时间:2024-05-28 16:19:53 美文欣赏 投诉 投稿





  We’re like the cream. When the cream rises to the top, it separates itself from the milk. Perhaps that is what the New Age Movement is really all about.We find ourselves lonely at the top. Yes, it is.


  It is no different with political enlightenment, spiritual enlightenment, or even becoming enlightened about relating to each other. The more mentally healthy you become, the more spiritual, the more balanced, the wealthier, the more global you become… the more alone you may feel.


  Often, we find ourselves unable to find those other rare individuals who are choosing the same path as ours. The path of sloppy and lazy is full of other people to meet and talk to. The path of whiners is full. The path of being safe, generic, and boring is so crowded you almost cannot even move forward. Isn’t that why you left that path? You had a need to move forward, a need for some elbowroom, a need to spread your arms wide, a need to be seen as special, unique, different. The masses may admire you, but they are not going to be able to really relate to you. You will be alone much of the time.



  Do not be afraid of the loneliness of enlightenment. Do not force others to agree with you. Simply give your heart and know that you are growing and that they are free to grow or not. It is the nature of the game. We are all free to choose our paths.





  家中只有一个画家了Only one artist in the family When Pable Picasso was a little boy, he lived in a small town in Spain. His mother liked to call him “Piz”. It is the Spanish word for pencil. As a baby, he liked pencils and chalks better than any of his toys. 巴勃罗.毕加索小时候住在西班牙的一个小镇上。他母亲喜欢叫他“皮兹”。这是“铅笔”的西班牙语单词。他从小就喜欢铅笔和粉笔胜过任何的'玩具。

  Picasso’s father was an artist, He spent a lot of time teaching the little boy how to draw. 毕加索的父亲是个画家。他花了大量时间教他儿子怎样绘画。

  Drawing was Picasso’s great pleasure. He usually sat by the windows and drew pictures of pigeons. 绘画成了毕加索很大的乐趣。他通常坐在窗户旁边画鸽子。

  One day his father came back, He stood for a long time looking at Picasso’s picture. The pigeons in the picture looked quite real. 有一天,他父亲回来了。他站了很长时间观察毕加索画的画。画中的鸽子看上去十分逼真。

  His father gave all his brushes and paint to Picasso. He told his son that from then on there would be only one artist in the family. 毕加索的父亲把所有的画笔和颜料全给了他。他对他儿子说,从那个时候起家中只有一个画家。


  It seems that hip-hop music is ubiqrutous these days, from popular radio to TV commercials. Whatever your opinion of hip-hop music may be, there is no denying it has impacted pop culture around the world, and shows no signs of slowing down.


  Hip-hop brings with it its own unique terminology. Rap is the literal action of speaking over a beat. Hip-hop is both a kind of music and a culture, which includes four main elements: emceeing , deejaying , breaking , and graffih art . Along with these are other distinctive. aspects ofhip-hop culture such as language and fashion.

  嘻哈风带来了一些专有术语: 说唱乐 是指配合节奏念文字的动作。 嘻哈 既是一种音乐,同时也是一种文化,嘻哈文化包含4大要素 MC (随节奏说唱)、 DJ (转动唱片及混音)、 霹雳舞 (一种特技般的舞蹈),和 涂鸦艺术_o除此之外嘻哈文化还有其他一些特殊


  Hip-hop has its roots in the African traditions of percussion and oral storytelling. Its modernorigins, however, can be found in New York Citys crime-ridden South Bronx in the early 1970s. Fed up with the insipid disco of the times, youth who were short on money but rich in ingenuity created a new, dynamic art form: verbally competing and chronfcling life in the ghetto by rapping poetry over a beat.


  4.Earthworms that Help Improve the Soil

  The earthworm is a useful animal.Out of the ground,it is food for other animals.In the ground,it makes rich soil for fields and gardens.

  Earthworms dig tunnels that loosen the soil and make it easy for air and water to reach the roots of plants.These tunnels help keep the soil well drained.

  Earthworms drag dead leaves,grass,and flowers into their burrows.When this plant material decays,it makes the soil more fertile.

  No other animal is so useful in building up good topsoil.It is estimated that in one year fifty thousand earthworms carry about eighteen tons of fine soil to the surface of an acre of land.One worm may add three quarters of a pound of earth to tho topsoil.







  It is said that life is not measured by the breaths you take,but by the moments that take your breath away.

