經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)美文3篇文章精選
讀書破萬(wàn)卷在英語(yǔ)寫作的教學(xué)之中,需要教師引導(dǎo)學(xué)生多閱讀,多讀好的文章,在閱讀美文的同時(shí),教師要注意引導(dǎo)學(xué)生對(duì)美文的行文結(jié)構(gòu)、邏輯等內(nèi)容進(jìn)行一個(gè)分析,這樣才可以獲得好的效果。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來(lái)的經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)美文文章，歡迎閱讀!
經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)美文文章篇一
Dad's Kiss(原題 A goodbye kiss)
The Board Meeting had come to an end. Bob started to stand up and jostled the table, spilling his coffee over his notes. "How embarrassing. I am getting so clumsy in my old age." Everyone had a good laugh, and soon we were all telling stories of our most embarrassing moments. It came around to Frank who sat quietly listening to the others. Someone said, "Come on, Frank. Tell us your most embarrassing moment."
Frank laughed and began to tell us of his childhood. "I grew up in San Pedro. My Dad was a fisherman, and he loved the sea. He had his own boat, but it was hard making a living on the sea. He worked hard and would stay out until he caught enough to feed the family. Not just enough for our family, but also for his Mom and Dad and the other kids that were still at home." He looked at us and said, "I wish you could have met my Dad. He was a big man, and he was strong from pulling the nets and fighting the seas for his catch. When you got close to him, he smelled like the ocean. He would wear his old canvas, foul-weather coat and his bibbed overalls. His rain hat would be pulled down over his brow. No matter how much my Mother washed them, they would still smell of the sea and of fish."
Frank's voice dropped a bit. "When the weather was bad he would drive me to school. He had this old truck that he used in his fishing business. That truck was older than he was. It would wheeze and rattle down the road. You could hear it coming for blocks. As he would drive toward the school, I would shrink down into the seat hoping to disappear. Half the time, he would slam to a stop and the old truck would belch a cloud of smoke. He would pull right up in front, and it seemed like everybody would be standing around and watching. Then he would lean over and give me a big kiss on the cheek and tell me to be a good boy. It was so embarrassing for me. Here, I was twelve years old, and my Dad would lean over and kiss me goodbye!"
He paused and then went on, "I remember the day I decided I was too old for a goodbye kiss. When we got to the school and came to a stop, he had his usual big smile. He started to lean toward me, but I put my hand up and said, 'No, Dad.'
It was the first time I had ever talked to him that way, and he had this surprised look on his face. I said, 'Dad, I'm too old for a goodbye kiss. I'm too old for any kind of kiss.' My Dad looked at me for the longest time, and his eyes started to tear up. I had never seen him cry. He turned and looked out the windshield. 'You're right,' he said. 'You are a big boy....a man. I won't kiss you anymore.'"
Frank got a funny look on his face, and the tears began to well up in his eyes, as he spoke. "It wasn't long after that when my Dad went to sea and never came back. It was a day when most of the fleet stayed in, but not Dad. He had a big family to feed. They found his boat adrift with its nets half in and half out. He must have gotten into a gale and was trying to save the nets and the floats."
I looked at Frank and saw that tears were running down his cheeks. Frank spoke again. "Guys, you don't know what I would give to have my Dad give me just one more kiss on the cheek....to feel his rough old face....to smell the ocean on him....to feel his arm around my neck. I wish I had been a man then. If I had been a man, I would never have told my Dad I was too old for a goodbye kiss."
經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)美文文章篇二
What I Have Lived for
我的人生追求
Bertrand Russell羅素
Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, in a wayward course,are over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.
有三種簡(jiǎn)單然而無(wú)比強(qiáng)烈的激情左右了我的一生;對(duì)愛的渴望,對(duì)知識(shí)的探索和對(duì)人類苦難的難以忍受的憐憫。這些激情像颶風(fēng),反復(fù)地吹拂過(guò)深重的苦海,瀕于絕境。
I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy-ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all my rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it ,next because it relieves loneliness-that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the co1d unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what-at last-I have found.
我尋找愛,首先是因?yàn)樗谷诵淖砩衩?。這種陶醉是如此的美妙,使我愿意犧牲所有的余生去換取幾個(gè)小時(shí)這樣的欣喜。 我尋找愛,還因?yàn)樗獬陋?dú)(在可怕的孤獨(dú)中,一顆顫抖的靈魂從世界的邊緣看到冰冷、無(wú)底、死寂的深淵。最后,我尋找愛,還因?yàn)樵趷鄣慕蝗谥?神秘而又具體入微地,我看到了圣賢和詩(shī)人們想象出的天堂的前景。 這就是我所尋找的,而且,雖然對(duì)人生來(lái)說(shuō)似乎過(guò)于美妙,這也是我終于找到了的。
With equa1 passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A 1ittle of this, but not much, I have achieved.
以同樣的激情我探索知識(shí)。我希望能夠理解人類的心靈。我希望能夠知道群星為何閃爍。我試圖領(lǐng)悟畢達(dá)哥拉斯所景仰的數(shù)字力量,它支配著此消彼長(zhǎng)。僅在不大的一定程度上,我達(dá)到了此目的。
Love and knowledge, so far they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evi1, but I can't, and I too suffer.
愛和知識(shí),只要有可能,通向著天堂。但是憐憫總把我?guī)Щ貕m世。痛苦呼喊的回聲回蕩在我的內(nèi)心。忍饑挨餓的孩子,慘遭壓迫者摧殘的受害者,被兒女們視為可憎的負(fù)擔(dān)的痛苦無(wú)助的老人,使人類所應(yīng)有的生活成為了笑柄。我渴望能夠減少邪惡,但是我無(wú)能為力,而且我自己也在忍受折磨。
This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and wou1d gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.
