusion--namely, that I myself could not think at all.还是个孩子的时候我就得出了思考分三种等级的结论。

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

I must have been an unsatisfactory child for grownups to deal with. I remember how incomprehensible they appeared to me at first, but not, of course, how I appeared to them. It was the headmaster of my grammar school who first brought the subject of thinking before me--though neither in the way, nor with the result he intended. He had some statuettes in his study. They stood on a high cupboard behind his desk. One was a lady wearing nothing but a bath towel. She seemed frozen in an eternal panic lest the bath towel slip down any farther; and since she had no arms, she was in an unfortunate position to pull the towel up again. Next to her, crouched the statuette of a leopard, ready to spring down at the top drawer of filing cabinet labeled A-AH. My innocence interpreted this as the victim's last, despairing cry. Beyond the leopard was a naked, muscular gentleman, who sat, looking down, with his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee. He seemed utterly miserable.那个时候我一定是个很让大人头疼的小孩。

thinking as a hobby

思考作为一种嗜好还是个孩子的时候我就得出了思考分三种等级的结论。

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

那个时候我一定是个很让大人头疼的小孩。

当然我已经忘记自己当初在他们眼里是什么样子了,但却记得他们一开始在我眼中就是如何不可理喻的。

第一个把思考这个问题带到我面前的是我文法学校的校长，当然这样的方式，这样的结果是他始料不及的。

他的办公室里有一些小雕像，就在他书桌后面一个高高的橱柜上面。

其中一位女士除了一条浴巾外一丝不挂。

她好象被永远地冻结在对浴巾再往下滑的恐惧中了。

而不幸的是她没有手臂，所以无法把浴巾拉上来。

在她的身边蜷伏着一头美洲豹，好象随时都会往下跳到档案橱柜最上层的抽屉上去，我懵懵懂懂地把那个抽屉上标着的"A-AH"理解成为猎物临死前绝望的哀鸣/惨叫。

在豹子的另一边端坐着一个健硕的裸体男子，他手肘支在膝头，手握拳托着腮帮子，全然一副痛苦不堪的样子。

过了一些时候，我对这些雕像有了一些了解,才知道把它们放在正对着犯错的孩子的位置是因为对校长来说这些雕像象征着整个生命。

那位裸体的女士是米洛斯的维纳丝。

她象征着爱。

她不是在为浴巾担心，而是忙着显示美丽。

美洲豹象征着自然，它在那里显得很自然而已。

那位健硕的裸体男子并不痛苦，他是洛丁的思索者，一个纯粹思索的象征。

要买到表达生活在你心中的意义的小石膏像是很容易的事情。

我想我得解释一下，我是校长办公室的常客，为我最近做过或者没做的事情。

用现在的话来说我是不堪教化的。

其实应该说，我是顽劣不羁，头脑迷糊的。

大人们从来不讲道理。

每次在校长桌前接受处罚，那些雕像在他上方白晃晃地耀眼时，我就会垂下头，在身后紧扣双手，两只鞋不停地蹭来蹭去。

校长透过亮晶晶的眼镜片眼神暗淡地看着我，：“我们该拿你怎么办呢？”哦，他们要拿我怎么办呢？我盯着旧地毯更狠命地蹂躏我的鞋。

“抬起头来，孩子！你就不能抬起头来吗？”然后我就会抬起头来看橱柜，看着裸体女士被冻结在恐惧中，健硕的男子无限忧郁地凝视着猎豹的后腿。

thinking as a hobby

Thinking as a HobbyIntroductionIn today’s fast-paced world, we are constantly bombarded with information, opinions, and distractions. It can be challenging to find moments of quiet contemplation and engage in deep thinking. However, thinking as a hobby is a valuable practice that can enrich our lives and enhance our understanding of the world. In this article, we will explore the importance of thinking as a hobby and how it can benefit our personal and intellectual development.The Art of Critical ThinkingThinking as a hobby goes beyond mindlessly pondering random thoughts. It involves the art of critical thinking, which is a skill that can be cultivated and honed over time. Critical thinking allows us to analyze information, question assumptions, evaluate arguments, and make informed judgments. By engaging in critical thinking, we can overcome biases, avoid logical fallacies, and develop a more objective view of the world.Developing a Curious MindThinking as a hobby encourages curiosity and a thirst for knowledge. It is about asking thoughtful questions, seeking answers, and continuously learning. When we approach the world with a curious mind, we are open to new ideas, perspectives, and possibilities. This intellectual curiosity can lead to personal growth and a broader understanding of ourselves and the world around us.Enhancing Problem-Solving SkillsThinking as a hobby enables us to become more effective problem solvers. By analyzing complex situations, identifying patterns, and considering alternative solutions, we can develop creative problem-solving skills. These skills are invaluable in both our personal and professional lives. Thinking as a hobby allows us to approach challenges with a fresh perspective, think outside the box, and find innovative solutions.Reflecting on Life and ExperiencesIn our busy lives, we often forget to pause and reflect. Thinking as a hobby provides us with an opportunity to slow down, contemplate our actions, and assess our choices. It allows us to reflect on our experiences, learn from our mistakes, and make positive changes in our lives. Through self-reflection, we can gain insights into our emotions, motivations, and values, leading to personal growth and self-improvement.Cultivating Empathy and UnderstandingThinking as a hobby promotes empathy and understanding. By exploring different perspectives, challenging our own beliefs, and considering the experiences of others, we can develop a greater sense of empathy and compassion. This empathetic thinking helps us build stronger relationships, resolve conflicts, and navigate the complexities of a diverse world.The Value of Solitude and Quiet TimeThinking as a hobby often requires solitude and quiet time. It is in these moments of silence and stillness that our thoughts can wander freely. By disconnecting from the constant distractions and noise of the modern world, we create space for deep introspection and contemplation. Solitude allows us to recharge, gain clarity, and form a deeper connection with ourselves.ConclusionThinking as a hobby is a powerful practice that can significantly enhance our lives. It fosters critical thinking, cultivates curiosity, enhances problem-solving skills, promotes self-reflection, and nurtures empathy. In a world that is filled with noise and distractions, thinking as a hobby allows us to find moments of quiet contemplation and engage in meaningful introspection. So, let’s prioritize thinking as a hobby and unlock our intellectual potential.。

