Lecture
One Why to Read and How
Herta Müller
It was only against my mother's will that I attended the preparatory high
school in the city. She wanted me to become a seamstress in the village. She
knew that if I moved to the city I would become corrupted. And I was. I started
to read books. The village seemed more and more to me like a box in which a
person was born, married and died. All the people in the village inhabited an
older time, they were born old. I thought: sooner or later you have to leave
the village if you want to grow young. In the village everyone cowered before
the state, but among themselves and towards each other they were obsessively
controlling, to the point of self-destruction. The same mix of cowardice and
control could be found throughout the city as well. Private cowardice to the
point of self-destruction, state control to the point of breaking the
individual. That is perhaps the shortest way to describe daily life during the
dictatorship.

Nobel Lecture
On not winning the Nobel
Prize
Dorris Lessing
The storyteller is deep inside every one of us. The story-maker is always
with us. Let us suppose our world is ravaged by war, by the horrors that we all
of us easily imagine. Let us suppose floods wash through our cities, the seas
rise. But the storyteller will be there, for it is our imaginations which shape
us, keep us, create us -for good and for ill. It is our stories that will
recreate us, when we are torn, hurt, even destroyed. It is the storyteller, the
dream-maker, the myth-maker, that is our phoenix, that represents us at our
best, and at our most creative.

Araby
James Joyce
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her
door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could
not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the
hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my
eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my
pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to
her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all
my foolish blood.
每天早晨，我躺在前客厅的地板上，望着她家的门。我总是把百叶窗拉下来，只留一英寸不到的缝隙，那样别人就看不见我了。她一出门走到台阶上，我的心就怦怦跳。我冲到过道里，抓起书就奔，跟在她后面。我紧紧盯住她穿着棕色衣服的身影。走到岔路口，我便加快步子赶过她。每天早晨都是如此。除了随便招呼一声,我从未同她讲过话。可是，她的名字总是使我蠢头蠢脑地激动。
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was
early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to
irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part
of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from
room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below
in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my
forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she
lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad
figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the
curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.
回家吃饭时，姑父还没回来。时光还早呢。我坐着望了一会儿钟，滴答滴答的钟声叫我心烦意乱，便走出屋子，登上楼梯，走到楼上。那些高敞的空房间，寒冷而阴郁，却使我无拘无束。我唱起歌来，从一个房间跑到另一个房间。透过正面的玻璃窗，我看见伙伴们在街上玩耍。他们的喊声隐隐约约传到耳边。我把前额贴住冰冷的玻璃窗，望着她住的那栋昏暗的屋子。约莫一个小时过去了，我还站在那儿，什么都没看见，只在幻想中瞧见她穿着棕色衣服的身形，街灯的光朦胧地照亮曲线的脖子、搁在栏杆上的手，以及裙子下摆的镶边。

The Road from Colonus
E.M. Forster
Others had been before him-indeed he had a curious sense of
companionship. Little votive offerings to the presiding Power were fastened on
to the bark-tiny arms and legs and eyes in tin, grotesque models of the brain
or the heart-all tokens of some recovery of strength or wisdom or love. There
was no such thing as the solitude of nature, for the sorrows and joys of
humanity had pressed even into the bosom of a tree. He spread out his arms and
steadied himself against the soft charred wood, and then slowly leant back,
till his body was resting on the trunk behind. His eyes closed, and he had the
strange feeling of one who is moving, yet at peace-the feeling of the swimmer,
who, after long struggling with chopping seas, finds that after all the tide
will sweep him to his goal.
So he lay motionless, conscious only of the stream below his feet, and
that all things were a stream, in which he was moving. He was aroused at last
by a shock-the shock of an arrival perhaps, for when he opened his eyes,
something unimagined, indefinable, had passed over all things, and made them
intelligible and good.
其他已经在他面前，他的确有一个伴侣好奇感。 在主持国 小明灯 都 提供 了得出结论 ， 树皮，• 瘦小的胳膊和腿 ， 天眼，怪诞模式 的大脑或心脏的某种 力量或智慧或爱 恢复所有记号 。 有没有自然的孤独这样的东西，为人类的痛苦和欢乐紧迫 ， 甚至把树的怀抱 。 他摊开双臂 ， 也稳定了 对 自己 的软烧焦的木头，然后慢慢靠在 回来，直到他的尸体被从后方的树干休息。 他的眼睛关闭，他有一个谁是移动，但在和平奇怪的感觉，在游泳 之谜，谁，经过长期奋斗海洋与砧板， 认定 ， 毕竟潮流将席卷他 感觉 自己的目标。 因此 ， 他一动不动，只比他的脚流意识到，所有的事情流， 其中他在动。
他引起了震惊，一个 可能到来 的冲击 ，因为当他 终于 睁开眼睛，难以想象的东西，莫名的，对所有 的事情 已经过去了 ，使他们理解和良好的。

Matthew
Arnold
Culture and Anarchy
阿诺德还把批评扩大到社会一切领域。1869年发表的《文化与无政府状态》一书，是他的主要作品，其中重申在《评论一集》中对英国维多利亚时代的“心胸偏狭”、“庸俗”与“拜金主义”的抨击，他认为英国社会由三种人组成：一是野蛮的贵族，他们精神充沛，态度沉静,举止正经,却闭目塞听，不接受任何新道理；二是市侩的中产阶级，他们信仰自由，颇有事业心，但顽固愚昧，唯利是图；三是平民，他们只是粗野而盲目的群氓。阿诺德认为三种人都缺乏文化而处于无政府状态。这本书批判锋利，充满嘲笑的风趣。
Charles Dickens查尔斯·狄更斯
A Tale of Two Cities
代表作：《匹克威克外传》(The Pickwick Papers )
《雾都孤儿》Oliver Twist
《老古玩店》（The Old Curiocity Shop
艰难时世（Hard Times）
Charlotte Bronte夏洛蒂·勃朗特
Jane Eyre
Jane Austen简·奥斯汀
Pride and Prejudice
代表作：Sense and Sensibility理智与感情
William wordsworth
The daffodils
My heart leaps up when I behold
Composed upon Westminster bridge
There was a boy
William blake
London
The tiger
John keats
Ode on a Grecian urn
Percy Bysshe shelly雪莱
Ode to the west wind西风颂
George Gordon Byron, lord Byron拜伦
The isles of greece

插

这考的是英美文学么