  If this is correct,then are we really living our lives to the fullest? Are we enjoying every moment and giving each one the opportunity to mesmerize us? How many memories can you recollect that left you breathless and in absolute awe? Were you able to count beyond your fingertips? Think about it; 20,30,40 or more years,and just a few such moments?

  The problem isn’t that such mesmerizing events rarely occur,but rather it is our lack of being present in the moment that allows us to miss it all.It is often the simplest things in life that are the most magical: from falling in love to watching a child take their first step,moments that make the heart skip a beat are hard to miss if you are paying attention.They aren’t expensive to the pocket and neither do they consume too much time—you just need to be consciously present in the moment to be able to encapsulate the magic that lies within.

  We all know that life can sometimes get overwhelming: from rush hour traffic to the never ending workload,there is always something that needs our attention.As you get stuck in the monotonous everyday rut,take a moment to stop and acknowledge your existence.This isn’t to propose that you drop everything and enter into a state of meditation but rather simply be consciously present in even the most mundane of your everyday activities.

  Life can crawl through you if you let negativity overtake your mind,and it will fly by in the blink of an eye if you get too engrossed in everyday life and fail to recognize and differentiate the you apart from the everything else.It is therefore very important that you find time to nurture yourself and give it the attention it deserves.



  The Maestro continued to play, not looking up from the keys.

  “Yes, Rollo?”

  “Sir, I was wondering if you would explain this apparatus to me.”

  The Maestro stopped playing, his thin body stiffly relaxed on the bench. His long supple fingers floated off the keyboard.

  “Apparatus?” He turned and smiled at the robot. “Do you mean the piano, Rollo?”

  “This machine that produces varying sounds. I would like some information about it, its operation and purpose. It is not included in my reference data.”

  The Maestro lit a cigarette. He preferred to do it himself. One of his first orders to Rollo when the robot was delivered two days before had been to disregarded his built-in instructions on the subject.

  “I’d hardly call a piano a machine, Rollo,” he smiled, “although technically you are correct. It is actually, I suppose, a machine designed to produce sounds of graduated pitch and tone, singly or in groups.”

  “I assimilated that much by observation,” Rollo replied in a brassy baritone which no longer sent tiny tremors up the Maestro’s spine. “Wires of different thickness and tautness struck by felt-covered hammers activated by manually operated levers arranged in a horizontal panel.”

  “A very cold-blooded description of one of man’s nobler works,” the Maestro remarked dryly. “You make Mozart and Chopin mere laboratory technicians.”

  “Mozart? Chopin?” The duralloy sphere that was Rollo’s head shone stark and featureless, its immediate surface unbroken but for twin vision lenses. “The terms are not included in my memory banks.”

  “No, not yours, Rollo,” the Maestro said softly. “Mozart and Chopin are not for vacuum tubes and fuses and copper wire. They are for flesh and blood and human tears.”

  “I do not understand,” Rollo droned.

  “Well,” the Maestro said, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, “they are two of the humans who compose, or design successions of notes--varying sounds, that is, produced by the piano or by other instruments, machines that produce other types of sounds of fixed pitch and tone.

  “Sometimes these instruments, as we call them, are played, or operated, individually: sometimes in groups--orchestras, as we refer to them--and the sounds blend together, they harmonize. That is, they have an orderly, mathematical relationship to each other which results in...”

  The Maestro threw up his hands.

  “I never imagined,” he chuckled, “that I would some day struggle so mightily, and so futilely, to explain music to a robot!”


  “Yes, Rollo. The sounds produced by this machine and others of the same category are called music.”

  “What is the purpose of music, sir?”


  The Maestro crushed the cigarette in an ash tray. He turned to the keyboard of the concert grand and flexed his fingers briefly.

  “Listen, Rollo.”

  The wraithlike fingers glided and wove the opening bars of “Clair de Lune,” slender and delicate as spider silk. Rollo stood rigid, the fluorescent light over the music rack casting a bluish jeweled sheen over his towering bulk, shimmering in the amber vision lenses.

  The Maestro drew his hands back from the keys and the subtle thread of melody melted reluctantly into silence.

  “Claude Debussy”, the Maestro said. “One of our mechanics of an era long past. He designed that succession of tones many years ago. What do you think of it?”

  Rollo did not answer at once.

  “The sounds were well formed,” he replied finally. “They did not jar my auditory senses as some do.”

  The Maestro laughed. “Rollo, you may not realize it, but you’re a wonderful critic.”