Thinking as a hobby 未删减原文及参考译文

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

Thinking as a hobby 未删减原文及参考译文

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

Thinking as a hobby 未删减原文及参考译文

后来思考成了嗜好，我进而得出了一个更加离奇的结论，那就是：我自己根本不会思考。

thinking as a hobby段落划分

thinking as a hobby段落划分Thinking as a HobbyIntroduction:In today's fast-paced and constantly evolving world, the ability to think critically and analytically is more important than ever before. Thinking is not just a simple process of cognition, but a complex activity that requires skills, knowledge, and a curious mind. In this essay, we will explore the concept of thinking as a hobby, its benefits and challenges, and why it is crucial for personal growth and intellectual development.Paragraph 1: Defining thinking as a hobby (200 words)Thinking as a hobby refers to the conscious and deliberate act of engaging in deep thought, analysis, and reflection on various topics, problems, and ideas. Unlike other hobbies such as reading or playing sports, thinking does not have a specific set of tools or equipment. It can be done anywhere and at any time, making it an easily accessible hobby. Thinking as a hobby involves actively seeking out new information, questioning assumptions, evaluating evidence, and forming logical arguments or conclusions. It goes beyond surface-level contemplation and explores the underlying principles and causes that shape our world.Paragraph 2: Benefits of thinking as a hobby (400 words) Engaging in thinking as a hobby has numerous benefits that contribute to personal growth and intellectual development. Firstly, it enhances critical thinking skills. Constantly questioning and examining our thoughts and beliefs helps us develop a more discerning mind, enabling us to make better decisions and avoidcognitive biases. Additionally, thinking as a hobby improves problem-solving skills. By analyzing complex issues and considering multiple perspectives, we can develop creative solutions and approach challenges with a more open mind.Moreover, thinking as a hobby fosters intellectual curiosity. When we engage in deep thought, we become more interested in understanding the world around us. This curiosity drives us to seek out new knowledge and expand our intellectual horizons. Furthermore, thinking as a hobby enhances communication skills. Through thoughtful reflection and analysis, we can effectively convey our thoughts and ideas to others, fostering meaningful and productive conversations.Paragraph 3: Challenges of thinking as a hobby (400 words) Although thinking as a hobby has numerous benefits, it also presents some challenges. One of the main challenges is the tendency to overthink. Sometimes, individuals may get trapped in a loop of excessive analysis, leading to mental exhaustion and increased anxiety. Overthinking can also hinder decision-making, as individuals may become paralyzed by excessive contemplation. Additionally, thinking as a hobby requires time and discipline. In a fast-paced world filled with distractions, finding the time and mental space for deep thinking can be challenging. Moreover, thinking may lead to intellectual isolation, as not everyone shares the same interest in deep thought and intellectual pursuits. Paragraph 4: The role of education in promoting thinking as a hobby (400 words)Education plays a vital role in promoting thinking as a hobby.Schools and educational institutions should prioritize the development of critical thinking skills and create an environment that encourages deep thought. This can be achieved through the integration of critical thinking exercises, discussions, and debates into the curriculum. Providing students with opportunities to engage in independent research, problem-solving, and analysis enables them to develop strong thinking skills.Furthermore, teachers can act as facilitators and guides, encouraging students to ask questions, explore various perspectives, and challenge assumptions. They can also create a safe space for students to express their thoughts and ideas without fear of judgment or criticism. Additionally, incorporating philosophy and ethics into the curriculum can stimulate deep thinking and ethical reasoning. By exploring philosophical concepts and dilemmas, students can develop a better understanding of themselves and the world around them.Paragraph 5: Conclusion (200 words)Thinking as a hobby is a valuable pursuit that enables personal growth, intellectual development, and a deeper understanding of the world. By engaging in deep thought and analysis, individuals can enhance their critical thinking and problem-solving skills, cultivate intellectual curiosity, and improve communication skills. However, thinking as a hobby also presents challenges such as overthinking, time management, and intellectual isolation. Education plays a crucial role in promoting thinking as a hobby by prioritizing the development of critical thinking skills, creating an environment that encourages deep thought, and incorporating philosophy and ethics into the curriculum. Thinking as a hobbyshould be embraced and encouraged, as it is the foundation for a well-rounded and intellectually curious society.。

