新視野大學(xué)英語讀寫教程3 unit10 課文翻譯

未曾謀面的勁敵朋友我和約翰·布雷爾初次會面時，我倆都已60出頭了，但是，較之別人，她對我的人生影響最大卻是事實，并且我害羞的毛病也重要歸咎于她?？惥藡屖俏易钕矚g的親戚，也是我最喜歡的權(quán)威人物。她總是一臉笑容，滿口贊美之詞，隨時寬容她人的失誤。對我而言，她只有一種缺陷，即她也是約翰·布雷爾的姨媽。約翰是她住在格洛斯特郡的妹妹的兒子?？惥藡尶偸欠Q她“我的另一種外甥小約翰”，并且總是提起她。在我意識到之前，我與小約翰也許已被比較了無多次了。我能清晰記得的第一次，是“卡麗舅媽的另一種外甥小約翰”與我同一天上學(xué)，并且她喜歡上學(xué)就像鴨子喜歡水，而我的第一天卻是劫難性的。并且劫難持續(xù)不斷。她是個令人難以置信的孩子，學(xué)數(shù)學(xué)長進不久，解高等數(shù)學(xué)題輕而易舉。而我?guī)缀蹩偸堑沧?，連學(xué)百分?jǐn)?shù)都很費力。于是我開始膽怯卡麗舅媽來訪，由于她老是比較我們倆。時間在繼續(xù)，我們之間的比較也在繼續(xù)。通過放假時大人們的談?wù)?，上學(xué)時大人之間的通信，我總能隨時理解約翰的進步。在這樣的挑戰(zhàn)下，我終于開始尋找我最擅長的事情。當(dāng)我發(fā)現(xiàn)我擅長寫作時，我就用心地提高我的寫作水平，置其她一切于腦后。我只要寫作，讓約翰去擁有所有其她的吧。我創(chuàng)作的故事，多半與科技有關(guān)，本質(zhì)上是科幻故事。都是有關(guān)火箭、航天飛機，諸如此類把人送上天的東西。對自己的性格作了點分析后，我結(jié)識到我的這些故事就是自己愿望的延伸，我想愈升愈高，直至超過約翰·布雷爾。在后來的40年里，有三四次我在報上讀到約翰·布雷爾的消息。她當(dāng)時在做支持大型科學(xué)項目的數(shù)學(xué)研究工作。這種職業(yè)不太會招來多少公眾注意，但偶爾見諸報端的報道卻描繪了她一步步成功的故事，直到退休。另有一次，有一半專欄報道了她，說她最后的工作是將太陽能用于將衛(wèi)星送入軌道。她在波斯灣某國為一種政府部門工作。而那時，我也在自己的行業(yè)獲得了成功，寫了30本暢銷故事，其中無一失敗之作。后來，那一年的11月，我正在一家具樂部喝酒，等著吃飯。一聲咳嗽令我轉(zhuǎn)頭張望。我看見一種矮矮胖胖的人，小小的鼻子看上去難以支撐沉重的眼鏡框架。她叫了我的名字，顯然不太自在，而我也不情愿地說是我。自從我有了點名氣后，偶爾也有陌生人向我打招呼。然后無論她們說什么，我總是感到十分窘迫?！澳悴徊唤Y(jié)識我我，”這個矮小男人結(jié)結(jié)巴巴地說?！拔医屑s翰·布布雷爾。我們都均有一種親戚，卡卡羅琳·萊西。我過去常常聽她提起你，”她笑著說?！澳愣梦沂冀K覺得，你至少八英尺高，很英俊，氣憤勃勃，比世界上任何人都能干。”說著話，她的笑容擴散開來?！罢娴模彼f，“卡麗姨媽寫的那些有關(guān)你的信，弄得我?guī)缀跻詺⒘?。徐徐地，我就不肯聽到你的名字了?！睋?jù)說她那么近年之后忽然見到她我有點吃驚?！芭c你媽媽過去常寫的有關(guān)你的信相比，”我說，“那些信算不了什么。每次信都告訴我你的計算題做得對。我總是把你想成一位光輝典范，九英尺高，比羅伯特·泰勒英俊，比丘吉爾聰穎。因此，那些信是互相夸獎對方的（她們騙了我們），對不對？”“對我來說更糟糕，”她說?！拔覛v來是小個子，過去總是戴著這東西。”她摸了摸自己的眼鏡?！岸隳?，魁梧、英俊，還很聰穎。我總得做點什么，而我能做的就是計算。我拼命取悅于她人，我?guī)缀蹩梢哉f，”她似乎有點怨恨地說，“就是由于你，我做了一輩子的算術(shù)！”“把算術(shù)換成寫作，你就懂得我的情形了，”我說。我倆相對而視，臉上掛著相似的表情。也許，我倆都明白了，我們坐著的這個地方，并不是人生失敗的人出沒的地方，對于男孩子來說，無論她們目前什么樣，偶爾的鞭策并非一件壞事。我們都推了推自己的眼鏡，兩人之間的對抗情緒蕩然無存。雖然都沒說話，但我懂得，我們在舉杯紀(jì)念我們的卡麗舅（姨）媽。The Challenging Friend I Didn't Know John Bullyer and I met for the first time when we were both in our early sixties, but it is true to say that he did more to shape my life than any other person, and is largely responsible for the shyness which has been a handicap to me. Aunt Carrie was my favorite relative, as well as my favorite authority figure. She was always free with smiles, words of praise, and excuses for misdoings. For me she had but one drawback: She was also aunt to John Bullyer, the son of her sister who lived in Gloucestershire. She invariably referred to him as "Little-John-my-other-nephew" all in one word, and she referred to him far too often. Probably hundreds of comparisons were made before I became aware of them. The first that I remember with any clarity was that Little-John-Aunt-Carrie's-other-nephew had started school on the same day as I did and had taken to it like a duck to water. My first day, on the other hand, was disastrous. And so it went on. Incredible boy, he advanced quickly in mathematics; he was dealing expertly with advanced math, just cruising through, while I was practically slamming my head against a wall trying to learn percentages. I began to dread Aunt Carrie's visits, because she was always comparing the two of us. Time went on; so did the comparisons. By word of mouth during the holidays, by phrases that leaped out of letters during term time, I was kept up to date with John's progress. Thus challenged, I began at last to look round for something that I could do well. When I discovered that I could write well, I worked