Youth
 
Three Days to See

Companionship of Books

If I Rest,I Rust

Ambition



[ 此帖被suitable在2007-11-29 20:23重新编辑 ]

Youth

  Youth is not a time of life; it's a state of mind; it's not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it's a matter of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions; it's the freshness of the deep springs of life.

  Youth means a tempera-mental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for the adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of 60 more than 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 message 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 cyniciam and the ice of pessimism, then you are grown old, even at 20,but as long as your aerials are up, to catch waves of optimism, there is hope you may die young at 80.

Three days to see

  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 twenty-four hours, but always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed man 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 up thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What associations should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the past, 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 a gentleness, a 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," most people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.

  Most of us 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 task, hardly aware of our listless attitude towards life.

  The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of 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 sound hazily, without concentration, and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we 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.

  Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. "Nothing in particular," she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

  How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter's sleep I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently in a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips. At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and action fill the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light and the gift of sight is used only as mere convenience rather that as a means of adding fullness to life.

  Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for three days!

companionship of books 与书为伴

  a man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as of men; and one should always live in the best company, whether it be of books or of men.

  a good book may be among the best of friends. it is the same today that it always was, and it will never change. it is the most patient and cheerful of companions. it does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. it always receives us with the same kindness, amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in age.

  men often discover their affinity to each other by the love they have each for a book. the book is a truer and higher bond of union. men can think, feel, and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. they live in him together and he, in them.

  a good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out; for the world of a man's life is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. thus the best books are treasuries of good words, the golden thoughts, which, remembered and cherished, become our constant companions and comforters.

  books possess an essence of immortality. they are by far the most lasting products of human effort. temples and statues decay, but books survive. time is of no account with great thoughts, which are as fresh today as when they first passed through their author's minds, ages ago. what was then said and thought still speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. the only effect of time has been to sift out the bad products; for nothing in literature can long survive but what is really good.

  books introduce us into the best society, they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. we hear what they said and did; we see them as if they were really alive; we sympathize with them, enjoy with them, grieve with them; their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.

If I rest, I rust

    The significant inscription(题字，碑铭) found on an old key - "If I rest, I rust" - would be an excellent motto for those who are afflicted with the slightest taint of idleness. Even the industrious(勤奋的人) 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 signs 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 professions, to science, art, literature, agriculture, -every department of human endeavor.

    Industry keeps bright the key that opens the treasure of achievemenet. If  Hugh Miller, after toiling all day in a quarry, had devoted his evening s to rest and  recreation, he would never have become a famous geologist. The celebrated mathematician, Edmund Stone, would never have published a mathematical 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.

Ambition

  It is not difficult to imagine a world short of ambition. It would probably be a kinder world: without demands, without abrasions, without disappointments. People would have time for reflection. Such work as they did would not be for themselves but for the collectivity. Competition would never enter in. Conflict would be eliminated, tension become a thing of the past. The stress of creation would be at an end. Art would no longer be troubling, but purely celebratory in its functions. Longevity would be increased, for fewer people would die of heart attack or stroke caused by tumultuous endeavor. Anxiety would be extinct. Time would stretch on and on, with ambition long departed from the human heart.

  Ah, how unrelievedly boring life would be!

  There is a strong view that holds that success is a myth, and ambition therefore a sham. Does this mean that success does not really exist? That achievement is at bottom empty? That the efforts of men and women are of no significance alongside the force of movements and events? Now not all success, obviously, is worth esteeming, nor all ambition worth cultivating. Which are and which are not is something one soon enough learns on one’s own. But even the most cynical secretly admit that success exists; that achievement counts for a great deal; and that the true myth is that the actions of men and women are useless. To believe otherwise is to taken on a point of view that is likely to be deranging. It is, in its implications, to remove all motives for competence, interest in attainment, and regard for posterity.

  We don’t choose to be born. We don’t choose our parents. We don’t choose our historical epoch, the country of our birth, or the immediate circumstances of our upbringing. We don’t, most of us, choose to die; nor do we choose the time or conditions of our death. But within all this realm of choicelessness, we do choose how we shall live: courageously or in cowardice, honorably or dishonorably, with purpose of in drift. We decide what is important and what is trivial in life. We decide that what makes us significant is either what we do or what we refuse to do. But no matter how indifferent the universe may be to our choices and decisions, these choices and decisions are ours to make. We decide. We choose. And as we decide and choose, so are our lives formed. In the end, forming our own destiny is what ambition is about.


[annotation]:

Abrasion磨损；
collectivity集体；
tumultuous喧嚣的，纷乱的；
Unrelievedly持续不变地，未缓和地；
sham[屏蔽]；
at bottom实际上；
cynical愤世嫉俗的；
derange打乱；
posterity子孙，后裔；
epoch时代，时期；
cowardice胆怯；怯懦；

born to win
i like it
3ks

can't hear it

can't connect~