  “This music, then,” Rollo droned. “Its purpose is to give pleasure to humans?”

  “Exactly,” the Maestro said. “Sounds well formed, that do not jar the auditory senses as some do. Marvelous! It should be carved in marble over the entrance of New Carnegie Hall.”

  “I do not understand. Why should my definition--?”

  The Maestro waved a hand. “No matter, Rollo. No matter.”


  “Yes, Rollo?”

  “Those sheets of paper you sometimes place before you on the piano. They are the plans of the composer indicating which sounds are to be produced by the piano and in what order?”

  “Just so. We call each sound a note; combinations of notes we call chords.”

  “Each dot, then, indicates a sound to be made?”

  “Perfectly correct, my man of metal.”

  Rollo stared straight ahead. The Maestro felt a peculiar sense of wheels turning within that impregnable sphere.

  “Sir, I have scanned my memory banks and find no specific or implied instructions against it. I should like to be taught how to produce these notes on the piano. I request that you feed the correlation between those dots and the levers of the panel into my memory banks.”

  The Maestro peered at him, amazed. A slow grin traveled across his face.

  “Done!” he exclaimed. “It’s been many years since pupils helped gray these ancient locks, but I have the feeling that you, Rollo, will prove a most fascinating student. To instill the Muse into metal and machinery... I accept the challenge gladly!”

  He rose, touched the cool latent power of Rollo’s arm.

  “Sit down here, my Rolleindex Personal Robot, Model M-e. We shall start Beethoven spinning in his grave--or make musical history.”

  More than an hour later the Maestro yawned and looked at his watch.

  “It’s late,” he spoke into the end of the yawn. “These old eyes are not tireless like yours, my friend.” He touched Rollo’s shoulder. “You have the complete fundamentals of musical notation in your memory banks, Rollo. That’s a good night’s lesson, particularly when I recall how long it took me to acquire the same amount of information. Tomorrow we’ll attempt to put those awesome fingers of yours to work.”

  He stretched. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Will you lock up and put out the lights?”

  “May I attempt to create some sounds with the keyboard tonight? I will do so very softly so as not to disturb you.”

  “Tonight? Aren’t you--?” Then the Maestro smiled. “You must pardon me, Rollo. It’s still a bit difficult for me to realize that sleep has no meaning for you.”


  The Hand



  [1]A Thanksgiving Day editorial(社论)in the newspaper told of a school teacher who asked her class of first graders to draw a picture of something they were thankful for. She thought of how little these children from poor neighborhoods actually had to be thankful for. But she knew that most of them would draw pictures of turkeys or tables with food. The teacher was taken aback(吃惊;惊讶)with the picture Douglas handed in… a smile childishly drawn hand.


  [2]But whose hand? The class was captivated(迷惑;困惑)by the abstract(抽象的)image. “I think it must be the hand of God that brings us food,” said one child. “A farmer,” said another, “because he grows the turkeys.” Finally when the others were at work, the teacher bent(弯腰;屈身)over Douglas’s desk and asked whose hand it was. “It’s your hand, Teacher,” he mumbled(咕哝;含糊地说).


  [3]She recalled that frequently at recess(课间休息)she had taken Douglas, a scrubby(身材矮小的)forlorn(孤独的)child by the hand. She often did that with the children. But it meant so much to Douglas. Perhaps this was everyone’s Thanksgiving, not for the material things given to us but for the chance, in whatever small way, to give to others.



  All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year, sometimes as short as 24 hours. But always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed hero chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited. Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings, what regrets?

  Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die tomorrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live each day with gentleness, vigor and a keenness of appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There are those, of course, who would adopt the Epicurean motto of Eat, drink, and be merry. But most people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.

  In stories the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.

  Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

  The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health until we are ill.

  I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound.


  Recently, one of my best friends, whom I‘ve shared just about[几乎] everything with since the first day of kindergarten[幼儿园], spent the weekend with me. Since I moved to a new town several years ago, we‘ve both always looked forward to the few times a year when we can see each other.

  Over the weekend, we spent hours and hours, staying up late[迟迟不睡] into the night, talking about the people she was hanging around with[交往]. She started telling me stories about her new boyfriend, about how he experimented[尝试] with drugs and was into other self-destructive[自毁] behavior[行为]. I was blown away[震惊]! She told me how she had been lying to her parents about where she was going and even sneaking out[偷跑] to see this guy because they didn‘t want her around him. No matter how hard I tried to tell her that she deserved better, she didn‘t believe me. Her self-respect seemed to have disappeared.

