选择部分网上有很多答案,我选则周老师版本,因为专四考完我就照他的答案对的,预测知差3分
2011年3月专八(mini-lecture)真题答案
1、and significance
2. the context
3. closeness to people
4 body language
5. polychronic
6. in itself
7. personal space
8. monochrome
9. lateness
10. multicultural situation
选择部分
1-10bdacb,acbad
11-20abcab,abaca
21-30ddcca,dbacb
31-40bdabd,cacac
2011专八人文知识真题参考答案
31. B) 英国最北部:Scotland;
32. D) 第一个到澳洲的人:Dutch;
33. A) 枫叶之国:Canada;
34. B) The Common Sense的作者:Thomas Paine
35. D) Virginia Woolf:Novelist;
36. C) 历史叙事诗:Epic
37. A) 探讨20世纪American Myth的文学作品:The Great Gatsby
38. C)探讨语言和思维的学科:Cognitive Lingusitics
39. A) 元音和辅音的区别:Obstruction of the air stream;
40. C) 推动多种语言使用:Multilingualism
2011专八翻译真题参考答案
1. grew 后加 up
2. conscience 改成 consciousness
3. soon 改成 sooner
4. the 去掉
5. disagreeing 改成 disagreeable
6. imaginative 改成 imaginary
7. literal 改成 literary
8. in 去掉
9. which 前加 in
10. Therefore, 改成 Nevertheless
2011专八翻译真题参考答案
(汉译英)
现代社会充满了矛盾,从价值观的持有到生活方式的选择,而最让人感到尴尬的是,当面对重重矛盾,许多时候你却别无选择。匆忙与休闲是截然不同的两种生活方式,也可以说是两种生活态度,但在现实生活中,人们却在这两种生活方式与态度间频繁穿梭,有时也说不清自己到底是‘休闲着’还是‘匆忙着’。
譬如说,当我们正在旅游胜地享受假期,却忽然接到老板的电话,告知客户或工作方面出了麻烦---现代便捷先进的通讯工具在此刻显示出了它狰狞、阴郁的面容---搞得人一下子兴趣全无,接下来的休闲只能徒有其表,因为心里已是火烧火燎了。
answer Being hasty
and at leisure are two quite distinct lifestyles. But in the real
world, people have to frequently shuttle between these two
lifestyles, sometimes not sure whether they are “at ease” or “in a
rush”.
For example, we are enjoying our holidays in the resort while
suenly we receive phone calls from the boss who tells us there are
some troubles with our customers and work----so at this moment the
modern, convenient and advanced device shows its vicious and gloomy
features---and we lose all our interest. The subsequent leisure is
the mere showy for we are in a restless and anxious state of
mind.
(英译汉)When flying over Nepal, it's easy to soar
in your imagination and pretend you're tiny-a butterfly - and
drifting above one of those three-dimensional topographical maps
architects use, the circling contour lines replaced by the terraced
rice paddies that surround each high ridge.
Nepails a small country, and from the windows of our plane
floating eastward at 12,000 feet, one can see clearly the brilliant
white mirage of the high Himalayas thirty miles of the left window.
Out the right window, the view is of three or four high terraced
ridges giving sudden way to the plains of India beyond.
Three were few roads visible below, mosttransportation in Nepal
being by foot along ancient trails that connect and bind the
country together. There is also a network of dirt airstrips, which
was fortunate for me, as I had no time for the two-and-a-half week
trek to my destination. I was no a flight to the local airport.
answer飞机飞越尼泊尔上空时。你很容易天马行空起来,假想自己很渺小----像只蝴蝶----在建筑师所使用的某个三维地形图上方漂浮着,在这里,地形图一圈圈的轮廓线变成了环绕高耸的山脊成阶梯状的稻田。
尼泊尔是个小国。我们的飞机在12000英尺的高空向东飞去。从左边的机窗望去,你能清晰地看到30英里开外的高耸的喜马拉雅山的耀眼的白色蜃景。
靠右边的机窗外是三、四条成梯状的高耸山脊,再往远处突然之间成了印度平原。飞机下面看不这几条公路。尼泊尔的交通方式以步行为主,人们沿着连接整个国家的古老小径行走着。尼泊尔也有一个土筑的飞机场网络,这对我来说很幸运,因为我没时间长途跋涉两周半的时间到达我的目的地。我在飞往当地机场的飞机上。
2011专八真题作文部分
Higher entry fees should be charged during peak travel
season
With social and economic development, our people have more time
and money to visit famous sites of historical interest. Their
visits, on the one hand, can enrich their own life and meanwhile
bring the sites substantial incomes. On the other hand, too many
visits, especially during peak travel peak when there are more
visitors, have caused huge problems. One solution to this is to
charge higher fees during peak travel seasons, which I think is
necessary and I am in complete favor of this decision.
