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the most beautiful proses in the world（ZT）
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这个帖子发布于12年零54天前，其中的信息可能已发生改变或有所发展。
Two views of TimesImagine that you spent your whole life at a single house. Each day at the same hour you entered an artificially-lit room, undressed and took up the same position in front of a motion picture camera. It photographed one frame of you per day, every day of your life. On your seventy-second birthday, the reel of film was shown. You saw yourself growing and aging over seventy-two years in less than half an hour (27.4 minutes at sixteen frames per second). Images of this sort, though terrifying, are helpful in suggesting unfamiliar but useful perspectives of time. They may, for example, symbolize the telescoped, almost momentary character of the past as seen through the eyes of the anxious or disaffected individual. Or they may suggest the remarkable brevity of our lives in the cosmic scale of time. If the estimated age of the cosmos were shortened to seventy-two years, a human life would take about ten seconds.But look at time the other way. Each day is a minor eternity of over 86000 seconds. During each second, the number of the distinct molecular functions going on within the human body is comparable to the number of the seconds in the estimated age of the cosmos. A few seconds are long enough for a revolutionary idea, a startling communication, a baby’s conception, a wounding insult, a sudden death. Depending on how we think of
them, our lives can infinitely long or infinitely short.
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pacific edited on
The two roadsIt was New Year’s Night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless people than himself now moved towards their certain goal-the tomb. He had already passed sixty of the stages leading to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. Now his health was poor, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age short of comforts.The days of his youth appeared like dreams before him, and he recalled the serious moment when his father placed him at the entrance of the two roads-one leading to a peaceful, sunny place, covered with flowers, fruits and resounding with soft, the other leading to a deep, dark cave, which was endless, where poison flowed instead of water and where devils and poisonous snakes hissed and crawled.He looked towards the sky and cried painfully,” O youth, return! O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, and I’ll choose the better way!” But both his father and the days of his youth had passed away.He saw the lights flowing away in the darkness. These were the day he saw a star fall from the sky and disappeared, and this was the symbol of himself. His remorse, which was like a sharp arrow, stuck deeply into his heart. Then he remembered his friends in his childhood, who entered on life together with him. But they had made their way to success and were now honoured and happy on this New Year’s night. The clock in the high church tower struck and the sound made him remember his parents’ early love for him. They had taught him and prayed to God for his good. But he chose the wrong way. With shame and grief he dared no longer look towards that heaven where his father lived. He darkened eyes were full of tears, and with a despairing effort, he burst out a cry:” Come back, my early days! Come back!”And his youth did return, for all this was only a dream which he had on New Year’s Night. He was still young though
he had not yet entered the deep, dark cave, and he was still free to
walk on the road which leads to the peaceful and sunny land.Those who still linger on the entrance of life, hesitating to choose the bright road, remember
that when years are passed and your feet stumble on the dark mountains, you will cry bitterly, but in vain:” O youth, return! oh give me back my early days!”
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YouthYouth i i it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red l it is a matter of the will, a quality of the imagination, a v it is the freshness of the deep springs of life.Youth means a tempera-mental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the love of ease. The often exists in a man of 60 more than a boys of 20.Nobody grows old merely by a number of years. we grow old by deserting our ideals.Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spring back to dust.Whether 60 or 16,there is in every human being’s heart the lure of wonder, the unfailing childlike appetite of what’s next and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and my heart there is a wireless station: so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, courage and power from men and from the infinite, so long are you young.When the aerials are down, and your spirit is covered with snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, then you are grow old, ever at 20,but as long as your aerials are up, to catch waves of optimism, there is hope you may die young at 80.
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An illusion
WILLIAM S.MAUGHAMIt is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of th but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy, for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze? of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life.They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, and each discovery is anther nail drivens into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself.
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I dread the end of the year
Anonymous“I dread to come to the end of the year,” said a f” it makes me realize I am growing old.”A great psychologist said that most men are ”old fogies at twenty-five.”He was right. Most men at twenty-five are satisfied with their jobs. They have accumulated the little stock of prejudices that they call their “principles” and closed their mi they have ceased to grow.The minute a man ceases to grow,- no matter what his years,-that minute he begins to be old.On the other hand, the really great man never grows old.Goethe passes out at eighty-three, and finished his ”Faust “only Gladstone took up a new language when he was seventy.Laplace, the astronomer, was still at work when death caught up with him at seventy-eight. He died crying,” wha what we do not know is immense,”And there you have the real answer to the question, ”when is a man old?”Laplace at seventy-eight died young .He was still unsatisfied, still sure that he had a lot to learn.
