(单词翻译:单击)
听力文本
Our story today is called "Wanderlust". It was written by American reporter Charles Kuralt. It is from his book "A Life on the Road". The word "wanderlust" means a strong desire to travel. For many years Mr. Kuralt traveled across America, telling interesting stories about Americans. His reports were broadcast on the CBS television network. In the beginning of his book there is a poem by Scottish writer Rubber Lewis Stevenson. It describes Mr. Kuralt's Wanderlust. It says "Wealth, I ask not; hope, nor love; nor a friend to know me. All I ask, the heaven above and the road below me." In the following story Charles Kuralt tells how he began his traveling life. Before I was born I went on the road. The road was highway seventeen. It went from the city of Jacksonville to the city of Wilmington in North Carolina. That is where the hospital was. My father backed the car out of his place in the barn. He helped my mother into the front seat. It was 1934. My father made the trip to Wilmington in little more than an hour. He hardly slowed down for stop signs in the towns along the way. I was born the next morning with traveling in my blood. I had already gone 80 kilometers.
We lived on my grandparents' farm for a while during the Great Economic Depression of the 1930s. There was a sandy road in front and a path through the pine trees behind. I always wondered where the roads went. After I learned that the one in front went to another farm, I wondered where it went from there. In back, playing among pine trees I once surprised some wild turkeys. They went flying down the path and out of sight. I remembered wanting to go with them. My mother was a teacher. My father had planned to become a big business man, but he became a social worker instead. He helped poor people. He got a job with the state government. His job took us from one town to another. I loved every move. I began to find out where the roads went. Since my mother was busy teaching school, somebody had to take care of me. The answer to the problem caused a little trouble for my father, I imagine, but it was perfect in my opinion. He took me with him on his trips. As we rode along the country roads, my father told me stories. We stopped in the afternoons to fish for a few minutes in little rivers turned black by the acid of cypress trees. We stopped in the evenings to eat meals of pork, sweet potatoes and grains. Then we rode on into the night, looking for a place to sleep. Just the two of us, rolling on in a cloud of friendly company and smoke from his cigar. I wanted never to go home from these trips.
Charles Kuralt's story continues with memories of his early travels. I entered contests that promised travel as a prize. When I was twelve I won one of these competitions. It was a yearly baseball writing contest organized by a newspaper. The prize was a trip with the Sharlat Honits, the local baseball team. Another boy and I traveled with the team to games in Ashfel, North Carolina and Noxfel, Tennessee. I loved being away from home in places I had only heard about. I loved being with the players and listening to them talk. Best of all, I loved writing about the game on an old typewriter I had borrowed from someone in my father's office. I was only 12, but I tried to sound like I had been doing this for years. After that summer I wrote about basketball and football games for the school newspaper. I became, in my imagination, an experienced traveling reporter. I was not old enough to drive a car to the games. Sometimes I had to ride in the backseat of my parents' car where the children always sat. I accepted the situation by making up stories there in the backseat. I imagined I was really flying across an ocean in an airplane, looking over my notes for a big story while on the way to Constantinople or Khartoum.
When I was 14, I won another contest and got another trip. This time it was a speaking contest called the Voice of Democracy. As one of four winners from the United States, I got to give my speech in Williamsburg Virginia, the capital of Virginia when Virginia was still a British colony. From Williamsburg we went to Washington to meet President Harry Truman at the White House. Mr. Truman treated us like adults for which I was thankful. But I knew I was not really a White House reporter yet, because the woman holding my arm and smiling nervously was my mother. I could not wait to grow up and be off on my own. On the dirt roads near our house I learned to drive a car. My father sat beside me again in the passenger's seat this time. I was not old enough to get the official document that would permit me to drive by myself. I asked my parents to tell state officials that I was older. "We could go to jail for that." my father said. I said, "Nobody would ever find out." In the end my father agreed. It was the only real lie he ever told. So I had my driver's license. Naturally the first thing I did was plan a trip. My friend and I got an old car. Someone had repaired it with parts from different kinds of cars. It was a mix, a kind of Shavie Ford mobile. We got an old radio, too. It would not fit in the normal place on the control board, so we hung it from a wire underneath. That summer with parts clashing and radio swinging we had it for California.