As we all know, today there is no entrance fee charged for many
parks in our country while almost all famous sites of historical
interest still need an entry fee. Some people can not accept this
for they think that both parks and famous sites of historical
interest are part of public services. They should have free access
to them or at least shouldn’t pay too much for the visit since they
have already paid taxes to the government. Then it is far
impossible for those people to allow the sites to charge higher
fees during peak travel seasons.
On the surface, the arguments that people opposing to entry fees
charged for famous sites of historical interest hold seem
reasonable. But in fact, those people have ignored the unique
features of famous sites of historical interest which normally
imply ample historical and cultural values. Those sites differ from
common parks. The relics in these sites are precious and fragile to
destroy, and usually need special and professional preservation and
administration, which turn out to be an expensive exercise that
constantly demands resources. Entry fees must be charged. During
peak travel seasons, there is no better measure than raising the
entry fees to reduce the number of tourists. The purpose of
charging higher fees is to stop some people’ visits so as to better
protect the valuable relics and at the same time ensure the safety
of the tourists. It is obvious that some people will give up their
visits considering the higher fees. Here economic means are applied
to conserve precious things at the sites of historical interest in
an appropriate and sustainable way.
In a word, due to the unique features of relics and the need of
the sustainable protection of sites of historical interest, we must
control the number of visitors, especially during the peak travel
seasons when there are too many tourists, to diminish the impact of
human activities on these sites to its lowest level. And charging
higher fees during the peak travel seasons, an effective economic
means of regulation will be of great importance.
改错来自于
原文出处:Why
I Write by George
Orwell
From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that
when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about
seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did
so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and
that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write
books.
I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years
on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For
this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed
disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my
schooldays. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and
holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the
very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of
being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with
words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this
created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back
for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious
— i.e. seriously intended — writing which I produced all through my
childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I
wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it
down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that
it was about a tiger and the tiger had ‘chair-like teeth’ — a good
enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blake's
‘Tiger, Tiger’. At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I
wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as
was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time
to time, when I was a bit older, I wrote bad and usually unfinished
‘nature poems’ in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short
story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the
would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all
those years.
However, throughout this time I did in a sense engage in literary
activities. To begin with there was the made-to-order stuff which I
produced quickly, easily and without much pleasure to myself. Apart
from school work, I wrote vers d'occasion, semi-comic poems which I
could turn out at what now seems to me astonishing speed — at
fourteen I wrote a whole rhyming play, in imitation of
Aristophanes, in about a week — and helped to edit a school
magazines, both printed and in manuscript. These magazines were the
most pitiful burlesque stuff that you could imagine, and I took far
less trouble with them than I now would with the cheapest
journalism. But side by side with all this, for fifteen years or
more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different
kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself,
a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a
common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I
used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as
the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased
to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere
description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes
at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He
pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of
sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the
table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With
his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in
the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc.
This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through
my non-literary years. Although I had to search, and did search,
for the right words, I seemed to be making this descriptive effort
almost against my will, under a kind of compulsion from outside.
The ‘story’ must, I suppose, have reflected the styles of the
various writers I admired at different ages, but so far as I
remember it always had the same meticulous descriptive
quality.
When I was about sixteen I suddenly discovered the joy of mere
words, i.e. the sounds and associations of words. The lines from
Paradise Lost —
So hee with difficulty and labour hard
Moved on: with difficulty and labour hee.
which do not now seem to me so very wonderful, sent shivers down my
backbone; and the spelling ‘hee’ for ‘he’ was an added pleasure. As
for the need to describe things, I knew all about it already. So it
is clear what kind of books I wanted to write, in so far as I could
be said to want to write books at that time. I wanted to write
enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed
descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple
passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their own
sound. And in fact my first completed novel, Burmese Days, which I
wrote when I was thirty but projected much earlier, is rather that
kind of book.
I give all this background
information because I do not
think one can assess a writer's motives without knowing something
of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by
the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous,
revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to
write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he
will never completely escape. It is his job, no doubt, to
discipline his temperament and avoid getting stuck at some immature
stage, in some perverse mood; but if he escapes from his early
influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write.
Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four
great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They
exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer
the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the
atmosphere in which he is living. They are:
(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be
remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who
snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this
is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share
this
characteristic
with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers,
successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of
humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish.
After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of
being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are
simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of
gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives
to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I
should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than
journalists, though less interested in money.