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On the feeling of immortality in youthWilliam HazlittLife is a pure flame, and live by an invisible sun within us.----Sir Thomas BrownesNo young man believes he shall ever die. It was a saying of my brother’s, and a fine one. There is a feeling of Eternity in youth, which makes us amend for everything. To be young is to be as one of the immortal Gods. One half of time indeed is flown-the other half remains in store for us with all its for there is no line drawn, and we see no limit to our hopes and wishes. We make the coming age our own.---The vast, the unbounded prospect lies us.Death ,old age, are words without a meaning, that pass by us like the idle air which we regard not. Others may have undergone, or may still be liable to them-we “bear a charmed life,” which laughs to scorn all such sickly fancies. As in setting out on a delightful journey, we strain our eager gaze forward-Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail,-and see no end to the landscape, new objects presenting them so, in the commencement of life, we set no bounds to our inclinations, nor to the unrestricted opportunities of gratifying them. We have as yet found no obstacle, no and it seems that we can go on so forever. We look round in a new world, full of life, and motion, a and feel in ourselves all the vigour and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee from any present symptoms how we shall be left behind in the natural course of things, decline into old age, and drop into the grave. It is the simplicity, and ad it were abstractedness of our feelings in youth, that ( so to speak) identifies us with nature, and (our experience being slight and our passion strong) deludes us into a belief of being immortal like it. Our short-lived connexion with existence we fondly flatter ourselves,
is an indissoluble and lasting union – a honeymoon that knows neither coldness, jar, nor separation. As infants smile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle of out wayward fancies, and lulled into security by the roar of the universe around us—we quaff the cup of life with eager haste without draining it, instead of which it only overflows the more—objects press around us, filling the mind with their magnitude and with the throng if desires that wait upon them, so that we have no room for the thoughts of death…
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The faculty of delight
Charles Edward montagueAmong the mind’s powers is one that comes of itself to many children and articles. It need not lost, to the end of his days, by any one who has ever had it. This is the power of taking delight in thing, or rather in anything, everything, not as a means to some other end, but just because it is what it is, as the lover dotes on whatever may be the traits of the beloved object. A child in the full health of his mind will put his hand flat on the summer turf, feel it, and give a little shiver of private glee at the elastic firmness of the globe. He is not thinking how well it will do for some game or to feed sheep upon. That would be the way of the wooer whose mind runs on his mistress’s money. The child’s is sheer affection, the true ecstatic sense of the thing’s inherent characteristics. No matter what the things may be, no matter what they are good or no good for, there they are, each with a thrilling unique look and feel of its own, the iron astringently coop under its paint, the painted would familiarly warmer, the clod crumbling enchantingly down in the bands, with its little dry smell of the s each common thing a personality marked by delicious difference.The joy of an Adam new to the garden and just looking round is brought by the normal child to the thing that he does as well as those that he sees. To be suffered to do some plain work with the real spade used by mankind can give him a mystical exaltation: to come home with his legs, as the French say, reentering his body from the fatigue of helping the gardener to weed beds sends him to sleep in the glow of the a beatitude that is an end in itself…
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A little girlTheodore Watts DuncanSetting on a grassy, beneath one of the window of the church, was a little girl. With her bent back, she was gazing up at the sky and singing, while one of her little hands was pointing to a tiny cloud that hovered like a golden feather above her head. The sun, which had suddenly become very bright, shining on her glossy hair, gave it a metallic luster, and it was difficult to say what was the color, dark bronze or black. So completely absorbed was she in watching the cloud to which her strange strong song or incantation seemed addressed, that she did not observe me when I rose and went towards her. Over her head, high up in the blue, a lark that was soaring towards the same gauzy cloud was singing, as if in rivalry. As I slowly approached the child, I could see by her forehead, which in the sunshine seemed like a globe of pearl, and especially by her complexion, that she uncommonly lovely. Her eyes, which at one moment seemed blue-gray, at another violet, were shaded by long black lashes, curving backward in a most peculiar way, and these matched in hue her eyebrows, and the tresses that were tossed about her tender throat and were quivering in the sunlight. All this I did for at first I could see nothing but quivering, glittering, changeful eyes turned up into my face. Gradually the other features, especially the sensitive full-lipped mouth, grew upon me as I stood silently gazing. Here seemed to me a more perfect beauty than had ever come to me in my overset dreams of beauty. Yet it was not her beauty so much as the look she gave me that fascinated me, melted me.
