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Unit1
Writing for Myself
为自己而写
The idea of becoming a writer had come to me off and on since my childhood in Belleville, but it
wasn't until my third year in high school that the possibility took hold. Until then I've been bored
by everything associated with English courses. I found English grammar dull and difficult. I hated
the assignments to turn out long, lifeless paragraphs that were agony for teachers to read and for
me to write.
从孩提时代，
我还住在贝尔维尔时，
我的脑子里 就断断续续地转着当作家的念头，
但直等到
我高中三年级，
这一想法才有了实现的可能 。
在这之前，
我对所有跟英文课沾边的事都感到
腻味。
我觉得英文语法枯燥难 懂。我痛恨那些长而乏味的段落写作，老师读着受累，我写着
痛苦。
When our class was assigned to Mr. Fleagle for third- year English I anticipated another cheerless
year in that most tedious of subjects. Mr. Fleagle had a reputation among students for dullness and
inability to inspire. He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date. To me he
looked to be sixty or seventy and excessively wore primly severe eyeglasses, his wavy
hair was primly cut and primly combed. He wore prim suits with neckties set primly against the
collar buttons of his white shirts. He had a primly pointed jaw, a primly straight nose, and a prim
manner of speaking that was so correct, so gentlemanly, that he seemed a comic antique.
弗利格尔先生接我们的高三英文课时，
我 就准备着在这门最最单调乏味的课上再熬上沉闷的
一年。
弗利格尔先生在学生中以其说话干巴和 激励学生无术而出名。
据说他拘谨刻板，
完全
落后于时代。我看他有六七十岁了，古板之极。他戴着古板的毫无装饰的眼镜，微微卷曲的
头发剪得笔齐，
梳得纹丝不乱。他身穿古板的套装，领带端端正正地顶着白衬衣的领扣。他
长着古板的尖下巴，古板的直鼻梁，说起 话来一本正经，字斟句酌，彬彬有礼，活脱脱一个
滑稽的老古董。
I prepared for an unfruitful year with Mr. Fleagle and for a long time was not disappointed. Late in
the year we tackled the informal essay. Mr. Fleagle distributed a homework sheet offering us a
choice of topics. None was quite so simple- minded as
most seemed to be almost as dull. I took the list home and did nothing until the night before the
essay was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to the unwelcome task, took the list out of my
notebook, and scanned it. The topic on which my eye stopped was
我作好准备，
打算 在弗利格尔先生的班上一无所获地混上一年，
不少日子过去了，
还真不出
所料。
后半学期我们学写随笔小品文。
弗利格尔先生发下一张家庭作业纸，
出了不少题目供
我们选择。像
暑假二三事
那样傻乎乎的题目倒是一个也没有，但绝大多数一样 乏味。我把
作文题带回家，
一直没写，直到要交作业的前一天晚上。
我躺在沙发上，最 终不得不面对这
一讨厌的功课，便从笔记本里抽出作文题目单粗粗一看。我的目光落在
吃意大利细面条的
艺术
这个题目上。
This title produced an extraordinary sequence of mental images. Vivid memories came flooding
back of a night in Belleville when all of us were seated around the supper table - Uncle Allen, my
mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Hal - and Aunt Pat served spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was
still a little known foreign dish in those days. Neither Doris nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and
none of the adults had enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of Uncle Allen's
house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the laughing arguments we had that night about the
socially respectable method for moving spaghetti from plate to mouth.
这个题目在我脑海 里唤起了一连串不同寻常的图像。
贝尔维尔之夜的清晰的回忆如潮水一般
涌来，当时，我们大家 一起围坐在晚餐桌旁
——
艾伦舅舅、我母亲、查理舅舅、多丽丝、哈
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