2016英語四級(jí)段落匹配真題

　　自2013年12月份開始,大學(xué)英語四六級(jí)考試采用了新題型,其中改革的一大題型便是快速閱讀,改為長篇閱讀理解,也可稱之為 段落信息匹配題 。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來的2016英語四級(jí)段落匹配真題，歡迎閱讀!

　　2016英語四級(jí)段落匹配真題練習(xí)

　　Growing Up Colored

　　[A] You wouldn't know Piedmont anymore—my Piedmont, I mean—the town in West Virginiawhere I learned to be a colored boy.

　　[B]The 1950s in Piedmont was a time to remember, or at least to me. People were always proudto be from Piedmont—lying at the foot of a mountain, on the banks of the mighty Potomac. Weknew God gave America no more beautiful location. I never knew colored people anywhere whowere crazier about mountains and water, flowers and trees, fishing and hunting. For as long asanyone could remember, we could outhunt, outshoot, and outswim the white boys in the valley.

　　[C]The social structure of Piedmont was something we knew like the back of our hands. It wasan immigrant town; white Piedmont was Italian and Irish, with a handful of wealthy WASPs (盎格魯撒克遜裔的白人新教徒) on East Hampshire Street, and "ethnic" neighborhoods of working-classpeople everywhere else, colored and white.

　　[D]For as long as anyone can remember, Piedmont's character has been completely bound upwith the Westvaco paper mill: its prosperous past and doubtful future. At first glance, thetown is a typical dying mill center. Many once beautiful buildings stand empty, evidencing abygone time of spirit and pride. The big houses on East Hampshire Street are no longerproud, as they were when I was a kid.

　　[E]Like the Italians and the Irish, most of the colored people migrated to Piedmont at the turnof the 20th century to work at the paper mill, which opened in 1888. All the colored men at thepaper mill worked on "the platform"—loading paper into trucks until the craft unions werefinally integrated in 1968. Loading is what Daddy did every working day of his life. That's whatalmost every colored grown-up I knew did.

　　[F]Colored people lived in three neighborhoods that were clearly separated. Welcome to theColored Zone, a large stretched banner could have said. And it felt good in there, like walkingaround your house in bare feet and underwear, or snoring(打鼾) right out loud on the couch infront of the TV—enveloped by the comforts of home, the warmth of those you love.

　　[G]Of course, the colored world was not so much a neighborhood as a condition of existence.And though our own world was seemingly self-contained, it impacted on the white world ofPiedmont in almost every direction. Certainly, the borders of our world seemed to be impactedon when some white man or woman showed up where he or she did not belong, such as at theblack Legion Hall. Our space was violated when one of them showed up at a dance or a party.The rhythms would be off. The music would sound not quite right: attempts to pat the beat offjust so. Everybody would leave early.

　　[H]Before 1955, most white people were just shadowy presences in our world, vague figures ofpower like remote bosses at the mill or clerks at the bank. There were exceptions, of course,the white people who would come into our world in routine, everyday ways we all understood.Mr. Mail Man, Mr. Insurance Man, Mr. White-and-Chocolate Milk Man, Mr. Landlord Man, Mr. PoliceMan: we called white people by their trade, like characters in a mystery play. Mr. Insurance Manwould come by every other week to collect payments on college or death policies, sometimes50 cents or less.

　　[I]"It's no disgrace to be colored," the black entertainer Bert Williams famously observed earlyin the century, "but it is awfully inconvenient." For most of my childhood, we couldn't cat inrestaurants or sleep in hotels, we couldn't use certain bathrooms or try on clothes in stores.Mama insisted that we dress up when we went to shop. She was carefully dressed when shewent to clothing stores, and wore white pads called shields under her arms so her dress orblouse would show no sweat. "We'd like to try this on," she'd say carefully, uttering her wordsprecisely and properly. "We don't buy clothes we can't try on," she'd say when they declined,and we'd walk out in Mama's dignified (有尊嚴(yán)的) manner. She preferred to shop where we hadan account and where everyone knew who she was.