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Truth is for everyoneRabindranath TagoreThere are some people, who are proud and wise and practical, who say that it is not in human nature to be generous, that men will always fight one another, that the strong will conquer the weak, and that there can be no real moral foundation for man’s civilization. We can not deny the facts of their assertion that the strong have power in the human world, but I refused to accept this as a revelation of truth…We should know that truth, any truth that man acquires, is for everyone. Money and property belong to individuals, to each of you, but you must never expoit truth for your per that would be selling God’s blessing for a profit. However, s it has its place in the healing of the sick, and in giving more food and leisure for life. When it helps the strong crush the weak, and rob those who are asleep, it is using truth for impious ends. Those who are thus sacrilegious will suffer and be punished, for their own weapons will be turned against them.
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The delights of booksJohn LubbockBooks are to mankind what memory is to the individual. They contain the history of our race, the discoveries we have made, the accumulated knowledge an they picture for us the marvels an help us in our difficulties, comfort us in sorrow and in suffering, change hours of weariness into moments of delight, store our minds with ideas, fill them with good and happy thoughts, and lift us out of and above ourselves.When we read we may not only be kings and live in palaces, but, what is far better, we may transport ourselves to the mountains or the seashore, and visit the most beautiful parts of the earth, without fatigue, inconvenience, expense. Precious and priceless are the blessing, which the books scatter around our daily paths. We walk, in imagination, with the noblest spirits, through the most sublime and enchanting regions.Macaulary had wealth and fame, rank and power, and yet he tells us in his biography that he owed the happiest hours of his life to books. In a charming letter to a little girl, he says:” If any one would make me the greatest king that ever lived, with palaces and gardens and fine dinners, and wines and coaches, and beautiful clothes, and hundreds of servants，on condition that I should not read books, I would not be a king. I would rather be a poor man in garret with plenty of books than a king who did not love reading.”
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The pleasure of readingAnonymousAll the wisdom of the ages, all the stories that have delighted mankind for centuries, are easily and cheaply available to all of us within the covers of books but we must know how to avail ourselves of this treasure and how to get the most from it. The most unfortunate people in the world are those who have never discovered how satisfying it is to read good books.I am most interested in people, in them and finding out about them. Some of the most remarkable people I’ve met existed only in a writer’s imagination, then on the pages of his book, and then, again, in my imagination. I’ve found in books new friends, new societies, new
words.If I am interested in people, others are interested not so much in who as in how. Who in the books includes everybody from science fiction superman two hundred centuries in the future all the way back to the first figures in history. How covers everything from the ingenious explanations of Sherlock Holmes to the discoveries of science and ways of teaching manner to children.Reading is pleasure of the mind, which means that it is a little like a sport: your eagerness and knowledge and quickness make you a good reader. Reading is fun, not because the writer is telling you something, but because it makes your mind work. You own imagination works along with the author’s or even goes beyond his. Your experience, compared with his, brings you to the same or different conclusions, and your ideas develop as you understand his.Every book stands by itself, like a one-family house, but books in a library are like houses in a city. Although they are separate, together they all add up to something, they are connected with each other and with other cities. The same ideas, or related ones, turn up
the human problems that repeat themselves in literature, but with different solutions according to different writings at different times. Books
they link the past, the present and the future and have their own generations, like families. Wherever you start reading you connect yourself with one of the families of ideas, and in the long run, you not only find out the world
you find out yourself, too.Reading can only be fun if you expect it to be. If you concentrate on books somebody tells you you “ought” to read, you probably won’t have fun. But if you put down a book you don’t like and try another till you find one that means something to you, and then relax with it, you will almost certainly have a good time—and if you become, as a result of reading, better, wiser, kinder, or more
gentle, you won’t have suffered during the process.