thinking-as-a-hobby

Born on September 19, 1911 at St. Columb Minor, a village near Newquay, Cornwall, he started writing at the age of seven.
He went to Oxford University (Brasenose
WB T L E
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
Thinking is important ?
Linguistic competence is not just grammar and vocabulary,we have to learn to deal with more serious subjects and discuss more complex problems
WB T L E
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
I. Author -- Golding’s Writing Style
Golding is good at using: symbolism: “Lord of the Flies”;
absurdism（荒诞主义）: the irrational and irregular behavior and action made by the characters;
,
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
William Golding (1911 – 1993), British writer, 1983 Nobel Prize Winner
WB T L E
I. Author -- The Author’s Background

thinking_as_a_hobby修辞+短语

WB T L E
A
9
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
The use of Pun
• Next to her, crouched the statuette of a leopard, ready to spring down at the top drawer of filing cabinet labeled A-AH. My innocence interpreted this as the victim's last, despairing cry.
WB T L E
A
15
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
Examples of parallelism
• Technically, it is about as proficient as most businessmen's golf, as honest as most politicians' intentions, or--to come near my own preoccupation--as coherent as most books that get written. (parallelism and irony)
WB T L E
A
16
Lesson 1—Thinking as a Hobby
Examples of parallelism
• To hear people justify their habit of hunting foxes and tearing them to pieces by claiming that the foxes liked it. To hear our Prime Minister talk about the great benefit we conferred on India by jailing people like Pandit Nehru and Gandhi. To hear American politicians talk about peace in one sentence and refuse to join the League of Nations in the next.

