(单词翻译:单击)
听力文本
Love of Life, by Jack London - Part Three. The man had brought his gun half the distance to his shoulder before he realized what he was doing. He lowered it and drew his hunting knife from its cover. Before him was meat and life. He ran his finger along the edge of his knife. It was sharp. The point was sharp. He would throw himself on the bear and kill it. But his heart began its pounding. Then came its wild leap and he began to feel faint. His wild courage was replaced by a great fear. In his weakness, what if the animal attacked him? He drew himself up tall, grasping the knife and staring hard at the bear. The bear advanced a couple of steps and stood up. If the man ran, the bear would run after him; but the man did not run. He was alive now with the courage of fear. The bear moved away to one side with a threatening noise. He, himself, was fearful of this strange creature that appeared unafraid. But the man did not move. He stood still until the danger was past. Then he yielded to a fit of trembling and sank to his knees on the wet grass.
He regained control of himself and then started to move forward, afraid now in a new manner. It was not the fear that he would die from lack of food. He was afraid that he would be destroyed by forces other than starving. There were the wolves. Across the wasteland their howls could be heard, making the air itself a threat most real to him. Now and again the wolves, in groups of two and three, crossed his path. But they stayed away from him. They were not in sufficient numbers to attack, and besides, they were hunting caribou. Caribou did not battle, while this strange creature that walked on two legs might bite. In the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where the wolves had made a kill. What remained had been a young caribou an hour before. He studied the bones, cleaned of any flesh. They were still pink with the life in them which had not yet died. Might he look like that before the day was done? Was this life? A fleeting thing without meaning? It was only life that pained. There was no hurt in death. To die was to sleep. It meant rest. Then why was he not content to die?
But he did not think about these things for very long. He was soon seated in the grass, a bone in his mouth, biting at the bit of life that made it yet pink. The sweet meaty taste drove him mad. He closed his teeth firmly on the bones. Sometimes it was the bone that broke, sometimes his teeth. Then he crushed the bones between the rocks. He pounded them into tiny pieces, and ate them. He was in such a hurry that he pounded his fingers, too. He felt surprised at the fact that his fingers did not hurt much when they were caught under the rock. Then came frightful days of snow and rain. He did not know when he made camp and when he broke camp. He traveled in the night as much as in the day. He rested whenever he fell, moving ahead whenever the dying life in him started up again. He, as a man, no longer struggled. It was the life in him, unwilling to die, that drove him on. He did not suffer, nor feel pain. But his mind was filled with hallucinations and wild dreams.
But he still ate the crushed bones of the young caribou, which he had gathered and carried with him. He crossed no more hills, but followed a large stream which flowed through a wide valley. He did not see this stream nor this valley. He saw nothing except hallucinations. One morning he awakened with his mind clear, lying on his back on a rocky surface. The sun was shining bright and warm. Far away, he heard the noises made by young caribou. He remembered rain and wind and snow, but whether he had been beaten by the storm for two days or two weeks he did not know. For some time he lay without movement. The friendly sun poured down upon him and filled his body with its warmth. A fine day, he thought. Perhaps he could succeed in locating himself. By a painful effort he rolled on his side. Below him flowed a wide river. Its unfamiliarity puzzled him. Slowly he followed it with his eyes, as it curved among the bare hills. They were more bare and lower than any hills he had yet seen. Slowly, without excitement, he followed the course of the strange stream toward the skyline and saw that it emptied into a bright and shining sea. He was still unexcited. Most unusual, he thought. It was probably a trick of his mind. He was certain of this when he also saw a ship floating in the shining sea. He closed his eyes for a while, then opened them. It was strange how the sight continued. Yet it was not strange. He knew there were no seas nor ships in the middle of this land, as he had known there was no cartridge in the empty gun.
He heard a noise behind him. It seemed like the dry sound that comes from the throat when air is forced out in a cough. Very slowly, because of his weakness and stiffness, he rolled to his other side. He could see nothing near, but he waited patiently. Again came the cough, and there, between two rocks, he saw the gray head of a wolf. The sharp ears did not stand up as straight as he had seen them on other wolves. The eyes were dull and the head seemed to hang. The animal opened and shut its eyes frequently in the sunshine. It seemed sick. As he looked, it coughed again. This was real, he thought. He turned on the other side to see the reality of the world which had been hidden from him before by his hallucination. But the sea still shone and the ship was still there. Was it reality? He closed his eyes for a long while and thought, and then he remembered. He had been traveling north by east, away from the Dease Divide and into the Coppermine Valley. This wide river was the Coppermine. That shining sea was the Arctic Ocean. That ship was a fishing boat which had wandered east from the mouth of the Mackenzie River. Now it was lying in Coronation Gulf. He remembered the map that he had seen long ago, and it was all clear and reasonable to him.
He sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs. He had worn holes through the blanket wrappings, and his feet were like shapeless pieces of meat. His last blanket was gone. His gun and knife were both lost. He had also lost his hat somewhere, with the matches in the band. The matches against his chest were safe and dry inside the paper. He looked at his watch. It marked eleven o'clock and was still going. This proved that he had kept it wound. He was calm. Although very weak, he had no feeling of pain. He was not hungry. The thought of food was not even pleasant to him. Whatever he did was done entirely by reasoning. He tore off the legs of his trousers to the knees and bound them about his feet. Somehow he had succeeded in keeping the tin container. He would have some hot water before he began what he knew was to be an awful journey to the ship.
