研究生英语阅读教程(提高级_第三版) 第四单元课文
马丁路德金演讲稿-数学教育叙事
Bill Clinton
Hillary Rodham Clinton
[1] Bill Clinton was
hard to miss in the autumn of 1970. He arrived at
Yale
Law School looking more like a Viking
than a Rhodes Scholar returning
from two years
at Oxford. He was tall and handsome somewhere
beneath
that reddish brown beard and curly
mane of hair. He also had a vitality that
seemed to shoot out of his pores. When I first
saw him in the law school’s
student lounge, he
was holding forth before a rapt audience of fellow
students. As I walked by, I heard him say: “.
. . and not only that, we grow
the biggest
watermelons in the world!” I asked a friend, “Who
is that?”
[2]“Oh, that’s Bill Clinton,” he
said. “He’s from Arkansas, and that’s all he
ever talks about.”
[3]We would run into
each other around campus, but we never actually
met
until one night at the Yale law library
the following spring. I was studying in
the
library, and Bill was standing out in the hall
talking to another student,
Jeff Gleckel, who
was trying to persuade Bill to write for the Yale
Law
Journal. I noticed that he kept looking
over at me. He had been doing a lot of
that.
So I stood up from the desk, walked over to him
and said, “If you’re
going to keep looking at
me, and I’m going to keep looking back, we might
as well be introduced. I’m Hillary Rodham.”
That was it. The way Bill tells
the story, he
couldn’t remember his own name.
[4]We didn’t talk to each other again
until the last day of classes in the
spring of
1971. We happened to walk out of Professor Thomas
Emerson’s
Political and Civil Rights course at
the same time. Bill asked me where I
was
going. I was on the way to the registrar’s office
to sign up for the next
semester’s classes. He
told me he was heading there too. As we walked, he
complimented my long flower-patterned skirt.
When I told him that my
mother had made it, he
asked about my family and where I had grown up.
We waited in line until we got to the
registrar. She looked up and said,
“Bill,
what are you doing here? You’ve already
registered.” I laughed when
he confessed that
he just wanted to spend time with me, and we went
for a
long walk that turned into our first
date.
[5]We both had wanted to see a Mark
Rothko exhibit at the Yale Art
Gallery but,
because of a labor dispute, some of the
university’s buildings,
including the museum,
were closed. As Bill and I walked by, he decided
he
could get us in if we offered to pick up
the litter that had accumulated in the
gallery’s courtyard. Watching him talk our way
in was the first time I saw
his persuasiveness
in action. We had the entire museum to ourselves.
We
wandered through the galleries talking
about Rothko and twentieth-century
art. I
admit to being surprised at his interest in and
knowledge of subjects
that seemed, at first,
unusual for a Viking from Arkansas. We ended up in
the museum’s courtyard, where I sat in the
large lap of Henry Moore’s
sculpture Draped
Seated Woman while we talked until dark. I invited
Bill to
the party my roommate, Kwan
Kwan Tan, and I were throwing in our dorm
room
that nigh t to celebrate the end of classes. Kwan
Kwan, an ethnic
Chinese who had come from
Burma to Yale to pursue graduate legal studies,
was a delightful living companion and a
graceful performer of Burmese
dance. She and
her husband, Bill Wang, another student, remain
friends.
[6]Bill came to our party but
hardly said a word. Since I didn’t know him
that well, I thought he must be shy, perhaps
not very socially adept or just
uncomfortable.
I didn’t have much hope for us as a couple.
Besides, I had a
boyfriend at the time, and we
had weekend plans out of town. When I came
back to Yale late Sunday, Bill called and
heard me coughing and hacking
from the bad
cold I had picked up.
[7]“You sound terrible,”
he said. About thirty minutes later, he knocked on
my door, bearing chicken soup and orange
juice. He came in, and he started
talking. He
could converse about anything―from African
politics to countr
y and western music. I asked
him why he had been so quiet at my party.