现代大学英语精读4thinkingasahobby原文、课文对比版

现代大学英语精读4--thinking-as-a-hobby-原文、课文对比版Thinking as a Hobbyby William GoldingWhile I was still a boy, I came to the conclusion that there were three grades of thinking; and since I was later to claim thinking as my hobby, I came to an even stranger conclusion - namely, that I myself could not think at all.I must have been an unsatisfactory child for grownups to deal with. I remember how incomprehensible they appeared to me at first, but not, of course, how I appeared to them. It was the headmaster of my grammar school who first brought the subject of thinking before me - though neither in the way, nor with the result he intended. He had some statuettes in his study. They stood on a high cupboard behind his desk. One was a lady wearing nothing but a bath towel. She seemed frozen in an eternal panic lest the bath towel slip down any farther, and since she had no arms, she was in an unfortunateposition to pull the towel up again. Next to her, crouched the statuette of a leopard, ready to spring down at the top drawer of a filing cabinet labeled A-AH. My innocence interpreted this as the victim's last, despairing cry. Beyond the leopard was a naked, muscular gentleman, who sat, looking down, with his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee. He seemed utterly miserable.Some time later, I learned about these statuettes. The headmaster had placed them where they would face delinquent children, because they symbolized to him to whole of life. The naked lady was the Venus of Milo. She was Love. She was not worried about the towel. She was just busy being beautiful. The leopard was Nature, and he was being natural. The naked, muscular gentleman was not miserable. He was Rodin's Thinker, an image of pure thought. It is easy to buy small plaster models of what you think life is like.I had better explain that I was a frequent visitor to the headmaster's study, because of the latest thing I had done or left undone. As we now say, I was not integrated. I was, if anything, disintegrated; and I was puzzled. Grownups never made sense. Whenever I found myself in a penal position before the headmaster's desk, with the statuettes glimmering whitely above him, I would sink my head, clasp my hands behind my back, and writhe one shoe over the other.The headmaster would look opaquely at me through flashing spectacles. "What are we going to do with you?"Well, what were they going to do with me? I would writhe my shoe some more and stare down at the worn rug."Look up, boy! Can't you look up?"Then I would look at the cupboard, where the naked lady was frozen in her panic and the muscular gentleman contemplated the hindquarters of the leopard in endless gloom. I had nothing to say to the headmaster. His spectacles caught the light so that you could see nothing human behind them. There was no possibility of communication."Don't you ever think at all?"No, I didn't think, wasn't thinking, couldn't think - I was simply waiting in anguish for the interview to stop."Then you'd better learn - hadn't you?"On one occasion the headmaster leaped to his feet, reached up and plonked Rodin's masterpiece on the desk before me."That's what a man looks like when he's really thinking."I surveyed the gentleman without interest orcomprehension."Go back to your class."Clearly there was something missing in me. Nature had endowed the rest of the human race with a sixth sense and left me out. This must be so, I mused, on my way back to the class, since whether I had broken a window, or failed to remember Boyle's Law, or been late for school, my teachers produced me one, adult answer: "Why can't you think?"As I saw the case, I had broken the window because I had tried to hit Jack Arney with a cricket ball and missed him; I could not remember Boyle's Law because I had never bothered to learn it; and I was late for school because I preferred looking over the bridge into the river. In fact, I was wicked. Were my teachers, perhaps, so good that they could not understand the depths of my depravity? Were they clear, untormented people who could direct their every action by this mysterious business ofthinking? The whole thing was incomprehensible. In my earlier years, I found even the statuette of the Thinker confusing. I did not believe any of my teachers were naked, ever. Like someone born deaf, but bitterly determined to find out about sound, I watched my teachers to find out about thought.There was Mr. Houghton. He was always telling me to think. With a modest satisfaction, he would tell that he had thought a bit himself. Then why did he spend so much time drinking? Or was there more sense in drinking than there appeared to be? But if not, and if drinking were in fact ruinous to health - and Mr. Houghton was ruined, there was no doubt about that - why was he always talking about the clean life and the virtues of fresh air? He would spread his arms wide with the action of a man who habitually spent his time striding along mountain ridges."Open air does me good, boys - I know it!"Sometimes, exalted by his own oratory, he would leap from his desk and hustle us outside into a hideous wind."Now, boys! Deep breaths! Feel it right down inside you - huge draughts of God's good air!" He would stand before us, rejoicing in his perfect health, an open-air man. He would put his hands on his waist and take a tremendous breath. You could hear the wind trapped in the cavern of his chest and struggling with all the unnatural impediments. His body would reel with shock and his ruined face go white at the unaccustomed visitation. He would stagger back to his desk and collapse there, useless for the rest of the morning.Mr. Houghton was given to high-minded monologues about the good life, sexless and full of duty. Yet in the middle of one of these monologues, if a girl passed the window, tapping along on her neat little feet, he would interrupt his discourse, his neck would turn of itself and he would watch her out of sight. In this instance,he seemed to me ruled not by thought but by an invisible and irresistible spring in his nape.His neck was an object of great interest to me. Normally it bulged a bit over his collar. But Mr. Houghton had fought in the First World War alongside both Americans and French, and had come - by who knows what illogic? - to a settled detestation of both countries. If either country happened to be prominent in current affairs, no argument could make Mr. Houghton think well of it. He would bang the desk, his neck would bulge still further and go red. "You can say what you like," he would cry, "but I've thought about this - and I know what I think!"Mr. Houghton thought with his neck.There was Miss. Parsons. She assured us that her dearest wish was our welfare, but I knew even then, with the mysterious clairvoyance of childhood, that what she wanted most was the husband she never got. There was Mr. Hands -and so on.I have dealt at length with my teachers because this was my introduction to the nature of what is commonly called thought. Through them I discovered that thought is often full of unconscious prejudice, ignorance, and hypocrisy. It will lecture on disinterested purity while its neck is being remorselessly twisted toward a skirt. Technically, it is about as proficient as most businessmen's golf, as honest as most politician's intentions, or - to come near my own preoccupation - as coherent as most books that get written. It is what I came to call grade-three thinking, though more properly, it is feeling, rather than thought.True, often there is a kind of innocence in prejudices, but in those days I viewed grade-three thinking with an intolerant contempt and an incautious mockery. I delighted to confront a pious lady who hated the Germans with the proposition that we should love our enemies. She taught me a great truth indealing with grade-three thinkers; because of her, I no longer dismiss lightly a mental process which for nine-tenths of the population is the nearest they will ever get to thought. They have immense solidarity. We had better respect them, for we are outnumbered and surrounded. A crowd of grade-three thinkers, all shouting the same thing, all warming their hands at the fire of their own prejudices, will not thank you for pointing out the contradictions in their beliefs. Man is a gregarious animal, and enjoys agreement as cows will graze all the same way on the side of a hill.Grade-two thinking is the detection of contradictions. I reached grade two when I trapped the poor, pious