with intensity at my craft, minding nothing else. Let this be mine, John Bullyer could have all the rest. The stories that I invented were mostly technological and science fiction in nature. They told of rockets and spacecraft, things that would take men high up into the sky. After some analysis of my personality, I realized that my stories were an extension of my own desires to rise to higher and higher altitudes, until I was above John Bullyer. Three or four times during the next forty years I saw mention of John Bullyer in the press. He was doing mathematical work that supported big, scientific projects. It was not the kind of career to attract much publicity, but occasional paragraphs in newspapers charted a steady success until he retired. On that occasion there was a half column about him; it said that his last job was the harnessing of solar power for a satellite put into orbit. He was working for a government bureau in a country in the Persian Gulf. I was, by that time, successful in my own line, having written a streak of 30 best-sellers without a single failure. Late that year, in November, I was in a club, sipping a glass of wine before dinner. A cough made me look round. I saw a short, fat man with a little nose that looked too small to support the framework of his heavy glasses. With more than a suggestion of discomfort, he spoke my name and I, somewhat reluctantly, admitted my identity. Since I attained some measures of fame I have on occasion been approached by strangers. Whatever they say, I am always horribly embarrassed. "You d-don't know m-me," said the little man, stammering. "My name's John B-Bullyer. We sh-shared an aunt, C-Caroline Lacey. I used to hear so much about you," he said with a smile. "You see. I grew up with the idea that you were at least eight feet tall, handsome, dynamic, and more able than anyone in the universe." His smile broadened. "Really," he said, "the letters Aunt Carrie used to write about you almost drove me to suicide. I grew to hate the sound of your name at times." "Those letters were probably nothing," I said, surprised to meet this man after so many years of having heard of him, "compared to the letters your mother used to write about you. I was told every time you got a sum right. I always thought of you as an imposing specimen of a mannine feet high, better looking than Robert Taylor and wiser than Churchill. So they played the game both ways, did they?" "But it was worse for me," he said. "I've always been undersized, and I always had these." He touched his glasses. "And there you were, tall and handsome. And so clever too. I had to do something; and all I could ever do was sums, and nearly killed myself at games in an effort to be liked by others. I might almost say," he said, with something like resentment, "that because of you I've been doing sums all my life!" "Substitute writing stories for doing sums and you have exactly my story," I said. We looked at each other with identical expressions. Then it probably dawned on us both that the place in which we sat is not the place of men who have been failures in life, and that for boys, being what they are, an occasional push is not such a bad thing. Together we lifted our glasses, and the tensions between us went away. And though neither of us spoke, I know we drank to the memory of our Aunt Carrie.