Our idea was to explore the Rocky Mountains and west coast, perhaps go north into Canada and end up at North Western University in Illinois. I was supposed to attend a summer writing program for high school students at the university. We traveled slowly to save fuel and because we had promised our worried parents that we would not drive fast. We quickly learned that we had overestimated everything: the ability of our vehicle, the distance we could travel in a day, the amount of money we needed and our desire to be away from home. We thought that we would never make it to California. Instead we crossed the Mississippi River with our money and our spirits running low. We were having arguments about small things. We were having a crisis of inexperience. We made it to Chicago. My friend got a job selling hot dogs to pay for his trip home alone. I got a room and waited for the start of my class. At last came the day when I took the train to the university. I remembered not one thing I might have learned in the next 6 weeks of the writing program. I do remember walking on the college grounds and watching sail boats in the distance on the blue waters of Lake Michigan. I remembered a coffee shop where students talked and laughed. The streets and walks and grass and buildings of the university seemed to me a Hollywood version of a college. And I seemed to myself a big boned boy from the South, a country boy after all.
I wanted to gain at least a little of the social experience I saw all around me. But I did not know where to begin. Then the summer ended and it was too late. I took the train part way home. Then I stood on the side of the road, trying to catch a ride, the rest of the way. One day I got a ride in the back of a truck. I returned the wave of a man who stood up from his work in his vegetable garden to watch us pass. I saw a woman hanging wet cloth on a rope to dry in the sun. The road passed under and away from me, kilometer after kilometer. I was perfectly happy. In one sleepy town the truck driver stopped. I went into the court house to find a toilet. I looked into offices and saw people at work at typewriters and adding machines. I felt terribly sorry for them. They were going to work there at their desks all that day and the next and the next and half a day on Saturday. They would return to those same desks and office machines on Monday morning. I walked out of the building, climbed into the back of the truck again and left the town behind. The sun was shining and I could feel the wind in my hair.
重点解析
1.more than 多于；超过
He has been mugged more than once.
他已是不止一次被抢劫了。
2.out of sight 看不见；无影无踪