lady. Grade-two thinkers do not stampede easily, though often they fall into the other fault and lag behind. Grade-two thinking is a withdrawal, with eyes and ears open. It became my hobby and brought satisfaction and loneliness in either hand. Forgrade-two thinking destroys without having the power to create. It set me watching the crowds cheering His Majesty the King and asking myself what all the fuss was about, without giving me anything positive to put in the place of that heady patriotism. But there were compensations. To hear people justify their habit of hunting foxes and tearing them to pieces by claiming that the foxes like it. To her our Prime Minister talk about the great benefit we conferred on India by jailing people like Pandit Nehru and Gandhi. To hear American politicians talk about peace in one sentence and refuse to join the League of Nations in the next. Yes, there were moments of delight.But I was growing toward adolescence and had to admit that Mr. Houghton was not the only one with an irresistible spring in his neck. I, too, felt the compulsive hand of nature and began to find that pointing out contradiction could be costly as well as fun. There was Ruth, forexample, a serious and attractive girl. I was an atheist at the time. Grade-two thinking is a menace to religion and knocks down sects like skittles. I put myself in a position to be converted by her with an hypocrisy worthy of grade three. She was a Methodist - or at least, her parents were, and Ruth had to follow suit. But, alas, instead of relying on the Holy Spirit to convert me, Ruth was foolish enough to open her pretty mouth in argument. She claimed that the Bible (King James Version) was literally inspired. I countered by saying that the Catholics believed in the literal inspiration of Saint Jerome's Vulgate, and the two books were different. Argument flagged. At last she remarked that there were an awful lot of Methodists and they couldn't be wrong, could they - not all those millions? That was too easy, said I restively (for the nearer you were to Ruth, the nicer she was to be near to) since there were more Roman Catholics than Methodists anyway; and they couldn't be wrong, could they - not allthose hundreds of millions? An awful flicker of doubt appeared in her eyes. I slid my arm round her waist and murmured breathlessly that if we were counting heads, the Buddhists were the boys for my money. But Ruth has really wanted to do me good, because I was so nice. The combination of my arm and those countless Buddhists was too much for her. That night her father visited my father and left, red-cheeked and indignant. I was given the third degree to find out what had happened. It was lucky we were both of us only fourteen. I lost Ruth and gained an undeserved reputation as a potential libertine.So grade-two thinking could be dangerous. It was in this knowledge, at the age of fifteen, that I remember making a comment from the heights of grade two, on the limitations of grade three. One evening I found myself alone in the school hall, preparing it for a party. The door of the headmaster's study was open. I went in. Theheadmaster had ceased to thump Rodin's Thinker down on the desk as an example to the young. Perhaps he had not found any more candidates, but the statuettes were still there, glimmering and gathering dust on top of the cupboard. I stood on a chair and rearranged them. I stood Venus in her bathtowel on the filing cabinet, so that now the top drawer caught its breath in a gasp of sexy excitement. "A-ah!" The portentous Thinker I placed on the edge of the cupboard so that he looked down at the bath towel and waited for it to slip.Grade-two thinking, though it filled life with fun and excitement, did not make for content. To find out the deficiencies of our elders bolsters the young ego but does not make for personal security. I found that grade two was not only the power to point out contradictions. It took the swimmer some distance from the shore and left him there, out of his depth. I decided that Pontius Pilate was a typical grade-two thinker."What is truth?" he said, a very common grade two thought, but one that is used always as the end of an argument instead of the beginning. There is still a higher grade of thought which says, "What is truth?" and sets out to find it.But these grade-one thinkers were few and far between. They did not visit my grammar school in the flesh though they were there in books. I aspired to them partly because I was ambitious and partly because I now saw my hobby as an unsatisfactory thing if it went no further. If you set out to climb a mountain, however high you climb, you have failed if you cannot reach the top.I did meet an undeniably grade one thinker in my first year at Oxford. I was looking over a small bridge in Magdalen Deer Park, and a tiny mustached and hatted figure came and stood by my side. He was a German who had just fled from the Nazis to Oxford as a temporary refuge.His name was Einstein. But Professor Einstein knew no English at that time and I knew only two words of German. I beamed at him, trying wordlessly to convey by my bearing all the affection and respect that the English felt for him. It is possible - and I have to make the admission - that I felt here were two grade-one thinkers standing side by side; yet I doubt if my face conveyed more than a formless awe. I would have given my Greek and Latin and French and a good slice of my English for enough German to communicate. But we were divided; he was as inscrutable as my headmaster. For perhaps five minutes we stood together on the bridge, undeniable grade-one thinker and breathless aspirant. With true greatness, Professor Einstein realized that any contact was better than none. He pointed to a trout wavering in midstream.He spoke: "Fisch."My brain reeled. Here I was, mingling with the great, and yet helpless as the veriest grade-three thinker. Desperately I sought for some sign by which I might convey that I, too, revered pure reason. I nodded vehemently. In a brilliant flash I used up half of my German vocabulary. "Fisch. Ja. Ja."For perhaps another five minutes we stood side by side. Then Professor Einstein, his whole figure still conveying good will and amiability, drifted away out of sight.I, too, would be a grade-one thinker. I was irrelevant at the best of times. Political and religious systems, social customs, loyalties and traditions, they all came tumbling down like so many rotten apples off a tree. This was a fine hobby and a sensible substitute for cricket, since you could play it all the year round. I came up in the end with what must always remain the justification for grade-one thinking, its sign, seal,and charter. I devised a coherent system for living. It was a moral system, which was wholly logical. Of course, as I readily admitted, conversion of the world to my way of thinking might be difficult, since my system did away with a number of trifles, such as big business, centralized government, armies, marriage...It was Ruth all over again. I had some very good friends who stood by me, and still do. But my acquaintances vanished, taking the girls with them. Young women seemed oddly contented with the world as it was. They valued the meaningless ceremony with a ring. Young men, while willing to concede the chaining sordidness of marriage, were hesitant about abandoning the organizations which they hoped would give them a career. A young man on the first rung of the Royal Navy, while perfectly agreeable to doing away with big business and marriage, got as red-necked as Mr. Houghton when I proposed a world without any battleships in it.Had the game gone too far? Was it a game any longer? In those prewar days, I stood to lose a great deal, for the sake of a hobby.Now you are expecting me to describe how I saw the folly of my ways and came back to the warm nest, where prejudices are so often called loyalties, where pointless actions are hallowed into custom by repetition, where we are content to say we think when all we do is feel.But you would be wrong. I dropped my hobby and turned professional.If I were to go back to the headmaster's study and find the dusty statuettes still there, I would arrange them differently. I would dust Venus and put her aside, for I have come to love her and know her for the fair thing she is. But I would put the Thinker, sunk in his desperate thought, where there were shadows before him -and at his back, I would put the leopard, crouched and ready to spring.。