[8]“Because I was interested in learning more
about you and your friends,”
he replied.
[9]I was starting to realize that this young
man from Arkansas was much m
ore complex than
first impressions might suggest. To this day, he
can astoni
sh me with the connections he weaves
between ideas and words and how he
makes it
all sound like music. I still love the way he
thinks and the way he
looks. One of the
firs tthings I noticed about Bill was the shape of
his hands
. His wrists are narrow and his
fingers tapered and deft, like those of a
piani
st or a surgeon. When we first met as
students, I loved watching him turn th
e pages
of a book. Now his hands are showing signs of age
after thousands
of handshakes and golf swings
and miles of signatures. They are, like their
owner, weathered but still expressive,
attractive and resilient.
[10]Soon after
Bill came to my rescue with chicken soup and
orange juice,
we became inseparable. In
between cramming for finals and finishing up
m
y first year of concentration on children, we
spent long hours driving aroun
d in his 1970
burnt-orange Opel station wagon―truly one of the
ugliest car
s ever manufactured―or hanging out
at the beach house on Long Island So
und near
Milford, Connecticut, where he lived with his
roommates, Doug E
akeley, Don Pogue and Bill
Coleman. At a party there one night, Bill and I
ended up in the kitchen talking about what
each of us wanted to do after gra
duation. I
still didn’t know where I would live and what I
would do because
my interests in child
advocacy and civil rights didn’t dictate a
particular pat
h. Bill was absolutely certain:
He would go home to Arkansas and run for
p
ublic office. A lot of my classmates said
they intended to pursue public serv
ice, but
Bill was the only one who you knew for certain
would actually do it
.
11]I told Bill about
my summer plans to clerk at Treuhaft, Walker and
Burnstein, a small law firm in Oakland,
California, and he announced that
he
would like to go to California with me. I was
astonished. I knew he had
signed on to work in
Senator George McGovern’s presidential campaign
and that the campaign manager, Gary Hart, had
asked Bill to organize the
South for McGovern.
The prospect of driving from one Southern state to
another convincing Democrats both to support
McGovern and to oppose
Nixon’s policy in
Vietnam excited him.
[12]Although Bill had
worked in Arkansas on campaigns for Senator J.
William Fulbright and others, and in
Connecticut for Joe Duffey and Joe
Lieberman,
he’d never had the chance to be in on the ground
floor of a
presidential campaign.
[13]I
tried to let the news sink in. I was thrilled.
[14]“Why,” I asked, “do you want to give up
the opportunity to do
something you love to
follow me to California?”
[15]“For someone
I love, that’s why,” he said.
[16]He had
decided, he told me, that we were destined for
each other, and
he didn’t want to let me go
just after he’d found me.
[17]Bill and I
shared a small apartment near a big park not far
from the
University of California at Berkeley
campus where the Free Speech
Movement started
in 1964. I spent most of my time working for Mal
Burnstein researching, writing legal motions
and briefs for a child custody
case.
Meanwhile, Bill explored Berkeley, Oakland and San
Francisco. On
weekends, he took me to the
places he had scouted, like a restaurant in
North Beach or a vintage clothing store
on Telegraph Avenue. I tried teaching him
tennis, and we both
experimented with cooking.
I baked him a peach pie, something I
associated with Arkansas, although I had yet
to visit the state, and together
we produced a
palatable chicken curry for any and all occasions
we hosted.
Bill spent most of his time reading
and then sharing with me his thoughts
about
books like To the Finland Station by Edmund
Wilson. During our
long walks, he often broke
into song, frequently crooning one of his Elvis
Presley favorites. [18]People have said that
I knew Bill would be
President one day and
went around telling anyone who would listen. I
don’t
remember thinking that until years
later, but I had one strange encounter at
a
small restaurant in Berkeley. I was supposed to
meet Bill, but I was held
up at work and
arrived late. There was no sign of him, and I
asked the
waiter if he had seen a man of his
description. A customer sitting nearby
spoke
up, saying, “He was here for a long time reading,
and I started talking
to him about books. I
don’t know his name, but he’s going to be
President
someday.” “Yeah, right,” I said,
“but do you know where he went?”
