上外版大学英语写作精选第六册(4)

    When I showed the books to Mr. Falk， he looked at me and frowned.

    "That librarian might telephone you，" I warned him.

    "That's all right，" he said. "But when you're through reading those books， I want you to tell me what you get out of them."

    That night in my rented room， while letting the hot water run over my can of pork and beans in the sink， I opened A Book of Preface and began to read. I was jarred and shocked by the style， the clear， clean， sweeping sentences. Why did he write like that？ And how did one write like that？ I pictured the man as a raging demon， slashing with his pen， consumed with hate， denouncing everything American， extolling everything European or German， laughing at the weaknesses of people， mocking God， authority. What was this？ I stood up， trying to realize what reality lay behind the meaning of the words … Yes， this man was fighting， fighting with words. He was using words as a weapon， using them as one would use a club. Could words be weapons？ Well， yes， for there they were. Then， maybe， perhaps， I could use them as a weapon？ No. It frightened me. I read on and what amazed me was not what he said， but how on earth anybody had the courage to say it.

    I ran across many words whose meanings I did not know， and either looked them up in a dictionary or， before I had a chance to do that， encountered the word in a context that made its meaning clear. But what strange world was this？ I concluded the book with the conviction that I had somehow overlooked something terribly important in life. I had once tried to write， had once reveled in feeling， had let my crude imagination roam， but the impulse to dream had been slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books， new ways of looking and seeing. It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read， but of feeling something new， of being affected by something that made the look of the world different.

    I forget more notes and my trips to the library became frequent. Reading grew into a passion. My first serious novel was Sinclair Lewis's Main Street. It made me see my boss， Mr. Gerald， and identify him as an American type. I would smile when I saw him lugging his golf bags into the office. I had always felt a vast distance separating me from the boss， and now I felt closer to him， though still distant. I felt now that I knew him， that I could feel the very limits of his narrow life. And this had happened because I had read a novel about a mythical man called George F. Babbitt.

    I read Dreiser's Jennie Gerhardt and Sister Carrie and they revived in me a vivid sense of my mother's suffering； I was overwhelmed. I grew silent， wondering about the life around me. It would have been impossible for me to have told anyone what I derived from these novels， for it was nothing less than a sense of life itself. All my life had shaped me for the realism， the naturalism of the modern novel， and I could not read enough of them.

    Steeped in new moods and ideas， I bought a ream of paper and tried to write； but nothing would come， or what did come was flat beyond telling. I discovered that more than desire and felling were necessary to write and I dropped the idea. Yet I still wondered how it was possible to know people sufficiently to write about them？ Could I ever learn about life and people？ To me， with my vast ignorance， my Jim Crow station in life， it seemed a task impossible of achievement. I now knew what being a Negro meant. I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate. But to feel that there were feelings denied me， that the very breath of life itself was beyond my reach， that more than anything else hurt， wounded me. I had a new hunger.

    Phrases & Expressions

    aside from except for； in addition to