现代大学英语精读4--thinking-as-a-hobby-原文、课文对比版

现代大学英语精读4--t h i n k i n g-a s-a-h o b b y-原文、课文对比版(总6页)--本页仅作为文档封面，使用时请直接删除即可----内页可以根据需求调整合适字体及大小--Thinking as a Hobbyby William Golding While I was still a boy, I came to the conclusion that there were three grades of thinking; and since I was later to claim thinking as my hobby, I came to an even stranger conclusion - namely, that I myself could not think at all.I must have been an unsatisfactory child for grownups to deal with. I remember how incomprehensible they appeared to me at first, but not, of course, how I appeared to them. It was the headmaster of my grammar school who first brought the subject of thinking before me - though neither in the way, nor with the result he intended. He had some statuettes in his study. They stood on a high cupboard behind his desk. One was a lady wearing nothing but a bath towel. She seemed frozen in an eternal panic lest the bath towel slip down any farther, and since she had no arms, she was in an unfortunate position to pull the towel up again. Next to her, crouched the statuette of a leopard, ready to spring down at the top drawer of a filing cabinet labeled A-AH. My innocence interpreted this as the victim's last, despairing cry. Beyond the leopard was a naked, muscular gentleman, who sat, looking down, with his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee. He seemed utterly miserable.Some time later, I learned about these statuettes. The headmaster had placed them where they would face delinquent children, because they symbolized to him to whole of life. The naked lady was the Venus of Milo. She was Love. Shewas not worried about the towel. She was just busy being beautiful. The leopard was Nature, and he was being natural. The naked, muscular gentleman was not miserable. He was Rodin's Thinker, an image of pure thought. It is easy to buy small plaster models of what you think life is like.I had better explain that I was a frequent visitor to the headmaster's study, because of the latest thing I had done or left undone. As we now say, I was not integrated. I was, if anything, disintegrated; and I was puzzled. Grownups never made sense. Whenever I found myself in a penal position before the headmaster's desk, with the statuettes glimmering whitely above him, I would sink my head, clasp my hands behind my back, and writhe one shoe over the other.The headmaster would look opaquely at me through flashing spectacles. "What are we going to do with you"Well, what were they going to do with me I would writhe my shoe some more and stare down at the worn rug."Look up, boy! Can't you look up"Then I would look at the cupboard, where the naked lady was frozen in her panic and the muscular gentleman contemplated the hindquarters of the leopard in endless gloom. I had nothing to say to the headmaster. His spectaclescaught the light so that you could see nothing human behind them. There was no possibility of communication."Don't you ever think at all"No, I didn't think, wasn't thinking, couldn't think - I was simply waiting in anguish for the interview to stop."Then you'd better learn - hadn't you"On one occasion the headmaster leaped to his feet, reached up and plonked Rodin's masterpiece on the desk before me."That's what a man looks like when he's really thinking."I surveyed the gentleman without interest or comprehension."Go back to your class."Clearly there was something missing in me. Nature had endowed the rest of the human race with a sixth sense and left me out. This must be so, I mused, on my way back to the class, since whether I had broken a window, or failed to remember Boyle's Law, or been late for school, my teachers produced me one, adult answer: "Why can't you think"As I saw the case, I had broken the window because I had tried to hit Jack Arney with a cricket ball and missed him; I could not remember Boyle's Law because I had never bothered to learn it; and I was late for school because I preferred looking over the bridge into the river. In fact, I was wicked. Were my teachers, perhaps, so good that they could not understand the depths of my depravityWere they clear, untormented people who could direct their every action by this mysterious business of thinking The whole thing was incomprehensible. In my earlier years, I found even the statuette of the Thinker confusing. I did not believe any of my teachers were naked, ever. Like someone born deaf, but bitterly determined to find out about sound, I watched my teachers to find out about thought.There was Mr. Houghton. He was always telling me to think. With a modest satisfaction, he would tell that he had thought a bit himself. Then why did he spend so much time drinking Or was there more sense in drinking than there appeared to be But if not, and if drinking were in fact ruinous to health - and Mr. Houghton was ruined, there was no doubt about that - why was he always talking about the clean life and the virtues of fresh air He would spread his arms wide with the action of a man who habitually spent his time striding along mountain ridges."Open air does me good, boys - I know it!"Sometimes, exalted by his own oratory, he would leap from his desk and hustle us outside into a hideous wind."Now, boys! Deep breaths! Feel it right down inside you - huge draughts ofGod's good air!"He would stand before us, rejoicing in his perfect health, an open-air man. He would put his hands on his waist and take a tremendous breath. You could hear the wind trapped in the cavern of his chest and struggling with all the unnaturalimpediments. His body would reel with shock and his ruined face go white at the unaccustomed visitation. He would stagger back to his desk and collapse there, useless