  I tried to convince her that she was ruining her future and heading for big trouble. I felt like I was getting nowhere[毫无进展]. I just couldn‘t believe that she really thought it was acceptable to hang with a bunch of losers, especially her boyfriend.

  By the time she left, I was really worried about her and exhausted[疲惫] by the experience. It had been so frustrating[灰心的], I had come close to telling her several times during the weekend that maybe we had just grown too far apart to continue our friendship - but I didn‘t. I put the power of friendship to the ultimate[最后的`] test. We‘d been friends for far too long. I had to hope that she valued me enough to know that I was trying to save her from hurting herself. I wanted to believe that our friendship could conquer[克服] anything.

  A few days later, she called to say that she had thought long and hard about our conversation, and then she told me that she had broken up with her boyfriend. I just listened on the other end of the phone with tears of joy running down my face. It was one of the truly rewarding[值得的] moments in my life. Never had I been so proud of a friend.(by Danielle Fishel)


  There was a rich merchant who had 4 wives. He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with rich robes and treated her to delicacies. He took great care of her and gave her nothing but the best.


  He also loved the 3rd wife very much. He's very proud of her and always wanted to show off her to his friends. However, the merchant is always in great fear that she might run away with some other men.


  He too, loved his 2nd wife. She is a very considerate person, always patient and in fact is the merchant's connfidante. Whenever the merchant faced some problems, he always turned to his 2nd wife and she would always help him out and tide him through difficult times.


  Now, the merchant's 1st wife is a very loyal partner and has made great contributions in maintaining his wealth and business as well as taking care of the household. However, the merchant did not love the first wife and although she loved him deeply, he hardly took notice of her.


  One day, the merchant fell ill. Before long, he knew that he was going to die soon. He thought of his luxurious life and told himself, “Now I have 4 wives with me. But when I die, I’ll be alone. How lonely I’ll be!”


  Thus, he asked the 4th wife, “I loved you most, and owed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?” “No way!” replied the 4th wife and she walked away without another word.


  The answer cut like a sharp knife right into the merchant's heart. The sad merchant then asked the 3rd wife, “I have loved you so much for all my life. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?” “No!” replied the 3rd wife. “Life is so good over here! I’m going to remarry when you die!” The merchant’s heart sank and turned cold.


  He then asked the 2nd wife, “I always turned to you for help and you've always helped me out. Now I need your help again. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?” “I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!” replied the 2nd wife. “At the very most, I can only send you to your grave.” The answer came like a bolt of thunder and the merchant was devastated.


  Then a voice called out: “I'll leave with you. I'll follow you no matter where you go.” The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny, almost like she suffered from malnutrition. Greatly grieved, the merchant said, “I should have taken much better care of you while I could have!”


  Actually, we all have 4 wives in our lives


  The 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it'll leave us when we die.


  Our 3rd wife is our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.


  The 2nd wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we're alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the grave.


  The 1st wife is in fact our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure.


  Guess what? It is actually the only thing that follows us wherever we go. Perhaps it's a good idea to cultivate and strengthen it now rather than to wait until we're on our deathbed to lament.













  The pigeons with faint finally etched a circle in the light breeze, have disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the gloomy sky and cold for the onset of night, or have a hunch that rain is approaching, so they fly back to their warm cabin.

  A few days of sunshine on the willow, a touch of green, buried in the dust is haggard, it is a need for a washing. And the dry ground and the roots of the tree have long been looking for rain. The rain was hesitating.

  I think of thunder and rain in my hometown. Those mighty crashes rumbled, from the valley echo Valley, as if spring shoots were shaking in the frozen ground, woke up, and anger out zhuo. Fine grass like soft rain with gentle hands stroked it, so that clumps of green leaves and pink flowers. This feeling of nostalgia about my melancholy. My heart is the North China climate and lack of rainfall, a tear in my dull eyes, such as lingering in the murky sky of the rain, for a long time not to fall.

  The white ducks looked a bit tired, their anxious cries from the dirty city rivers. Paddling slowly some were not weary of the ship. Others were putting their necks in the water, red webbed toe extension in the tail, constantly beat against the water to support the balance of the body. I do not know to look for the fine food at the bottom of the ditch, or to greedy the cold in the deep water.