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Suit is best Willian hazlittThe proper force of words lies not in the words themselves, but in their application. A word may be a fine sounding word, of an unusual length, and very imposing from its learning and novelty, and yet in the connection in which it is introduced may be quite pointless and irrelevant, it is not pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of the expression to the idea, that clenches a writer’s meaning: as it is not the size or glossiness of the material, but their being fitted each to its place, that gives
or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the larger timbers, and more so than the mere showy, unsubstantial ornaments. I hate anything that occupies more space than it is worth. I hate to see a load of bandboxes go along the street, and I hate to see a parcel of big words without anything in them. A person who dews not deliberately dimples of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises may strike out twenty varieties of familiar everyday language, each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he wants to convey, and at last not hit upon that particular and only one which may be said to be identical with the exact impression in his mind. This would seem to show that Mr.Cobalt is hardly right in saying that the first word that occurs is always the best. It ma and yet a better may present itself on reflection or from time to time. It may be suggested naturally ,however and spontaneously, from a fresh and lively conception of the subject.
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The power is unlimitedThomas De QuinceyBesides which, there is a rarer thing than truth—namely power, or deep sympathy with truth. What is the effect, for instance, upon society, of children? By the tenderness, and by the peculiar modes of admiration which connect themselves with the helplessness, with the innocence, and with the simplicity of children, not only are the primal affections strengthened and continually renewed, but the qualities which are dearest in the sight of heaven—the frailty , or instance, which appeals to forbearance, the simplicity which is most alien from the worldly—are kept up in perpetual remembrance, and their ideals are continually refreshed. A purpose of the same nature is answer by the higher literature, viz, the literature of power. What do you learn from paradise Lost? Nothing at all. What do you learn from a cookery—book? Something new, something that you did not know before, in every paragraph. But would you therefore put the wretched cookery-book on a higher level of estimation than the divine poem? What you own to Milton is not any knowledge, of which a million separate items are still but a million of advancing steps on th what you owe latent capacity of sympathy with the infinite, where every pulse and each separate influx is a step upward, a step ascending as upon a Jacob’s ladder from earth to mysterious altitudes above the earth. All the steps of knowledge, from first to last, carry you further on the same plane, but could never raise you one foot above your an whereas the very first step in power is a flight—is an ascending movement into another element where earth is forgotten.
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Love is difficultRainer Maria RilkeIt is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation. That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-being heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time ahead and far on into life, is solitude, a heightened and deepened kind of aloneness for the person who loves. Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent,) it is high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sa it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that choose him and calls him to vast distances. Only in this sense, as the task of working on themselves (“ to hearken and to hammer day and night”), may young people use the love that is given to them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them (who must still, for a long, long time, save and gather themselves); it is the ultimate, is perhaps that for which human lives are as yet barely large enough.
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Knowledge and virtueJ.H.NewmanKnowledge is one thing, good sense is not conscience, refinement is not humility, nor is largeness and justness of view faith. Philosophy, however enlightened, however profound, gives no command over the passions, no influential motives, no vivifying principles. Liberal Education makes not the Christian, not the Catholic, but the gentleman. It is well to be a gentleman, it is well to have a cultivated intellect, a delicate taste, a candid, equitable, dispassionate mind, a noble and courteous bearing in the conduct of life—these are the connatural qualities
they are the objects of a U I am advocating, I shall illustrate
but still, I repeat, they are no guarantee for sanctity or even for conscientiousness, they may attach to the man of the world, to the profligate, to the heartless, pleasant, alas, and attractive as he show when decked, out in them. Taken by themselves, they do but seem to
they look like virtue at a distance, but they detected by close observers, and on the long run, and hence it is that they are popularly accused of pretense and hypocrisy, not, I repeat, from their own fault, but because their professors and their admirers persist in taking them for what they are not, and are officious in arrogating for them a praise to which they have no claim. Quarry the granite rock with razors, or moor the vessel with a thread of silk, then may you hope with such keen and delicate instruments as human knowledge and human reason to contend against those giants, the passion and the pride of man.
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The beloved AnonymousNow, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.
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I love youAnonymous“I love you” does not always have the same meaning, and this, too, should tell us something about the elusive nature of love. The first time it is always a surprise, an invasion, an aggressive act, but once said, “I love you” can only be repeated. It is unthinkable that it should not be said again, and again, and again. when one has not said it for a while, this may itself precipitate a crisis. (“Now why haven’t you said that in all of these months!”) On the other hand, “I love you” can also serve as a threat (Don’ you might lose me”), emotional blackmail (“I’ve said it, now you have to respond in kind”), a warning (“it’s only because I love you that I’m willing to put up with this”), an apology (“I could not possibly have meant what I, have said to you, to you of all people”). It can be an instrument –more effective than the loudest noise—to interrupt a dull or painful conversation. It can be a cry, a plea, a verbal flag (“pay attention to me!”) or it can be an excuse (“it’s only because I love you…”). It can be a disguise (“I love you,” he whispered, looking awkwardly askance at the open door). It can be an attack (“how can you do this to me?”) or even an end (“so that’s that. With regrets, good-bye”). If this single phrase has so many meaning, how varied and variable must be the emotion.