His movements were slow. He shook as if with a disease. When he started to gather dried grasses he found he could not rise to his feet. He tried again and again. Then he contented himself with moving about on his hands and knees. Once he went near the sick wolf. The animal dragged itself out of the way, licking its face with a tongue which seemed hardly to have the strength to curl. The man noticed that the tongue was not the customary healthy red, but was a yellowish brown and covered with a half-dried coating. After he drank some hot water, the man found he was able to stand. He could even walk as well as a dying man might be supposed to walk. But every minute or two he was forced to rest. His steps were unsteady, as were the steps of the wolf behind him. That night, when the shining sea was hidden in the blackness, he knew he was nearer to it by no more than four miles.
Through the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf; now and then, the noises of the young caribou. There was life all around him. But it was strong life, very much alive and well. He knew the sick wolf was following the sick man's steps in the hope that the man would die first. In the morning, when he opened his eyes, he saw it looking at him with a hungry stare. It stood with its tail between its legs like an unhappy dog. The sun rose brightly, and all morning the man headed toward the ship on the shining sea. The weather was perfect. It was the brief return of summer which was usual in that country. It might continue for a week. Or, tomorrow or the next day, it might be gone.
重点解析
1.stare at 凝视；盯着
I would rather stare at a clear, star-filled sky than a TV set.
我宁可凝视繁星满天的晴朗夜空也不愿盯着电视机。
2.yield to 服从；让步
Will she yield to growing pressure for her to retire?
面对要求其隐退的压力越来越大，她会屈服吗？
3.start up 启动；惊起
Start up the engine for me, please.
请帮我把机器发动起来。
4.tear off 撕下；撕掉
Can you tear off a piece of paper for me?
你能给我撕张纸吗？
参考译文
热爱生命，作者杰克·伦敦——第三部分。这个人举枪上肩，把枪举起一半，他才意识到自己在做什么。于是他放下枪，从刀鞘里拔出猎刀。他面前可是一只活生生的动物。他用手指试试刀刃，刀刃很锋利。刀尖也很锋利。他本来会扑到熊身上，把它杀了的。可是他的心却开始猛跳，接着又向上猛顶，开始感到一阵昏迷。他那不顾一切的勇气已经给一阵汹涌起伏的恐惧驱散。处在这样衰弱的境况中，如果那个畜生攻击他该怎么办？他只好尽力摆出极其威风的样子，握紧猎刀，狠命地盯着那头熊。它笨拙地向前挪了两步，站立起来。如果这个人逃跑，它就会追上去；不过这个人并没跑。现在，由于恐惧而产生的勇气已经使他振奋起来。那头熊慢慢向旁边挪动了一下，发出威胁的咆哮，连它自己也给这个毫不畏惧的神奇动物吓住了。可是这个人仍旧不动，他如同石像一样地站在那，直到危险过去。他才猛然哆嗦了一阵，倒在潮湿的苔藓里。