  A few have landed. Walk in the willow swaggered back, the man Lao Shu interest. Then stood unevenly, with the mouth carefully ask them full of white feathers, and occasionally shake or spread their broad wings that compose in hand between the falling feather. One that had already finished, bending its neck on the back, long billed hiding in the wings, quietly closed its white fuzz small black eyes, as if it were going to sleep. Poor little animal, are you doing your dream?

  I think the hometown people put ducklings. A large group of goose yellow ducklings in the streams. Limpid water, lush green grass on the banks, with a long bamboo pole in his hand. His team is glad to look after a sound, and how meekly with his rod head over a field and a hillside! Night, tent like bamboo shed on the ground, is his home. But this is what a distant imagination! In this country of dust, I only want to hear the sound of raindrops on leaves. A little raindrop dripping into my haggard dream, may grow into a round green shade to cover myself.

  I raised my head. The sky was drooping like a grey fog curtain, and some cold crumbs fell on my face. A long distance to the hawk as if with anger, against the heavy weather anger, flat piece of wings do not move from the sky Xiecha, almost touched the hillock on the other side of the brook, and beat its wings and make violently. That great wing amazes me. I saw it two grizzled feathers.

  Then he heard its powerful voice, like a great heart call, or the call of a companion in the dark.

  But the rain did not come.


  I used to watch her from my kitchen window, she seemed so small as she muscled her way through the crowd of boys on the playground. The school was across the street from our home and I would often watch the kids as they played during recess. A sea of children, and yet to me, she stood out from them all. I remember the first day I saw her playing basketball. I watched in wonder as she ran circles around the other kids. She managed to shoot jump shots just over their heads and into the net. The boys always tried to stop her but no one could. I began to notice her at other times, basketball in hand, playing alone. She would practice dribbling and shooting over and over again, sometimes until dark. One day I asked her why she practiced so much. She looked directly in my eyes and without a moment of hesitation she said, “I want to go to college. The only way I can go is if I get a scholarship. I like basketball. I decided that if I were good enough, I would get a scholarship. I am going to play college basketball. I want to be the best. My Daddy told me if the dream is big enough, the facts don’t count.” Then she smiled and ran towards the court to recap the routine I had seen over and over again. Well, I had to give it to her—she was determined. I watched her through those junior high years and into high school. Every week, she led her varsity team to victory.

  One day in her senior year, I saw her sitting in the grass, head cradled in her arms. I walked across the street and sat down in the cool grass beside her. Quietly I asked what was wrong. “Oh, nothing,” came a soft reply. “I am just too short.” The coach told her that at 5’5” she would probably never get to play for a top ranked team— much less offered a scholarship—so she should stop dreaming about college. She was heartbroken and I felt my own throat tighten as I sensed her disappointment. I asked her if she had talked to her dad about it yet. She lifted her head from her hands and told me that her father said those coaches were wrong. They just did not understand the power of a dream. He told her that if she really wanted to play for a good college, if she truly wanted a scholarship, that nothing could stop her except one thing — her own attitude. He told her again, “If the dream is big enough, the facts don’t count.” The next year, as she and her team went to the Northern California Championship game, she was seen by a college recruiter. She was indeed offered a scholarship, a full ride, to a Division 1, NCAA women’s basketball team. She was going to get the college education that she had dreamed of and worked toward for all those years.


  Travels on Holidaysin China.

  Nowadays, more and more people like to travel in their holidays. The other day I read a report about the ways people spend their holidays. It is reported that in recent yiars several new holiday habits have been developed. Among them, the most interesting one is the growth of the so-called holiday camps.

  From the report we can see that in 1990,40 percent of people stayed at home for holidays. But now the proportion has reduced to 9 percent. More people go out for fun. The proportion of camping and traveling abroad was increasing steadily, from 10 percent in 1990 to 38 percent in 20xx, and 12 percent in 1990 to 26 percent in 20xx respectively.

  People enjoy the fresh air, clean Water and green hills when they go camping in the suburbs. In 1990,38 percent people enjoyed going to the seaside while in 20xx only 27 percent prefer to go there. What great changes! Why did those changes appear I think there are several reasons. First, it s because people can afford traveling. Second, people prefer to pursue a high-quality and colorful life. Third, their attitudes to relaxation have changed.

  Less people want to save much money by leading a simple life. In short, peoples living standard today has been rising greatly.