[19]At the
end of the summer, we returned to New Haven and
rented the
ground floor of 21 Edgewood Avenue
for seventy-five dollars a month.
That bought
us a living room with a fireplace, one small bed
room, a third
room that served as both study
and dining area, a tiny bathroom and a
primitive kitchen. The floors were so uneven
that plates would slide off the
dining
table if we didn’t keep little wooden blocks under
the table legs to
level them. The wind howled
through cracks in the walls that we stuffed
with newspapers. But despite it all, I loved
our first house. We shopped for
furniture at
the Goodwill and Salvation Army stores and were
quite proud
of our student decor.
[20]Our apartment was a block away from the
Elm Street Diner, which we
frequented because
it was open all night. The local Y down the street
had a
yoga class that I joined, and Bill
agreed to take with me―as long as I didn’t
tell anybody else. He also came along to the
Cathedral of Sweat, Yale’s
gothic sports
center, to run mindlessly around the mezzanine
track. Once he
started running, he kept going.
I didn’t. [21]We ate often at Basel’s, a
favorite Greek restaurant, and loved going to
the movies at the Lincoln, a
small theater set
back on a residential street. One evening after a
blizzard
finally stopped, we decided to go to
the movies. The roads were not yet
cleared, so
we walked there and back through the foot-high
snowdrifts,
feeling very much alive and in
love.
[22]We both had to work to pay our
way through law school, on top of the
student
loans we had taken out. But we still found time
for politics. Bill
decided to open a McGovern
for President headquarters in New Haven,
using
his own money to rent a storefront. Most of the
volunteers were Yale
students and faculty
because the boss of the local Democratic Party,
Arthur
Barbieri, was not supporting McGovern.
Bill arranged for us to meet Mr.
Barbieri at an Italian restaurant. At a
long lunch, Bill claimed he had eight
hundred
volunteers ready to hit the streets to out-
organize the regular party
apparatus. Barbieri
eventually decided to endorse McGovern. He invited
us
to attend the party meeting at a local
Italian club, Melebus Club, where he
would
announce his endorsement.
[23]The next
week, we drove to a nondescript building and
entered a door
leading to a set of stairs that
went down to a series of underground rooms.
When Barbieri stood up to speak in the big
dining room, he commanded the
attention of the
local county committee members―mostly men―who were
there. He started by talking about the war in
Vietnam and naming the boys
from the New Haven
area who were serving in the military and those
who
had died. Then he said, “This
war
isn’t worth losing one more boy for. That’s why we
should support
George McGovern, who wants to
bring our boys home.” This was not an
immediately popular position, but as the night
wore on, he pressed his case
until he got a
unanimous vote of support. And he delivered on his
commitment, first at the state convention and
then in the election when
New Haven was one of
the few places in America that voted for McGovern
over Nixon. [24] After Christmas, Bill drove
up from Hot Springs to Park
Ridge to spend a
few days with my family. Both my parents had met
him
the previous summer, but I was nervous
because my dad was so uninhibited
in his
criticism of my boyfriends. I wondered what he
would say to a
Southern Democrat with
Elvis sideburns. My mother had told me that in
my father’s eyes, no man would be good enough
for me. She appreciated
Bill’s good manners
and willingness to help with the dishes. But Bill
really
won her over when he found her reading
a philosophy book from one of her
college
courses and spent the next hour or so discussing
it with her. It was
slow going at first with
my father, but he warmed up over games of cards,
and in front of the television watching
football bowl games. My brothers
basked in
Bill’s attention. My friends liked him too. After
I introduced him
to Betsy Johnson, her mother,
Roslyn, cornered me on the way out of their
house and said, “I don’t care what you do, but
don’t let this one go. He’s the
only one I’ve
ever seen make you laugh！”
Bill Clinton
Hillary Rodham
Clinton
[1] Bill Clinton was hard to miss in
the autumn of 1970. He arrived at Yale
Law
School looking more like a Viking than a Rhodes
Scholar returning
from two years at Oxford. He
was tall and handsome somewhere beneath
that
reddish brown beard and curly mane of hair. He
also had a vitality that
seemed to shoot out
of his pores. When I first saw him in the law
school’s
student lounge, he was holding forth
before a rapt audience of fellow
students. As
I walked by, I heard him say: “. . . and not only
that, we grow
the biggest watermelons in the
world!” I asked a friend, “Who is that?”