(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external
world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement.
Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of
good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an
experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed.
The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a
pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases
which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel
strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level
of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic
considerations.
(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find
out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest
possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to
alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should
strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political
bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics
is itself a political attitude.
It can be seen how these various impulses must war against one
another, and how they must fluctuate from person to person and from
time to time. By nature — taking your ‘nature’ to be the state you
have attained when you are first adult — I am a person in whom the
first three motives would outweigh the fourth. In a peaceful age I
might have written ornate or merely descriptive books, and might
have remained almost unaware of my political loyalties. As it is I
have been forced into becoming a sort of pamphleteer. First I spent
five years in an unsuitable profession (the Indian Imperial Police,
in Burma), and then I underwent poverty and the sense of failure.
This increased my natural hatred of authority and made me for the
first time fully aware of the existence of the working classes, and
the job in Burma had given me some understanding of the nature of
imperialism: but these experiences were not enough to give me an
accurate political orientation. Then came Hitler, the Spanish Civil
War, etc. By the end of 1935 I had still failed to reach a firm
decision. I remember a little poem that I wrote at that date,
expressing my dilemma:
A happy vicar I might have been
Two hundred years ago
To preach upon eternal doom
And watch my walnuts grow;
But born, alas, in an evil time,
I missed that pleasant haven,
For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven.
And later still the times were good,
We were so easy to please,
We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep
On the bosoms of the trees.
All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble;
The greenfinch on the apple bough
Could make my enemies tremble.
But girl's bellies and apricots,
Roach in a shaded stream,
Horses, ducks in flight at dawn,
All these are a dream.
It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them:
Horses are made of chromium steel
And little fat men shall ride them.
I am the worm who never turned,
The eunuch without a harem;
Between the priest and the commissar
I walk like Eugene Aram;
And the commissar is telling my fortune
While the radio plays,
But the priest has promised an Austin Seven,
For Duggie always pays.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn't born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?
The Spanish war and other events in 1936-37 turned the scale and
thereafter I knew where I stood. Every line of serious work that I
have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly,
against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism, as I
understand it. It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own,
to think that one can avoid writing of such subjects. Everyone
writes of them in one guise or another. It is simply a question of
which side one takes and what approach one follows. And the more
one is conscious of one's political bias, the more chance one has
of acting politically without sacrificing one's aesthetic and
intellectual integrity.
What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to
make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a
feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to
write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work
of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to
expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial
concern is to get a hearing. But I could not do the work of writing
a book, or even a long magazine article, if it were not also an
aesthetic experience. Anyone who cares to examine my work will see
that even when it is downright propaganda it contains much that a
full-time politician would consider irrelevant. I am not able, and
do not want, completely to abandon the world view that I acquired
in childhood. So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue
to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the
earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of
useless
information. It is
no use trying to suppress that side of myself. The job is to
reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the essentially
public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of
us.
It is not easy. It raises problems of construction and of language,
and it raises in a new way the problem of truthfulness. Let me give
just one example of the cruder kind of difficulty that arises. My
book about the Spanish civil war, Homage to Catalonia, is of course
a frankly political book, but in the main it is written with a
certain detachment and regard for form. I did try very hard in it
to tell the whole truth without violating my literary instincts.
But among other things it contains a long chapter, full of
newspaper quotations and the like, defending the Trotskyists who
were accused of plotting with Franco. Clearly such a chapter, which
after a year or two would lose its interest for any ordinary
reader, must ruin the book. A critic whom I respect read me a
lecture about it. ‘Why did you put in all that stuff?’ he said.
‘You've turned what might have been a good book into journalism.’
What he said was true, but I could not have done otherwise. I
happened to know, what very few people in England had been allowed
to know, that innocent men were being falsely accused. If I had not
been angry about that I should never have written the book.
In one form or another this problem comes up again. The problem of
language is subtler and would take too long to discuss. I will only
say that of late years I have tried to write less picturesquely and
more exactly. In any case I find that by the time you have
perfected any style of writing, you have always outgrown it. Animal
Farm was the first book in which I tried, with full consciousness
of what I was doing, to fuse political purpose and artistic purpose
into one whole. I have not written a novel for seven years, but I
hope to write another fairly soon. It is bound to be a failure,
every book is a failure, but I do know with some clarity what kind
of book I want to write.
Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made
it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly
public-spirited. I don't want to leave that as the final
impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the
very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book
is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some
painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were
not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor
understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same
instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also
true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly
struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a
windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the
strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And
looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I
lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was
betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning,
decorative adjectives and humbug generally.
1946
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