  The lives of most men are determined by their enviroment.They accept the circumstances amid which fate has thrown them not only resignation but even with good will.They are like streetcars running contendedly 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 respct them; they are good citizens,good husbands,and good fathers ,and of course somebody has to pay the taxes; but I do not find them exciting. I am fasinated by the men, few enough in all conscience , who take life in their own hands and seem to mould it in to their own liking. It may be 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 to 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.




  FOR some people in this world, the glass always seems to be half-full. For others it is half-empty. But how someone comes to have a sunny disposition in the first place is an interesting question.

  It has been known for a long time that optimists see the world selectively, mentally processing positive things while ignoring negative ones, and that this outlook helps determine their health and well-being. In recent years, it has also become clear that carriers of a particular version of a particular gene are at higher risk than others of depression and attempted suicide when they face traumatic events. The gene in question lies in a region of the genome that promotes the activity of a second gene, which encodes a protein called the serotonin transporter. Serotonin is a messenger molecule that carries signals between nerve cells, and it is known to modulate many aspects of human behaviour, although the details are complex and controversial. The transporter protein recycles serotonin back into the cell that produced it, making it available for reuse, but also reducing the amount in the junctions between cells and thus, it is presumed, the strength of the signal.



  It has looked increasingly likely, therefore, that genes—particularly those connected with serotonin—have a role to play in shaping a person’s outlook. So Elaine Fox and her colleagues at the University of Essex, in Britain, wondered whether genes play a part in the selective attention to positive or negative material, with consequent effects on outlook.

  To find out, they took samples of DNA from about 100 people and then subjected these people to what is known as the dot-probe paradigm test to see how they reacted to different stimuli. In this test participants are briefly shown photographs that may be positive, negative or neutral in tone. They then have to press a keypad to indicate when a dot has appeared on the screen. It has been found by experience that the more distracting an image is, the longer a person takes to respond when the dot appears. That allowed Dr Fox and her team to discover how distracting particular people found particular images.

  因此,人们越来越发现基因——特别是与血清素相关的基因很可能对人们形成“世界观”有作用。所以来自英国埃塞克斯大学(University of Essex) 的Elaine Fox 和她的同事想知道基因是否在对积极或者消极事件的选择性注意上起一定的作用,从而影响“世界观”。


  In a paper just published in the Proceedings of the Royal Society B they report that, sure enough, gene-related variation caused a bias in attention towards positive and negative material. Some people had two “long” versions of the promoter gene (one inherited from each parent), a combination that reduces the amount of serotonin in the junctions between nerve cells. These individuals were biased towards positive images and away from negative ones. By contrast, those who had either a long and a short version of the gene, or two short versions (and thus, presumably, more serotonin in the junctions), did not have such protective biases. In other words, the optimists really did see the world differently.

  Rose-tinted spectacles may be good for one’s health, as these results fit in with wider ideas about how a tendency to look on the bright side of life is part of being resilient to stress. Those with short variants of this gene are expected to have an increased susceptibility to mood disorders following such stress. It is not all good news, though, for optimists. Because these results suggest that a person’s attitude to life is inherited, they serve as a stark warning to all buoyant optimists that trying to cheer the rest of the world up with nothing more than a smile and an effortlessly sunny disposition is doomed to failure.

  在刚刚发表于《皇家学会学报B》(Proceedings of the Royal Society B)的文章中,他们报道说,与基因相关的变化肯定导致了人们对积极和消极事物注意力的偏爱。有些人具有两个“长”版本的启动子基因(遗传自双亲),这种组合减少了神经细胞节中血清素的含量。这些人偏爱积极的照片,而不喜欢消极的照片。相反,那些带有一长一短,或者两短“版本”启动子基因的人就没有这种保护性的偏爱,而这种基因组合可能使得神经节中的血清素含量更高。换句话说,乐观者们真地是以不同的方式看世界的。

  积极的眼光可能对人的健康有好处,这些结果也和大众的观点相吻合, 那就是经常看到生活阳光的一面会有助于应付压力。而那些“短”版基因的人在这样的压力下可能更易受到情绪混乱的影响。然而,对于乐观者们来说,并非一切都是好消息。因为这些研究结果暗示一个人对待生活的态度可能来自于遗传,这对所有的乐观者们提供了一个严厉的警告:想仅仅依靠微笑和天生的积极性格让整个世界都高兴起来是注定不可行的。










英语美文摘抄短文欣赏阅读 英语美文小短文04-12