[2]“Oh, that’s Bill Clinton,” he said. “He’s
from Arkansas, and that’s all he
ever talks
about.”
[3]We would run into each other
around campus, but we never actually met
until
one night at the Yale law library the following
spring. I was studying in
the library, and
Bill was standing out in the hall talking to
another student,
Jeff Gleckel, who was trying
to persuade Bill to write for the Yale Law
Journal. I noticed that he kept looking over
at me. He had been doing a lot of
that. So I
stood up from the desk, walked over to him and
said, “If you’re
going to keep looking at me,
and I’m going to keep looking back, we might
as well be introduced. I’m Hillary Rodham.”
That was it. The way Bill tells
the story, he
couldn’t remember his own name.
[4]We didn’t talk to each other again
until the last day of classes in the
spring of
1971. We happened to walk out of Professor Thomas
Emerson’s
Political and Civil Rights course at
the same time. Bill asked me where I
was
going. I was on the way to the registrar’s office
to sign up for the next
semester’s classes. He
told me he was heading there too. As we walked, he
complimented my long flower-patterned skirt.
When I told him that my
mother had made it, he
asked about my family and where I had grown up.
We waited in line until we got to the
registrar. She looked up and said,
“Bill,
what are you doing here? You’ve already
registered.” I laughed when
he confessed that
he just wanted to spend time with me, and we went
for a
long walk that turned into our first
date.
[5]We both had wanted to see a Mark
Rothko exhibit at the Yale Art
Gallery but,
because of a labor dispute, some of the
university’s buildings,
including the museum,
were closed. As Bill and I walked by, he decided
he
could get us in if we offered to pick up
the litter that had accumulated in the
gallery’s courtyard. Watching him talk our way
in was the first time I saw
his persuasiveness
in action. We had the entire museum to ourselves.
We
wandered through the galleries talking
about Rothko and twentieth-century
art. I
admit to being surprised at his interest in and
knowledge of subjects
that seemed, at first,
unusual for a Viking from Arkansas. We ended up in
the museum’s courtyard, where I sat in the
large lap of Henry Moore’s
sculpture Draped
Seated Woman while we talked until dark. I invited
Bill to
the party my roommate, Kwan
Kwan Tan, and I were throwing in our dorm
room
that nigh t to celebrate the end of classes. Kwan
Kwan, an ethnic
Chinese who had come from
Burma to Yale to pursue graduate legal studies,
was a delightful living companion and a
graceful performer of Burmese
dance. She and
her husband, Bill Wang, another student, remain
friends.
[6]Bill came to our party but
hardly said a word. Since I didn’t know him
that well, I thought he must be shy, perhaps
not very socially adept or just
uncomfortable.
I didn’t have much hope for us as a couple.
Besides, I had a
boyfriend at the time, and we
had weekend plans out of town. When I came
back to Yale late Sunday, Bill called and
heard me coughing and hacking
from the bad
cold I had picked up.
[7]“You sound terrible,”
he said. About thirty minutes later, he knocked on
my door, bearing chicken soup and orange
juice. He came in, and he started
talking. He
could converse about anything―from African
politics to countr
y and western music. I asked
him why he had been so quiet at my party.
[8]“Because I was interested in learning more
about you and your friends,”
he replied.