這就是我的一生。我發(fā)現(xiàn)它值得一過(guò)。如果再給我一次機(jī)會(huì),我會(huì)很高高興地再活它一次。
經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)美文文章篇三
My Left Foot
I was now five, and still I showed no real sign of intelligence. I showed no apparent interest in things except with my toes – more especially those of my left foot. Although my natural habits were clean I could not aid myself, but in this respect my father took care of me. I used to lie on my back all the time in the kitchen or, on bright warm sunny days, out in the garden, a little bundle of crooked muscle and twisted nerves, surrounded by a family that loved me and hoped for me and that made me part of their own warmth and humanity. I was lonely, imprisoned in a world of my own, unable to communicate with others, cut off, separated from them as though a glass wall stood between my existence and theirs, thrusting me beyond the sphere of their lives and activities. I longed to run about and play with the rest, but I was unable to break loose from my bondage.
Then, suddenly, it happened! In a moment everything was changed, my future life moulded into a definite shape, my mother’s faith in me rewarded and her secret fear changed into open triumph. It happened so quickly, so simply after all the years of waiting and uncertainty that I can see and feel the whole scene as if it had happened last week. It was the afternoon of a cold, grey December day. The streets outside glistened with snow; the white sparkling flakes stuck and melted on the window-panes and hung on the boughs of the trees like molten silver. The wind howled dismally, whipping up little whirling columns of snow that rose and fell at every fresh gust. And over all, the dull, murky sky stretched like a dark canopy, a vast infinity of greyness.
Inside, all the family were gathered round the big kitchen fire that lit up the little room with a warm glow and made giant shadows dance on the walls and ceiling.
In a corner Mona and Paddy were sitting huddled together, a few torn school primers before them. They were writing down little sums on to an old chipped slate, using a bright piece of yellow chalk. I was close to them, propped up by a pillow against the wall, watching.
It was the chalk that attracted me so much. It was a long slender stick of vivid yellow. I had never seen anything like it before, and it showed up so well against the black surface of the slate that I was fascinated by it as much as if it had been a stick of gold.
Suddenly I wanted desperately to do what my sister was doing. Then – without thinking or knowing exactly what I was doing, I reached out and took the stick of chalk out of my sister’s hand – with my left foot.
I do not know why I used my left foot to do this. It is a puzzle to many people as well as to myself, for, although I had displayed a curious interest in my toes at an early age, I had never attempted before this to use either of my feet in any way. They could have been as useless to me as were my hands. That day, however, my left foot, apparently on its own volition, reached out and very impolitely took the chalk out of my sister’s hand.
I held it tightly between my toes, and, acting on an impulse, made a wild sort of scribble with it on the slate. Next moment I stopped, a bit dazed, surprised, looking down at the stick of yellow chalk stuck between my toes, not knowing what to do with it next, hardly knowing how it got there. Then I looked and became aware that everyone had stopped talking and were staring at me silently. Nobody stirred. Mona, her black curls framing her chubby little face, stared at me with great big eyes and open mouth. Across the open hearth, his face lit by flames, sat my father, leaning forward, hands outspread on his knees, his shoulders tense. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead.
My mother came in from the pantry with a steaming pot in her hand. She stopped midway between the table and the fire, feeling the tension flowing through the room. She followed their stare and saw me, in the corner. Her eyes looked from my face down to my foot, with the chalk gripped between my toes. She put down the pot.
The she crossed over to me and knelt down beside me, as she had done so many times before. ‘I’ll show you what to do with it, Chris,’ she said, very slowly and in a queer, jerky way, her face flushed as if with some inner excitement.
Taking another piece of chalk from Mona, she hesitated, then very deliberately drew, on the floor in front of me, the single letter ‘A’. ‘Copy that,’ she said, looking steadily at me. ‘Copy it, Christy.’ I couldn’t.
I looked about me, looked around at the faces that were turned towards me, excited faces that were at that moment frozen, immobile, eager, waiting for a miracle in their midst. The stillness was profound. The room was full of flame and shadow that danced before my eyes and lulled my taut nerves into a sort of waking sleep. I could hear the sound of the water-tap dripping in the pantry, the loud ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf, and the soft hiss and crackle of the logs on the open hearth.
I tried again. I put out my foot and made a wild jerking stab with the chalk which produced a very crooked line and nothing more. Mother held the slate steady for me. ‘Try again, Chris,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘Again.’
I did. I stiffened my body and put my left foot out again, for the third time. I drew one side of the letter. I drew half the other side. Then the stick of chalk broke and I was left with a stump. I wanted to fling it away and give up. Then I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder. I tried once more. Out went my foot. I shook, I sweated and strained every muscle. My hands were so tightly clenched that my finger nails bit into the flesh. I set my teeth so hard that I nearly pierced my lower lip. Everything in the room swam till the faces around me were mere patches of white. But – I drew it – the letter ‘A’. There it was on the floor before me. Shaky, with awkward, wobbly sides and a very uneven centre line. But it was the letter ‘A’. I looked up. I saw my mother’s face for a moment, tears on her cheeks. Then my father stooped down and hoisted me on his shoulder.
I had done it! It had started – the thing that was to give my mind its chance of expressing itself. True, I couldn’t speak with my lips, but now I would speak through something more lasting than spoken words – written words.
That one letter, scrawled on the floor with a broken bit of yellow chalk gripped between my toes, was my road to a new world, my key to mental freedom. It was to provide a source of relaxation to the tense, taut thing that was me which panted for expression behind a twisted mouth.
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