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Success is a choiceAnonymousAll of us ought to be able to brace ourselves for the predictable challenges and setbacks that crop up everyday. If we expect that life won’t be perfect, we’ll be able to avoid that impulse to quit. But even if you are strong enough to persist the obstacle course of life and work, sometimes you will encounter an adverse event that will completely knock you on your back.Whether it’s a financial loss, the loss of respect of your peer or loved ones, or some other traumatic even in your life these major setbacks leave you doubting yourself and wondering if things can ever change for the better again.Adversity happens to all of us, and it happens all the time. Some form of major adversity is either going to be there or it’s lying in wait just around the corner. To ignore adversity is to succumb to the ultimate self-delusion.But you must recognize that history is full of examples of men and woman who achieved greatness despite facing hurdles so steep that easily could have crashed their spirit and left them lying in the dust. Moses was a stutterer, yet he was called on to be the voice of God. Abraham Lincoln overcomes a difficult childhood, depression, the death of two sons, and constant ridicule during the Civil War to become arguably our greatest president ever. Helen Keller made an impact on the world despite being deaf, dumb, and blind from an early age. Franklin Roosevelt had polio.There are endless examples. These were people who not only looked adversity in the face but learned valuable lessons about overcoming difficult circumstances and were able to move ahead.
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Man is here for the sake of other menAlbert EinsteinStrange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why, yet sometimes seeming to divine a purpose.From the standpoint of daily life, however, there is one thing we do know that man is here for the sake of other men—above all for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and also for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow men, both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received. My peace of mind is often troubles by the depressing sense that I have borrowed too heavily from the work of other men.To ponder interminably over the reason for one’s own existence or the meaning of life in general seems to me, from an objective point of view, to be sheer folly. And yet everyone holds certain ideals by which he guides his aspiration and his judgment. The ideals which have always shone before me and filled me with the joy of living are goodness, beauty, and truth. To make a goal of comfort and happiness has
a system of ethics built on this basis would be sufficient only for a herd of cattle.
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The wholeness of lifeAnonymousOnce a circle missed a wedge. The circle wanted to be whole, so it went around looking for its missing piece. But because it was incomplete and therefore could roll only very slowly, it admired
the flowers along the way. It chatted with worms. It enjoyed the sunshine. It found lots of different pieces, but none of them fit.
So it left them all by the side of the road and kept on searching. Then one day the circle found a piece that fit perfectly. It was so happy. Now it could be whole, with nothing missing. It incorporated the missing piece into itself and began to roll. Now that is was a perfect circle, it could roll very fast, too fast to notice flowers or talk to the worms. When it realized how different the world seemed when it rolled so quickly, it stopped, left its found piece by the side of the road and rolled slowly away.The lesson of the story, I suggested, was that in some strange sense we are more whole when we are missing something. The man who has everything is in some ways a poor man. He will never know what it feels like to yearn, to hope, to mourish his soul with the dream of something better. He will never know the experience of having someone who loves him give him something he has always wanted or never had.There is a wholeness about the person who has come to terms with his limitations, who has been brave enough to let go of his unrealistic dreams and not feel like a failure for doing so. There is a wholeness about the man or woman who has learned that he or she is strong enough to go through a tragedy and survive, she can lose someone and still feel like a complete person.Life is not a trap set for us by God so that he can condemn us for failing. Life is not a spelling bee, where no matter how many words you’ve gotten right, you’re disqualified if you make one mistake. Life is a baseball season, where even the best team lose team loses one third of its games and even the worst team has its days of brilliance. Our goal is to win more games than we lose. When we accept that imperfection is part of being human, and when we can continue rolling through life and appreciate it, we will have achieved a wholeness that others can only aspire to. That, I believe, is what God asks of us—not “be perfect”, not “don’t even make a mistake”, but “be whole”.If we are brave enough to love, strong enough to forgive, generous enough to rejoice in another’s happiness, and wise enough to know there is enough love to so around for us all, then we can achieve a fulfillment that no other living creature will ever know.