for the rest of the morning.Mr. Houghton was given to high-minded monologues about the good life, sexless and full of duty. Yet in the middle of one of these monologues, if a girl passed the window, tapping along on her neat little feet, he would interrupt his discourse, his neck would turn of itself and he would watch her out of sight. In this instance, he seemed to me ruled not by thought but by an invisible and irresistible spring in his .His neck was an object of great interest to me. Normally it bulged a bit over his collar. But Mr. Houghton had fought in the First World War alongside both Americans and French, and had come - by who knows what illogic- to a settled detestation of both countries. If either country happened to be prominent in current affairs, no argument could make Mr. Houghton think well of it. He would bang the desk, his neck would bulge still further and go red. "You can say what you like," he would cry, "but I've thought about this - and I know what I think!"Mr. Houghton thought with his neck.There was Miss. Parsons. She assured us that her dearest wish was our welfare, but I knew even then, with the mysterious clairvoyance of childhood, that whatshe wanted most was the husband she never got. There was Mr. Hands - and so on.I have dealt at length with my teachers because this was my introduction to the nature of what is commonly called thought. Through them I discovered that thought is often full of unconscious prejudice, ignorance, and hypocrisy. It will lecture on disinterested purity while its neck is being remorselessly twisted toward a skirt. Technically, it is about as proficient as most businessmen's golf, as honest as most politician's intentions, or - to come near my own preoccupation - as coherent as most books that get written. It is what I came to call grade-three thinking, though more properly, it is feeling, rather than thought.True, often there is a kind of innocence in prejudices, but in those days I viewed grade-three thinking with an intolerant contempt and an incautious mockery. I delighted to confront a pious lady who hated the Germans with the proposition that we should love our enemies. She taught me a great truth in dealing with grade-three thinkers; because of her, I no longer dismiss lightly a mental process which for nine-tenths of the population is the nearest they will ever get to thought. They have immense solidarity. We had better respect them, for we are outnumbered and surrounded. A crowd of grade-three thinkers, all shouting the same thing, all warming their hands at the fire of their own prejudices, will not thank you for pointing out the contradictions in their beliefs. Man is a gregarious animal, and enjoys agreement as cows will graze all the same way on the side of a hill.Grade-two thinking is the detection of contradictions. I reached grade two when I trapped the poor, pious lady. Grade-two thinkers do not stampede easily, though often they fall into the other fault and lag behind. Grade-two thinking is a withdrawal, with eyes and ears open. It became my hobby and brought satisfaction and loneliness in either hand. For grade-two thinking destroys without having the power to create. It set me watching the crowds cheering His Majesty the King and asking myself what all the fuss was about, without giving me anything positive to put in the place of that heady patriotism. But there were compensations. To hear people justify their habit of hunting foxes and tearing them to pieces by claiming that the foxes like it. To her our Prime Minister talk about the great benefit we conferred on India by jailing people like Pandit Nehru and Gandhi. To hear American politicians talk about peace in one sentence and refuse to join the League of Nations in the next. Yes, there were moments of delight.But I was growing toward adolescence and had to admit that Mr. Houghton was not the only one with an irresistible spring in his neck. I, too, felt the compulsive hand of nature and began to find that pointing out contradiction could be costly as well as fun. There was Ruth, for example, a serious and attractive girl. I was an atheist at the time. Grade-two thinking is a menace to religion and knocks down sects like skittles. I put myself in a position to be converted by her with an hypocrisy worthy of grade three. She was a Methodist - or at least, her parentswere, and Ruth had to follow suit. But, alas, instead of relying on the Holy Spirit to convert me, Ruth was foolish enough to open her pretty mouth in argument. She claimed that the Bible (King James Version) was literally inspired. I countered by saying that the Catholics believed in the literal inspiration of Saint Jerome's Vulgate, and the two books were different. Argument flagged. At last she remarked that there were an awful lot of Methodists and they couldn't be wrong, could they - not all those millionsThat was too easy, said I restively (for the nearer you were to Ruth, the nicer she was to be near to) since there were more Roman Catholics than Methodists anyway; and they couldn't be wrong, could they - not all those hundreds of millionsAn awful flicker of doubt appeared in her eyes. I slid my arm round her waistand murmured breathlessly that if we were counting heads, the Buddhists were the boys for my money. Ruth has really wanted to do me good, because I was so nice. The combination of my arm and those countless Buddhists was too much for her. That night her father visited my father and left, red-cheeked and indignant. I was given the third degree to find out what had happened. It was lucky we were both of us only fourteen. I lost Ruth and gained an undeserved reputation as a potential libertine.So grade-two