The town itself, let us admit, is ugly. It has a smug, placid air and you need time to discover what it is that makes it different from so many business centers in other parts of the world. How to conjure up a picture, for instance, of a town without pigeons, without any trees or gardens, where you never hear the beat of wings or the rustle of leaves—a thoroughly negative place, in short? The seasons are discriminated only in the sky. All that tells you of springs coming is the feel of the air, or the baskets of flowers brought in from the suburbs by peddlers; its a spring cried in the market-places. During the summer, the sun bakes the houses bone-dry, sprinkles our walls with grayish dust, and you have no option but to survive those days of fire indoors, behind closed shutters. In autumn, on the other hand, we have deluges of mud. Only winter brings really pleasant weather.
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Science is a way of thinking much more than it is a body of knowledge. Its goal is to find
After all, that dreadful aspect of the thing never really took hold of me; I could put it
今年上市的苹果品种格外地多,我独爱皮儿青青、似乎尚未熟透的那种。周末和女友逛水果店,她挑最红最大的买,生怕春色不够似的;我则逗留在顶边上的柜台,那儿不起眼地堆着我一个冬天未见的青苹果。相争不下,索性各按自己的偏好买了一网兜,都很不服气的样子,暗笑对方不会享受真正的生活。 小时候吃苹果,我也爱挑红润的.因其意味着成熟.而熟透的水果必然甜美爽口。年岁渐增,熟悉了生活中诸般滋味之后,反倒偏爱上青苹果的那种清甜——带着点酸涩的甜、饱含水分的甜,咬一口有清脆的声响。也许,成熟、甜蜜乃至完美.并非生命的终极意义.更重要的倒是向这一目标趋近过程中万般况味的体验:唇齿之间的那一分青涩在不断转变着,反倒显得生动、真实。正如稚齿孩童可能认定糖果是世界上最好的东西,成人之后反而学会并且喜好品味茶或咖啡——其底蕴更切近于生活的本质。
Among the minds powers is one that comes of itself to many children and artists. It need not be lost, to the end of his day, by anyone who has ever had it. This is the power of taking delight in a thing, rather than 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 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 it will do for some game or to feed sheep upon. That would be the way of the wooer whose mind runs on his mistresss money. The childs is sheer affection, the true ecstatic sense of the things inherent characteristics. No matter what the things may be, no matter what they are good or bad for, there they are, each with a thrilling unique look and feel of its own, like a face; the iron astringently cool under its paint, the painted wood familiarly warmer, the cold crumbling enchantingly down in the hands, with its little dry smell of the sun and of hot nettles; each common thing a personality marked by delicious differences.