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The road of lifeWilliam S. MaughamThe lives of most men are determined by their environment. They accept the circumstances amid which fate has thrown them not only with resignation but even with good will. They are like streetcars running contentedly on their rails and they despise the sprightly flitter that dashes in and out of the traffic and speeds so jauntily across the open country. I they are good citizens, good husbands, and good fathers, and of course somebody
but I do not find them exciting. I am fascinated by the men, few enough in all conscience, who take life in their own hands and seem to mould it to their own liking. It maybe that we have no such thing as free will, but at all events, we have the illusion of it. At a cross-road it does seem to us that we might go either to the right or the left and, the choice once made, it is difficult to see that the whole course of the world’s history obliged us to take the turning we did.
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. We are on a journeyHenry Van DykeWherever you are, and whoever you may be, there is one thing in which you and I are just alike at this moment, and in all the moments of our existence. W we are on journey. Our life is a movement, a tendency, a steady, ceaseless progress towards an unseen goal. We are gaining something, or losing something, everyday. Even when our position and character seem to remain precisely the same, they are changing. For the mere advance of time is a change. It is not the same thing to have a bare field in January and in July. The season makes the difference. The limitations that are childlike in the child are childish in the man.Everything that we do is a step in one direction or another. Even the failure to do something is in itself a deed. It sets us forward or backward. The action of the negative pole of a magnetic needle is just as real as the action of the positive pole. To decline is to accept—the other alternative.Are you nearer to your port today than you were yesterday? Yes, --you must be a little nearer t for since your ship was first launched upon the sea of life, you have never been still the sea is too deep, you could not find an an there can be no pause until you come into port.
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self-made ebook:&the most beautiful proses in the world&
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谢谢你！qkyh
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World without endBruce Marshall“The moving waters at their priest—like task of pure ablution round earth’s human shores…”--KeatsI think often of their lines, both when I am sad and when I am glad. I think of them when I sad, because their rhythm teaches me that the timeless patience of God is reflected in the mirror of the sea. Whatever the stupidities of men is cities or council chambers, the waves will always be in choir, chanting their psalm. They sang before Genghis Khan and they will still sing after the atom bomb. Those thoughts make me glad and I murmur the words again, because I am also grateful.
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Choice of companionsAnonymousA good companion is better than a fortune, for a fortune cannot purchase those elements of character which make companionship a blessing. The best companion is one who is wiser and better than ourselves, for we are inspired by his wisdom and virtue to nobler deeds. Greater wisdom and goodness than we possess lifts us higher mentally and morally.“ A man is known by the companion he keeps.” It is always true. Companionship of high order is powerful to develop character. Character makes character in the associations of life faster than anything else. Purity begets purity, and this fact makes the choice of companions in early life more important even than that of teachers and guardians.It is true that we cannot always choose all of our companions. Some are thrust upon us by business and the social relations of life. We do not choose them,
and yet, we have to associate with them more or less. The experience is not altogether without compensation, if there be principle enough in us to bear the strain. Still, in the main, choice of companions can be made, and must be made. It is not beat or necessary for a young person to associate with “ Tom, Dick and Henry” without forethought or purpose. Some fixed rules about the company he or she keeps should be observed. The subject should be uppermost in the thoughts, and canvassed often.Companionship is education, it develops manhood or womanhood, it lifts the soul upward
it ministers to virtue or vice. There is no half way work about its influence. If it ennobles, if it demoralizes, it does it devilishly. It saves or destroys lustily. Nothing in the world is surer than this. Sow virtue, and the harvest will be virtue. Sow vice, and the harvest will be vice. Good companions h evil companions help us to sow vice.
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If I rest, I rustOrison MardenThe significant inscription found on an old key—“If I rest, I rust”—would be an excellent motto for those are afflicted with the slightest taint of idleness. Even the industrious might adopt it with advantage to serve as a reminder that, if one allows his faculties to rest, like the iron in the unused key, they will soon show sighs of rust, and, ultimately, cannot do the work required of them.Those who would attain the heights reached and kept by great men must keep their faculties polished by constant use, so that they may unlock the doors of knowledge, the gates that guard the entrances to the profession, to science, art, literature, agriculture, --every department of human endeavor.Industry keeps bright the key that opens the treasure of achievement. If Hugh Miller, after toiling all day in a quarry, had devoted his evenings to rest and recreation, he would never have become a famous geologist. The celebrated mathematician, Edmund Stone, would never have published a mathematic dictionary, never have found the key to science of mathematics, if he had given his spare moments to idleness. Had the little Scotch lad, Ferguson, allowed the busy brain to go to sleep while he tended sheep on the hillside, instead of calculating the position of the stars by a string of beads, he would never have become a famous astronomer.Labor vanquished all, --not inconstant, spasmodic, or ill-directed labor, but faithful, unremitting, daily effort toward a well—directed purpose. Just as truly as eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, so is eternal industry the price of noble and enduring success.