　　[J]At the Cut-Rate Drug Store, no one colored was allowed to sit down at the counter ortables, with one exception: my father. I don't know for certain why Carl Dadisman, the owner,wouldn't stop Daddy from sitting down. But I believe it was in part because Daddy was so light-colored, and in part because, during his shift at the phone company, he picked up orders forfood and coffee for the operators. Colored people were supposed to stand at the counter, gettheir food to go, and leave. Even when Young Doc Bess would set up the basketball team withfree Cokes after one of many victories, the colored players had to stand around and drink outof paper cups while the white players and cheerleaders sat down in comfortable chairs anddrank out of glasses.

　　[K]I couldn't have been much older than five or six as I sat with my father at the Cut-Rate oneafternoon, enjoying ice cream. Mr. Wilson, a stony-faced Irishman, walked by. "Hello, Mr.Wilson," my father said.

　　"Hello, George."

　　[L]I was genuinely puzzled. Mr. Wilson must have confused my father with somebody else,but who? There weren't any Georges among the colored people in Piedmont. "Why don't youtell him your name, Daddy?" I asked loudly. "Your name isn't George."

　　"He knows my name, boy," my father said after a long pause. "He calls all colored peopleGeorge."

　　[M]I knew we wouldn't talk about it again; even at that age, 1 was given to understand thatthere were some subjects it didn't do to worry to death about. Now that I have children, Irealize that what distressed my father wasn't so much the Mr. Wilsons of the world as thepainful obligation to explain the racial facts of life to someone who hadn't quite learned themyet. Maybe Mr. Wilson couldn't hurt my father by calling him George; but I hurt him by asking toknow why.

　　46.The author felt as a boy that his life in a separated neighborhood was casual and cozy.

　　47.There is every sign of decline at the paper mill now.

　　48.One reason the author's father could sit and eat at the drug store was that he didn't lookthat dark.

　　49.Piedmont was a town of immigrants from different parts of the world.

　　50.In spite of the awful inconveniences caused by racial prejudice, the author's familymanaged to live a life of dignity.

　　51.The author later realized he had caused great distress to his father by asking why he waswrongly addressed.

　　52.The author took pride in being from Piedmont because of its natural beauty.

　　53.Colored people called white people by the business they did.

　　54.Colored people who lived in Piedmont did heavy manual jobs at the paper mill.

　　55.The colored people felt uneasy at the presence of the whites in their neighborhood.

　　46-50 F D J C I

　　51-55 M B H E G

　　2016英語四級(jí)段落匹配真題訓(xùn)練

　　A ) Looking back on too many years of education, I can identify one truly impossible teacher. She cared about me, and my intellectual life, even when I didn't. Her expectations were high—impossibly so. She was an English teacher. She was also my mother.

　　B ) When good students turn in an essay, they dream of their instructor returning it to them in exactly the same condition, save for a single word added in the margin of the final page: "Flawless." This dream came true for me one afternoon in the ninth grade. Of course, I had heard that genius could show itself at an early age, so I was only slightly taken aback that I had achieved perfection at the tender age of 14. Obviously, I did what any professional writer would do ; I hurried off to spread the good news. I didn't get very far. The first person I told was my mother.

　　C ) My mother, who is just shy of five feet tall, is normally incredibly soft-spoken, but on the rare occasion when she got angry, she was terrifying. I am not sure if she was more upset by my hubris (得意忘形) or by the fact that my English teacher had let my ego get so out of hand. In any event, my mother and her red pen showed me how deeply flawed a flawless essay could be. At the time, I am sure she thought she was teaching me about mechanics, transitions (過渡) , structure, style and voice(技巧、過渡、結(jié)構(gòu)、風(fēng)格和語氣). But what I learned, and what stuck with me through my time teaching writing at Harvard, was a deeper lesson about the nature of creative criticism.

　　D ) First off, it hurts. Genuine criticism, the type that leaves a lasting mark on you as a writer, also leaves an existential imprint (印記) on you as a person. I have heard people say that a writer should never take criticism personally. I say that we should never listen to these people.