[9]I was starting to realize that this young
man from Arkansas was much m
ore complex than
first impressions might suggest. To this day, he
can astoni
sh me with the connections he weaves
between ideas and words and how he
makes it
all sound like music. I still love the way he
thinks and the way he
looks. One of the
firs tthings I noticed about Bill was the shape of
his hands
. His wrists are narrow and his
fingers tapered and deft, like those of a
piani
st or a surgeon. When we first met as
students, I loved watching him turn th
e pages
of a book. Now his hands are showing signs of age
after thousands
of handshakes and golf swings
and miles of signatures. They are, like their
owner, weathered but still expressive,
attractive and resilient.
[10]Soon after
Bill came to my rescue with chicken soup and
orange juice,
we became inseparable. In
between cramming for finals and finishing up
m
y first year of concentration on children, we
spent long hours driving aroun
d in his 1970
burnt-orange Opel station wagon―truly one of the
ugliest car
s ever manufactured―or hanging out
at the beach house on Long Island So
und near
Milford, Connecticut, where he lived with his
roommates, Doug E
akeley, Don Pogue and Bill
Coleman. At a party there one night, Bill and I
ended up in the kitchen talking about what
each of us wanted to do after gra
duation. I
still didn’t know where I would live and what I
would do because
my interests in child
advocacy and civil rights didn’t dictate a
particular pat
h. Bill was absolutely certain:
He would go home to Arkansas and run for
p
ublic office. A lot of my classmates said
they intended to pursue public serv
ice, but
Bill was the only one who you knew for certain
would actually do it
.
11]I told Bill about
my summer plans to clerk at Treuhaft, Walker and
Burnstein, a small law firm in Oakland,
California, and he announced that
he
would like to go to California with me. I was
astonished. I knew he had
signed on to work in
Senator George McGovern’s presidential campaign
and that the campaign manager, Gary Hart, had
asked Bill to organize the
South for McGovern.
The prospect of driving from one Southern state to
another convincing Democrats both to support
McGovern and to oppose
Nixon’s policy in
Vietnam excited him.
[12]Although Bill had
worked in Arkansas on campaigns for Senator J.
William Fulbright and others, and in
Connecticut for Joe Duffey and Joe
Lieberman,
he’d never had the chance to be in on the ground
floor of a
presidential campaign.
[13]I
tried to let the news sink in. I was thrilled.
[14]“Why,” I asked, “do you want to give up
the opportunity to do
something you love to
follow me to California?”
[15]“For someone
I love, that’s why,” he said.
[16]He had
decided, he told me, that we were destined for
each other, and
he didn’t want to let me go
just after he’d found me.
[17]Bill and I
shared a small apartment near a big park not far
from the
University of California at Berkeley
campus where the Free Speech
Movement started
in 1964. I spent most of my time working for Mal
Burnstein researching, writing legal motions
and briefs for a child custody
case.
Meanwhile, Bill explored Berkeley, Oakland and San
Francisco. On
weekends, he took me to the
places he had scouted, like a restaurant in
North Beach or a vintage clothing store
on Telegraph Avenue. I tried teaching him
tennis, and we both
experimented with cooking.
I baked him a peach pie, something I
associated with Arkansas, although I had yet
to visit the state, and together
we produced a
palatable chicken curry for any and all occasions
we hosted.
Bill spent most of his time reading
and then sharing with me his thoughts
about
books like To the Finland Station by Edmund
Wilson. During our
long walks, he often broke
into song, frequently crooning one of his Elvis
Presley favorites. [18]People have said that
I knew Bill would be
President one day and
went around telling anyone who would listen. I
don’t
remember thinking that until years
later, but I had one strange encounter at
a
small restaurant in Berkeley. I was supposed to
meet Bill, but I was held
up at work and
arrived late. There was no sign of him, and I
asked the
waiter if he had seen a man of his
description. A customer sitting nearby
spoke
up, saying, “He was here for a long time reading,
and I started talking
to him about books. I
don’t know his name, but he’s going to be
President
someday.” “Yeah, right,” I said,
“but do you know where he went?”