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Change makes life beautifulAnonymousTo regard all things and principles of things as inconstant modes or fashions has more and more become the tendency of modern thought. Let us begin with that which is without—our physical life. Fix upon it in one of its more exquisite intervals, the moment, for instance, of delicious recoil from the flood of water in summer heat. What is the whole physical life in that moment but a combination of nature elements to which science gives their names? But these elements, phosphorus and lime and delicate fibers, are present not in the human body alone: we detect them in places most remote from it. Our physical life is a perpetual motion of them—the passage of the blood, the wasting and repairing of the lenses of the eye, the modification of the tissues of the brain under every ray of light and sound-processes which science reduces to simpler and more elementary forces. Like the elements of which we are composed, the action of these forces extends beyond us: it rusts iron and ripens corn. Far out on every side of us those elements are the springing of violets from the grave are but a few out of ten thousand resultant combinations. That clear, perpetual outline of face and limb is but an image of ours, under which we group them a design in a web, the actual threads of which pass out beyond it. This at least of flame—like our life has, that it is but the concurrence, renewed from moment to moment, of forces parting sooner or later on their ways.
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辛苦啦 ！谢谢
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Concentration Grorge Allardice RiddellThe success of the some men bewilders those around them because they never seem to work, or to work for any length of time. Their secret is their power to concentrate, and thus to obtain the maximum of result with the minimum of apparent effort. “ concentration ”, says Emerson, “ is the secret of success in politics, in war, in trade, in short in all the management of human affairs.”Concentration is a habit of mind. Men are not born equal in their power of concentration any more than in their power of playing billiards. But up to a point every one can improve his powers in every direction. This is the age of specialists. Remember that concentration is necessary not only to do things, but to select what to do. In these days no one can achieve great distinction unless he concentrates on some one things.It must be remembered that concentration is an exhausting mental and physical business for those who are unaccustomed to it. Therefore, to begin with, the strain should not be too prolonged. Attention should be relaxed for a suitable period. In other words the habit should be gradually formed. Brisk, vigorous concentration for a quarter of an hour on the first day may be gradually expanded into two hours or more at the end of the mind should be centered on the task in hand. A tired mind and body cannot accomplish this to the best advantage, and in the case of children and young persons harm may result from too prolonged efforts.
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Shakespeare’s island George GissingToday I have read The Tempest…Among the many reasons which make me glad to have been born in England , one of the first is that I read Shakespeare in my mother tongue. If I try to imagine myself as on who cannot know him face to face, who hears him only speaking from afar, and that in accents which only through the labouring intelligence can touch the living soul, there comes upon me a sense of chill discouragement, of dreary deprivation. I am wont to think that I can read Hormer, and, assuredly, if any man enjoys him, it is I; but can I for a moment dream that Homer yields me all his music, that his word id to me as to him who walked by the Hellenic shore when Hellas lived? I know that there reaches me across the vast of time no more than a f I know that it would be fainter still, but for its blending with those memories of youth which are as a glimmer of the world’s primeval glory. Let every land
for the poet is the land itself, all its greatness and its sweetness, all that incommunicable heritage for which men live and die. As I close the book, love and reverence possess me. Whether does my full heart turn to the great Enchanter, or to the Island upon which he has laid his spell? I know not. I cannot think of them apart. In the love and reverence awakened by that voice of voices, Shakespeare and England are but one.
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The earthwormAnonymousEarthworms are found in all parts of the world. They help to build the world. They help to prepare the earth to bring forth the food of man. Do you think that very strange?Now let us see how this is done. The worms live underground. They make long, winding halls, like streets, some inches below the top soil. The halls or little tunnels help to keep the earth loose, so that the fine roots of the plants can grow well in it.These tunnels also serve to help the air move more easily through the soil. By their constant motion below the surface the worms till the earth, as rakes, spades, or ploughs till it above.The chief work of the earthworms is to enrich the soil. When they make their houses, they fill their long bodies with the earth, and carry it to the top of the ground. There they pile it in heaps, called worm-casts. Early in the day or after a rain you can find these worm casts over all the garden paths.There are so many worms busy all the time that each year they bring up tons of earth. They make the earth fine and loose by pinching it off with their mouths. Fields once stony and hard have become rich and fine.