　　E ) Criticism, at its best, is deeply personal, and gets to the heart of why we write the way we do. The intimate nature of genuine criticism implies something about who is able to give it, namely, someone who knows you well enough to show you how your mental life is getting in the way of good writing. Conveniently, they are also the people who care enough to see you through this painful realization. For me it took the form of my first, and I hope only, encounter with writer's block—I was not able to produce anything for three years.

　　F ) Franz Kafka once said: "Writing is utter solitude (獨(dú)處) , the descent into the cold abyss(深淵) of oneself". My mother's criticism had shown me that Kafka is right about the cold abyss, and when you make the introspective ( 內(nèi)省的 ) descent that writing requires you are not always pleased by what you find. But, in the years that followed, her sustained tutoring suggested that Kafka might be wrong about the solitude. I was lucky enough to find a critic and teacher who was willing to make the journey of writing with me. "It is a thing of no great difficulty," according to Plutarch, "to raise objections against another man's speech, it is a very easy matter; but to produce a better in its place is a work extremely troublesome. " I am sure I wrote essays in the later years of high school without my mother's guidance, but I can't recall them. What I remember, however, is how she took up the "extremely troublesome" work of ongoing criticism.

　　G ) There are two ways to interpret Plutarch when he suggests that a critic should be able to produce "a better in its place ". In a straightforward sense, he could mean that a critic must be more talented than the artist she critiques. My mother was well covered on this count. But perhaps Plutarch is suggesting something slightly different, something a bit closer to Marcus Cicero's claim that one should "criticize by creation, not by finding fault. " Genuine criticism creates a precious opening for an author to become better on his own terms—a process that is often extremely painful, but also almost always meaningful.

　　H ) My mother said she would help me with my writing, but first I had to help myself. For each assignment, I was to write the best essay I could. Real criticism is not meant to find obvious mistakes, so if she found any—the type I could have found on my own—I had to start from scratch. From scratch. Once the essay was "flawless," she would take an evening to walk me through my errors. That was when true criticism, the type that changed me as a person, began.

　　I ) She criticized me when I included little-known references and professional jargon (行話) . She had no patience for brilliant but irrelevant figures of speech. "Writers can't bluff ( 虛張聲勢 ) their way through ignorance. That was news to me—I would need to find another way to structure my daily existence.

　　J ) She trimmed back my flowery language, drew lines through my exclamation marks (感嘆號(hào))and argued for the value of restraint (限制，克制)in expression. "John," she almost whispered. I leaned in to hear her: "I can't hear you when you shout at me. " So I stopped shouting and bluffing (虛張聲勢), and slowly my writing improved.

　　K ) Somewhere along the way I set aside my hopes of writing that flawless essay. But perhaps I missed something important in my mother's lessons about creativity and perfection. Perhaps the point of writing the flawless essay was not to give up, but to never willingly finish. Whitman repeatedly reworked " Song of Myself" between 1855 and 1891. Repeatedly. We do our absolute best with a piece of writing, and come as close as we can to the ideal. And, for the time being, we settle. In critique, however, we are forced to depart, to give up the perfection we thought we had achieved for the chance of being even a little bit better. This is the lesson I took from my mother: If perfection were possible, it would not be motivating.

　　46.The author was advised against the improper use of figures of speech.

　　47.The author's mother taught him a valuable lesson by pointing out lots of flaws in his seemingly perfect essay.

　　48.A writer should polish his writing repeatedly so as to get closer to perfection.

　　49. Writers may experience periods of time in their life when they just can't produce anything.

　　50.The author was not much surprised when his school teacher marked his essay as “flawless".

　　51.Criticizing someone's speech is said to be easier than coming up with a better one.

　　52. The author looks upon his mother as his most demanding and caring instructor.

　　53. The criticism the author received from his mother changed him as a person.

　　54.The author gradually improved his writing by avoiding fancy language.

　　55.Constructive criticism gives an author a good start to improve his writing.

　　參考答案

　　I C K E B

　　F A H J G