他重新振作起来，继续前进，心里又产生了一种新的恐惧。这不是害怕他会死于断粮的恐惧，而是害怕饥饿还没有耗尽他最后一点求生力，而他已经给凶残地摧毁了。这地方的狼很多。狼嗥的声音在荒原上飘来飘去，在空中交织成一片极其真实的危险罗网。那些狼，时常三三两两地从他前面走过，但是都避着他。一则因为它们数量不多，此外，它们要找的是不会搏斗的驯鹿，而这个直立走路的怪物却可能会咬人。傍晚时，他碰到了许多零乱的骨头，说明狼在这儿咬死过一头野兽。这些残骨在一个钟头以前还是一头小驯鹿。他端详着这些骨头，它们已经给啃得精光发亮，还没有死去的细胞泛着粉红色，难道在天黑之前，他也会变成这样子吗？生命就是这样吗，是一时空虚、转瞬即逝的东西吗？只有活着才感到痛苦，死并没有什么难过。死就等于睡着了，它意味着安息。那么，为什么他不甘心死呢？
但是，他对这些事情想得并不长久。他蹲在苔藓地上，嘴里衔着一根骨头，吮吸着仍然使骨头泛红的残余生命。甜蜜蜜的肉味，引得他要发疯了，他咬紧骨头。有时，他咬碎了一点骨头，有时却咬碎了自己的牙。于是，他就用岩石来砸骨头，把它捣碎成小块，然后吞下肚。匆忙之中，也会砸到自己的指头。使他一时感到惊奇的是，石头砸了他的指头，他却并不觉得很痛。接着下了几天可怕的雨雪，他不知道什么时候露宿，什么时候收拾行李。他白天黑夜都在赶路，他摔倒在哪儿就在哪儿休息，一到垂危的生命火花燃烧时，就慢慢向前走。他已经不再像人那样挣扎了。逼着他向前走的，是他的生命。因为他不愿意死，也不再痛苦了，他脑子里则充满了幻象和疯狂的梦境。
不过，他依然咀嚼着那只小驯鹿的碎骨头，这是他收集起来随身带着的一点残屑。他不再翻山越岭，只是顺着一条流过一片宽阔山谷的大河走。可是他既没有看见溪流，也没有看到山谷，他只看到幻象。有一天早上，他醒过来，神智清楚地仰卧在一块岩石上。太阳明朗又暖和，他听到远处有一群小驯鹿尖叫的声音。他隐隐约约地记得下过雨，刮过风，飘过雪，至于他究竟被暴风雨吹打了两天还是两个星期，那他就不知道了。有时，他就一动不动地躺着，和煦的阳光照在身上，使他的身体充满暖意。这是一个晴天，他想道。也许，他可以想办法确定自己的方位，他痛苦地使劲偏过身子。下面是一条很宽的河，他觉得这条河很陌生，真使他奇怪。他慢慢地顺着河望去，河湾婉蜒在许多光秃秃的小荒山之间，比他往日碰到的任何小山都显得更光秃荒凉，也更低矮。于是，他慢慢地顺着这条奇怪的河流，从容地向着天际走去，只见它注入一片明亮光辉的大海。他仍然毫不激动。太奇怪了，他想道，这是幻想吧，他确定看到光亮的大海上停泊着一艘大船。他眼睛闭了一会再睁开，奇怪，这种幻象竟会这样地经久不散！然而并不奇怪，他知道，在荒原中心绝不会有什么大海，正像他知道自己的空枪里没有子弹一样。
他听到背后传来一个声音——仿佛是咳嗽时，喉咙里传出的干咳声。由于他身体虚弱又很僵硬，他极慢极慢地翻了一个身。他看不出附近有什么东西，但是他耐心地等待着。又听到了咳嗽的声音，是从两块岩石之间发出来的，他隐约看到一只灰狼的头。那双尖耳朵并不象别的狼那样竖得笔挺；它的眼睛昏暗无光，脑袋耷拉着。这个畜生不断地在太阳光里眨着眼睛，它好象病了。正当他瞧着它时，它又咳嗽了一次。这次是真实存在的了，他想着，一面又翻过身，以便瞧见先前给幻象遮住的现实世界。可是，远处仍旧是那片大海，那条船也仍然清晰可见。难道这是真的吗？他闭着眼睛，想了好一会，然后想出来了。他一直在向北偏东走，他已经离开狄斯分水岭，走到了铜矿谷。这条很宽的河就是铜矿河，那片光辉的大海是北冰洋。那条船是一艘捕鱼船，本来应该驶往麦肯齐河口，由于太偏东了，现在正停泊在加冕湾。他记起了很久以前看到过的那张地图，现在对他来说，都完全清楚，也入情入理了。
他坐起来，想着切身的事情。裹在脚上的毯子已经磨穿了，他的脚破得没有一处好肉。最后一条毯子已经用完了。枪和猎刀也不见了。帽子不知在什么地方丢了，帽圈里那些火柴也一块丢了。不过，贴胸放在烟草袋里的火柴还在，而且是干的。他瞧了一下表，时针指着十一点，表仍然在走。很清楚，他一直没有忘了上表。他很冷静，虽然身体衰弱至极，但并没有痛苦的感觉。他一点也不饿，甚至想到食物也不会产生快感。现在，他无论做什么，都只凭理智。他齐膝盖撕下了两截裤腿，用来裹脚。他总算还保住了那个铁罐子。他打算先喝点热水，然后再开始向船走去，他已经料到这是一段可怕的路程。
他的动作很慢。他好象得了病一样哆嗦着。等到他预备去收集干苔的时候，才发现自己已经站不起来了。他试了又试，用手和膝盖支着爬来爬去。有一次，他爬到了那只病狼附近。那个畜生，一面很不情愿地避开他，一面用那条好象连弯一下的力气都没有的舌头舐着自己的脸。这个人注意到它的舌头并不是通常那种健康的红色，而是一种黄棕色，蒙着一层半干的粘膜。这个人喝下热水之后，觉得自己可以站起来了，甚至还可以像快死的人那样走路。他每走一两分钟，就不得不停下来休息一会。他的步子软弱无力，很不稳，就象跟在他后面的那只狼一样。这天晚上，等到黑夜笼罩了光辉的大海时，他知道自己和大海之间的距离只缩短了不到四英里。
这一夜，他总是听到那只病狼咳嗽的声音，还不时听到小驯鹿的叫声。他周围全是生命，不过那是强壮的生命，非常活跃而健康的生命。他知道那只病狼之所以要紧跟着他这个病人，是希望他先死。早晨，他一挣开眼睛，就看到这个畜生正用一种如饥似渴的眼光瞪着他。它夹着尾巴蹲在那儿，好象一条可怜的倒楣狗仔。太阳亮堂堂地升了起来，整个上午他一直朝着光辉的海洋上那条船走去。天气好极了。这是一种夏季的短暂回潮，这种情况在这并不常见。它可能连续一周，也许明后天就会结束。