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A handful of clayHenry Van DykeThere was a handful of clay in the bank of a river. It was only common clay, but it had high thoughts of its own value, and wonderful dreams of the great place which it was to fill in the world when the time came for its virtues to be discovered.Overhead, in the spring sunshine, the trees whispered together of the glory which descended upon them when the delicate blossoms and leaves began to expand, and the forest glowed the fair, clear colors, as if the dust of thousands of rubies and emeralds were hanging, in sot clouds, above the earth.The flowers, surprised with joy of beauty, bent their heads to one another, as the wind caressed them, and said: “sisters, how lovely you have become. You make the day bright.”The river, glad of new strength and rejoicing in the unison of all its waters, murmured to the shores in music, telling of its release from icy fetters, its swift flight from the snow-clad mountains, and the mighty work to which it was hurrying—the wheels of many mills to be turned, and great ships to be floated to the sea.Waiting blindly in its bed, the clay comforted itself with lofty hopes. “ My time will come,” it said. “I was not made to hidden forever. Glory and beauty and honor are coming to me in due season.”One day the clay felt itself taken from the place where it had waited so long. A fiat blade of iron passed beneath it, and lifted it, and tossed it into a rough and stony road. But it was not afraid, nor discouraged, for it said to itself: “This is necessary. The path to glory is always rugged. Now I am on my way to play a great part in the world.”But the hard journey was nothing, compared with the tribulation and distress that came after it. The clay was put into a trough and mixed and beaten and stirred and trampled. It seemed almost unbearable. But there was consolation in the thought that something very fine and noble was certainly coming out of all this trouble. The clay felt sure that, if it could only wait long enough, a wonderful reward was in store for it.Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel, and whirled around until it seemed as if it must fly into a thousand pieces. A strange power pressed it and moulded it, as it revolved, and through all the dizziness and pain it felt that it was taking a new form.Then an unknown hand put it into an oven, and fires were kindled about it—fierce and penetrating—hotter than all the heats of summer that had ever brooded upon the bank of the river. But through all, the clay held itself together and endured its trials, in the confidence of a great future. “ Surely,” it thought, “I am intended for something very splendid, since such pains are taken with me. Perhaps I am fashioned for the ornament of a temple, or a precious vase for the table of a king.”At last the baking was finished. The clay was taken from the furnace and set down upon a board, in the cool air, under the blue shy. The tribulation was passed. The reward was at hand.Closed beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep, nor very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, every image that felt upon it. There for the first time, as it was lifted from the board, the clay saw its new shape, the reward of all its patience and pain, the consummation of its hopes—a common flower-pot straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not destined for a king’s house, nor for a palace of art, because it was made without glor and it murmured again the unknown maker, saying, “why hast thou made me thus?”Many days it passed in sullen discontent. Then it was filled with earth, and something—it knew not what—but something rough and brown and dead-looking, was thrust into the middle of the earth and covered over. The clay rebelled at this new disgrace. “ This is the worst of all that has happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I am a failure.”But presently it was set in a greenhouse, where the sunlight fell warm upon it, and water was sprinkled over it, and day by day as it waited, a change began to come to it. Something was stirring within it—a new hope. Still it was ignorant, and knew not what the new hope meant.One day the clay was lifted again from its place, and carried into a great church. Its dream was coming true after all. It had a fine part to play in the world. Glorious music flowed over it. It was surrounded with flowers. Still it could not understand. So it whispered to another vessel of clay, like itself, close beside it, “Why have they set me here? Why do all the people look towards us?” and the other vessel answered, “Do you not know? You are carrying a royal scepter of lilies. Their petals are white as snow, and the heart of them is like pure gold. The people look this way because the flower is the most wonderful in the world. And the root if it is in your heart.”Then the clay was content, and silently thanked its maker, because, though an earthen vessel, it held so great a treasure.
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这两天机器老有故障，今天好不容易找个能上网的地方，就一并把明天的发了。从六月九号到明天七月八号，已经整一个月了。很感激那么多战友来看这些文章。很多时候忙于试验，没有很多时间摘抄更好的文章，很是遗憾。等以后再遇到好的文章，一定还来与大家分享。谢谢一个月的陪伴！
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