The hares raced away out of sight.
野兔飞奔而去，很快就看不见了。
3.be away from 远离；离开
I can't be away from you for that long.
我不能离开你那么久。
4.at last 最后；最终
Look! It's snowing. Winter is here at last.
瞧，下雪了。终于是冬天了。
参考译文
我们今天要讲述的故事叫做《漫游癖》，作者是美国记者查尔斯·库拉特，选自他撰写的《路上的生活》一书。“漫游癖”一词意味着强烈的旅行欲望。多年来，库拉特先生走遍美国各地，讲述关于美国人的有趣故事。他的报道在哥伦比亚广播公司电视网播出。这本书的开头有一首苏格兰作家鲁伯特·刘易斯·史蒂文森所写的诗，描述了库拉特先生的漫游癖。这首诗写道：“财富，我不求；不求希望，也不求爱；不求朋友认识我。我只求，头顶的天空和脚下的道路。”在下面的故事中，查尔斯·库拉特讲述了他是如何开始旅行生活的。我在出生前，就在路上了。这条路是17号公路，杰克逊维尔市到北卡罗来纳州的威尔明顿市，那里有家医院。父亲把车从谷仓里倒出来，他把母亲扶到前排座位上。那是1934年。父亲一个多小时就到了威尔明顿。在沿途的城镇上，他看到停车标志几乎没有减速。第二天早上我就出生了，旅行注入在我的血液里。我已经走了80公里了。
20世纪30年代经济大萧条时期，我们曾在祖父母的农场住过一段时间。农场前面是一条沙路，后面是一条穿过松树的小路。我一直在想这些路通向什么地方。当我得知前面那条路去往另一个农场后，我想知道它的源头在哪。在后面的松树丛中玩耍时，我曾经出其不意地攻击过一些野生火鸡。它们沿着小路飞去，看不见了。我记得自己想和它们一起走。我的母亲是位老师，父亲本打算成为一名大商人，但他却成了一名社会工作者。他帮助穷人，在州政府找到一份工作。他的工作让我们从一个城镇去往另一个城镇。我喜欢每一次搬家，我开始找道路的走向。因为母亲忙于教书，所以必须有人照看我。我想，这个问题给父亲带来了一些麻烦，但在我看来，这是完美的。他带着我去旅行。当我们沿着乡间小路驾驶时，父亲给我讲故事。我们下午时停车，在被柏树酸液染成黑色的小河里钓几分钟鱼。晚上，我们停下来吃猪肉、红薯和谷物。然后继续开到深夜，找个地方睡觉。只有我们两个人，他抽着雪茄，烟雾环绕，陪伴着我们。我不想停止旅行而回家。
查尔斯·库拉特的故事继续着他早期旅行的回忆。我参加了一些承诺将旅行作为奖品的竞赛。我12岁时，赢得了其中一项比赛。这是一家报纸组织的年度棒球写作比赛，奖品是与当地棒球队沙拉特·霍尼茨旅行一次。我和另一个男孩跟随球队去北卡罗来纳州的阿什费尔和田纳西州的诺克斯费尔看比赛。我喜欢离开家，到那些我只听说过的地方。我喜欢和球员们在一起，听他们说话。最棒的是，我喜欢用从父亲办公室里借来的旧打字机写有关比赛的文章。我那时才12岁，但我努力让自己听起来像是个老手。那年暑假后，我为校报撰写篮球和足球比赛的文章。在我的想象中，我成为一个经验丰富的旅行记者。我还没到开车去看比赛的年龄，有时我不得不坐在父母的车后座上，孩子们总是坐在那里。我在后座上编故事，从而接受了这种情况。我想象着自己真的坐着飞机飞越大洋，在去君士坦丁堡或喀土穆的路上翻阅着笔记，以寻找一个重要的报道。
我14岁时，又赢了一次比赛，获得了另一次旅行的机会。这次是一个叫做民主之声的演讲比赛。作为来自美国的四位获奖者之一，我要在弗吉尼亚州的首府威廉斯堡发表演讲，当时弗吉尼亚州还是英国的殖民地。我们从威廉斯堡前往华盛顿，在白宫会见哈里·杜鲁门总统。杜鲁门先生把我们当作成年人对待，对此我很感激。但我知道我还不是一个真正的白宫记者，因为那个牵着我胳膊，紧张地微笑的女人是我的母亲。我迫不及待地想长大，自己离开。在我家附近的土路上，我学会了开车。父亲这次又坐在我旁边的副驾驶座上，我年纪还不够大，拿不到允许自己开车的正式文件。我让父母告诉州政府官员，我比实际年龄大。父亲说：“我们会为此而坐牢。”。我说，“没人会发现。”最后，父亲同意了。这是他撒过的唯一一个谎言。我因此拿到了驾照。当然，我做的第一件事就是计划去旅行。我和朋友有辆旧车。有人用从不同种类的汽车上卸下的零件把它修好了。这车是一个混合体，一种夏威·福特汽车。我们还有一台旧收音机，不太适合装到控制板的正常位置上。所以，我们把它挂在下面的一根电线上。那年夏天，我们的车在零件碰撞，收音机摆动的状况下，前往加利福尼亚州。
我们的想法是探索落基山脉和西海岸，也许向北进入加拿大，最后到达伊利诺伊州的西北大学。我本来要参加大学组织的一个高中生暑期写作班。我们缓慢地驾驶着汽车，以便节省汽油，而且我们已经向担心的父母保证不会开快车。我们很快意识到，我们高估了一切：我们车辆的性能，一天可以行驶的距离，需要的钱款，以及我们离家出走的愿望。我们认为，我们永远也到不了加利福尼亚。然而，我们横渡密西西比河，身上带的钱变少了，精神状况也开始低落。我们为小事而争吵，遭遇到缺乏经验的危机。我们到了芝加哥。朋友找到一份卖热狗的工作，以支付独自回家的费用。我找到个房间，等着上课。终于有一天，我乘火车前往那所大学。我没记住在接下来的六周写作课程中，所学到任何东西。我记得在大学校园里散步，看着远处密歇根湖蓝色水面上的帆船。我记得有一家咖啡馆，学生们在那里有说有笑。在我看来，这所大学的街道、人行道、草地和建筑物就像好莱坞版的大学。我觉得自己是一个来自南方的瘦骨嶙峋的男孩，毕竟我是个乡下男孩。
我想至少获得一点我在周围看到的社会经验，但我不知道从哪里开始。然后夏天结束了，一切都太晚了。我乘火车中途回家，然后站在路边，想搭便车走完剩下的路。有一天，我坐在卡车后面。有个男人在菜园里干活，他看到我们经过时向我们挥手，我也向他挥了手。我看见一个女人把湿布挂在绳子上晒干。我们一点点地开过这条路，一公里接着一公里，我非常高兴。在一个寂静的小镇上，卡车司机停下车。我去法院大厦里找厕所。我走进办公楼，看到人们在用打字机和加数机工作。我为他们感到非常遗憾。他们打算在那儿工作一整天，明天、后天，还有周六半天都要工作。他们会在周一早上回到同样的办公桌和办公机器旁。我走出大楼，又爬进卡车后面，离开了小镇。阳光明媚，我能感觉到风吹拂着我的头发。