[19]At the
end of the summer, we returned to New Haven and
rented the
ground floor of 21 Edgewood Avenue
for seventy-five dollars a month.
That bought
us a living room with a fireplace, one small bed
room, a third
room that served as both study
and dining area, a tiny bathroom and a
primitive kitchen. The floors were so uneven
that plates would slide off the
dining
table if we didn’t keep little wooden blocks under
the table legs to
level them. The wind howled
through cracks in the walls that we stuffed
with newspapers. But despite it all, I loved
our first house. We shopped for
furniture at
the Goodwill and Salvation Army stores and were
quite proud
of our student decor.
[20]Our apartment was a block away from the
Elm Street Diner, which we
frequented because
it was open all night. The local Y down the street
had a
yoga class that I joined, and Bill
agreed to take with me―as long as I didn’t
tell anybody else. He also came along to the
Cathedral of Sweat, Yale’s
gothic sports
center, to run mindlessly around the mezzanine
track. Once he
started running, he kept going.
I didn’t. [21]We ate often at Basel’s, a
favorite Greek restaurant, and loved going to
the movies at the Lincoln, a
small theater set
back on a residential street. One evening after a
blizzard
finally stopped, we decided to go to
the movies. The roads were not yet
cleared, so
we walked there and back through the foot-high
snowdrifts,
feeling very much alive and in
love.
[22]We both had to work to pay our
way through law school, on top of the
student
loans we had taken out. But we still found time
for politics. Bill
decided to open a McGovern
for President headquarters in New Haven,
using
his own money to rent a storefront. Most of the
volunteers were Yale
students and faculty
because the boss of the local Democratic Party,
Arthur
Barbieri, was not supporting McGovern.
Bill arranged for us to meet Mr.
Barbieri at an Italian restaurant. At a
long lunch, Bill claimed he had eight
hundred
volunteers ready to hit the streets to out-
organize the regular party
apparatus. Barbieri
eventually decided to endorse McGovern. He invited
us
to attend the party meeting at a local
Italian club, Melebus Club, where he
would
announce his endorsement.
[23]The next
week, we drove to a nondescript building and
entered a door
leading to a set of stairs that
went down to a series of underground rooms.
When Barbieri stood up to speak in the big
dining room, he commanded the
attention of the
local county committee members―mostly men―who were
there. He started by talking about the war in
Vietnam and naming the boys
from the New Haven
area who were serving in the military and those
who
had died. Then he said, “This
war
isn’t worth losing one more boy for. That’s why we
should support
George McGovern, who wants to
bring our boys home.” This was not an
immediately popular position, but as the night
wore on, he pressed his case
until he got a
unanimous vote of support. And he delivered on his
commitment, first at the state convention and
then in the election when
New Haven was one of
the few places in America that voted for McGovern
over Nixon. [24] After Christmas, Bill drove
up from Hot Springs to Park
Ridge to spend a
few days with my family. Both my parents had met
him
the previous summer, but I was nervous
because my dad was so uninhibited
in his
criticism of my boyfriends. I wondered what he
would say to a
Southern Democrat with
Elvis sideburns. My mother had told me that in
my father’s eyes, no man would be good enough
for me. She appreciated
Bill’s good manners
and willingness to help with the dishes. But Bill
really
won her over when he found her reading
a philosophy book from one of her
college
courses and spent the next hour or so discussing
it with her. It was
slow going at first with
my father, but he warmed up over games of cards,
and in front of the television watching
football bowl games. My brothers
basked in
Bill’s attention. My friends liked him too. After
I introduced him
to Betsy Johnson, her mother,
Roslyn, cornered me on the way out of their
house and said, “I don’t care what you do, but
don’t let this one go. He’s the
only one I’ve
ever seen make you laugh！”