thinking could be dangerous. It was in this knowledge, at the age of fifteen, that I remember making a comment from the heights of grade two,on the limitations of grade three. One evening I found myself alone in theschool hall, preparing it for a party. The door of the headmaster's study was open. I went in. The headmaster had ceased to thump Rodin's Thinker down on the desk as an example to the young. Perhaps he had not found any more candidates, but the statuettes were still there, glimmering and gathering dust on top of the cupboard. I stood on a chair and rearranged them. I stood Venus in her bathtowel on the filing cabinet, so that now the top drawer caught its breath in a gasp of sexy excitement. "A-ah!" The portentous Thinker I placed on the edge of the cupboard so that he looked down at the bath towel and waited for it to slip.Grade-two thinking, though it filled life with fun and excitement, did not make for content. To find out the deficiencies of our elders bolsters the young ego but does not make for personal security. I found that grade two was not only the power to point out contradictions. It took the swimmer some distance from the shore and left him there, out of his depth. I decided that Pontius Pilate was a typical grade-two thinker. "What is truth?" he said, a very common grade two thought, but one that is used always as the end of an argument instead of the beginning. There is still a higher grade of thought which says, "What is truth"and sets out to find it.But these grade-one thinkers were few and far between. They did not visit my grammar school in the flesh though they were there in books. I aspired to them partly because I was ambitious and partly because I now saw my hobby as anunsatisfactory thing if it went no further. If you set out to climb a mountain, however high you climb, you have failed if you cannot reach the top.I did meet an undeniably grade one thinker in my first year at Oxford. I was looking over a small bridge in Magdalen Deer Park, and a tiny mustached and hatted figure came and stood by my side. He was a German who had just fled from the Nazis to Oxford as a temporary refuge. His name was Einstein. But Professor Einstein knew no English at that time and I knew only two words of German. I beamed at him, trying wordlessly to convey by my bearing all the affection and respect that the English felt for him. It is possible - and I have to make the admission - that I felt here were two grade-one thinkers standing side by side; yet I doubt if my face conveyed more than a formless awe. I would have given my Greek and Latin and French and a good slice of my English for enough German to communicate. But we were divided; he was as inscrutable as my headmaster. For perhaps five minutes we stood together on the bridge, undeniable grade-one thinker and breathless aspirant. With true greatness, Professor Einstein realized that any contact was better than none. He pointed to a trout wavering in midstream.He spoke: "Fisch."My brain reeled. Here I was, mingling with the great, and yet helpless as the veriest grade-three thinker. Desperately I sought for some sign by which I mightconvey that I, too, revered pure reason. I nodded vehemently. In a brilliant flash I used up half of my German vocabulary. "Fisch. Ja. Ja."For perhaps another five minutes we stood side by side. Then Professor Einstein, his whole figure still conveying good will and amiability, drifted away out of sight. I, too, would be a grade-one thinker. I was irrelevant at the best of times. Political and religious systems, social customs, loyalties and traditions, they all came tumbling down like so many rotten apples off a tree. This was a fine hobby and a sensible substitute for cricket, since you could play it all the year round. I came up in the end with what must always remain the justification for grade-one thinking, its sign, seal, and charter. I devised a coherent system for living. It was a moral system, which was wholly logical. Of course, as I readily admitted, conversion of the world to my way of thinking might be difficult, since my system did away with a number of trifles, such as big business, centralized government, armies, marriage...It was Ruth all over again. I had some very good friends who stood by me, and still do. But my acquaintances vanished, taking the girls with them. Young women seemed oddly contented with the world as it was. They valued the meaningless ceremony with a ring. Young men, while willing to concede the chaining sordidness of marriage, were hesitant about abandoning the organizations which they hoped would give them a career. A young man on the first rung of the Royal Navy, while perfectly agreeable to doing away with bigbusiness and marriage, got as red-necked as Mr. Houghton when I proposed a world without any battleships in it.Had the game gone too far? Was it a game any longer? In those prewar days, I stood to lose a great deal, for the sake of a hobby.Now you are expecting me to describe how I saw the folly of my ways and came back to the warm nest, where prejudices are so often called loyalties, where pointless actions are hallowed into custom by repetition, where we are content to say we think when all we do is feel.But you would be wrong. I dropped my hobby and turned professional.If I were to go back to the headmaster's study and find the dusty statuettes still there, I would arrange them differently. I would dust Venus and put her aside, for I have come to love her and know her for the fair thing she is. But I would put the Thinker, sunk in his desperate thought, where there were shadows before him - and at his back, I would put the leopard, crouched and ready to spring.。