In 1812， the year Charles Dickens was born， there were 66 novels published in Britain． People had been writing novels for a century﹣most experts date the first novel to Robinson Crusoe in 1719﹣ but nobody wanted to do it professionally． The steam﹣powered printing press was still in its early stages； the literacy（识字）rate in England was under 50%． Many works of fiction appeared without the names of the authors， often with something like "By a lady．" Novels， for the most part，were looked upon as silly， immoral or just plain bad．

    In 1870， when Dickens died， the world mourned him as its first professional writer and publisher， famous and beloved， who had led an explosion in both the publication of novels and their readership and whose characters﹣from Oliver Twist to Tiny Tim﹣were held up as moral touchstones． Today Dickens' greatness is unchallenged． Removing him from the pantheon （名人堂）of English literature would make about as much sense as the Louvre selling off the Mona Lisa．

    How did Dickens get to the top？ For all the feelings readers attach to stories， literature is a numbers game， and the test of time is extremely difficult to pass． Some 60，000 novels were published during the Victorian age， from 1837 to 1901； today a casual reader might be able to name a half﹣dozen of them． It's partly true that Dickens' style of writing attracted audiences from all walks of life． It's partly that his writings rode a wave of social， political and scientific progress．But it's also that he rewrote the culture of literature and put himself al the center． No one will ever know what mix of talent， ambition， energy and luck made Dickens such a distinguished writer． But as the 200th anniversary of his birth approaches， it is possible﹣and important for our own culture﹣to understand how he made himself a lasting one．

Adults understand what if feels like to be flooded with objects． Why do we often assume that more is more when it comes to kids and their belongings？ The good news is that I can help my own kids learn earlier than I did how to live more with less．

    I found the pre﹣holidays a good time to encourage young children to donate less﹣used things， and it worked． Because of our efforts， our daughter Georgia did decide to donate a large bag of toys to a little girl whose mother was unable to pay for her holiday due to illness．  She chose to sell a few larger objects that were less often used when we promised to put the money into her school fund （基金）（our kindergarten is serious about becoming a doctor）

    For weeks， I've been thinking of bigger， deeper questions． How do we make it a habit for them？ And how do we train ourselves to help them live with， need， and use less？ Yesterday， I sat with my son， Shepherd， determined to test my own theory on this． I decided to play with him with only one toy for as long as it would keep his interest． I expected that one toy would keep his attention for about five minutes， ten minutes， max． I chose a red rubber ball﹣simple， universally available． We passed it， he tried to put it in his mouth， he tried bouncing it， rolling it， sitting on it， throwing it． It was totally， completely enough for him． Before I knew it an hour had passed and it was time to move on to lunch．

    We both became absorbed in the simplicity of playing together． He had my full attention and I had his． My little experiment to find joy in a single object worked for both of us．

My First Marathon（马拉松）

    A month before my first marathon， one of my ankles was injured and this meant not running for two weeks， leaving me only two weeks to train． Yet， I was determined to go ahead．

    I remember back to my 7th year in school． In my first P．E． class， the teacher required us to run laps and then hit a softball． I didn't do either well． He later informed me that I was" not athletic"．

    The idea that I was "not athletic" stuck with me for years． When I started running in my 30s，I realized running was a battle against myself， not about competition or whether or not I was athletic． It was all about the battle against my own body and mind． A test of wills!

    The night before my marathon， I dreamt that I couldn't even find the finish line． I woke up sweating and nervous， but ready to prove something to myself．

    Shortly after crossing the start line， my shoe laces （鞋带）became untied． So I stopped to readjust． Not the start I wanted！

    At mile 3， I passed a sign：" GO FOR IT， RUNNERS!"

    By mile 17， I became out of breath and the once injured ankle hurt badly． Despite the pain， I stayed the course walking a bit and then running again．

    By mile 21， I was starving！

    As I approached mile 23， I could see my wife waving a sign． She is my biggest fan． She never minded the alarm clock sounding at 4 a．m． or questioned my expenses on running．

    I was one of the final runners to finish． But I finished! And I got a medal． In fact， I got the same medal as the one that the guy who came in first place had．

    Determined to be myself， move forward， free of shame and worldly labels（世俗标签）， I can now call myself a "marathon winner"．

When I was 17， I read a magazine article about a museum called the McNay， once the home of a watercolorist named Marian McNay． She had requested the community to turn it into a museum upon her death． On a sunny Saturday， Sally and I drove over to the museum． She asked， "Do you have the address？ ""No， but I'll recognize it， there was a picture in the magazine．

    "Oh， stop． There it is！"

    The museum was free． We entered， excited． A group of people sitting in the hall stopped talking and stared at us．

    "May I help you？" a man asked． "No， "I said． "we're fine．" Tour guides got on my nerves． What if they talked a long time about a painting you weren't that interested in？ Sally had gone upstairs． The people in the hall seemed very nosy（爱窥探的）， keeping their eyes on me with curiosity． What was their problem？ I saw some nice sculptures in one room． Suddenly I sensed a man standing behind me． "Where do you think you are？" he asked． I turned sharply． "The McNay Art Museum！" He smiled， shaking his head． "Sorry， the McNay is on New Braunfels Street． ""what's this place？" I asked， still confused． "Well， it' s our home．"My heart jolted（震颤），I raced to the staircase and called out，" Sally! Come down immediately!

    "There' s some really good stuff（艺术作品） up there．" She stepped down， looking confused． I pushed her toward the front door， waving at the family， saying， "Sorry， please forgive us， you have a really nice place． "Outside， when I told Sally what happened， she covered her mouth， laughing． She couldn't believe how long they let us look around without saying anything．

    The real McNay was splendid， but we felt nervous the whole time we were there． Van Gogh， Picasso． This time， we stayed together， in case anything else unusual happened．

    Thirty years later， a woman approached me in a public place． "Excuse me， did you ever enter a residence， long ago， thinking it was the McNay Museum？"

    "Yes． But how do you know？ We never told anyone．"

    "That was my home． I was a teenager sitting in the hall． Before you came over， I never realized what a beautiful place I lived in． I never felt lucky before． You thought it was a museum． My feelings about my home changed after that． I've always wanted to thank you．"

“Is it good？”I asked her．

“Yeah，”she answered．“There’s one I really like and you’ll like it，too．”I leaned forward．

“‘Patty Poem，’”she read the title．Who is Patty？I wondered．The poem began：

She never puts her toys away，

Just leaves them scattered①where they lay，…①散乱的

The poem was just three short sections．The final one came quickly：

When she grows and gathers poise②，②稳重

I’ll miss her harum﹣scarum③noise，③莽撞的

And look in vain④for scattered toys．④徒劳地

And I’ll be sad．

A terrible sorrow washed over me．Whoever Patty was，she was a mean girl．Then，the shock．

“It’s you，honey，”My mother said sadly．

To my mother，the poem revealed a parent’s affection when her child grows up and leaves．To me，the “she” in the poem was horror．It was my mama who would be sad．It was so terrible I burst out crying．

“What’s wrong？”my mother asked．

“Oh Mama，”I cried．“I don’t want to grow up ever!”

She smiled．“Honey，it’s okay．You’re not growing up anytime soon．And when you do，I’ll still love you，okay？”

“Okay，”I was still weeping．My panic has gone．But I could not help thinking about that silly poem．After what seemed like a safe amount of time，I read the poem again and was confused．It all fit so well together，like a puzzle．The language was simple，so simple I could plainly understand its meaning，yet it was still beautiful．I was now fascinated by the idea of poetry，words that had the power to make or break a person’s world．

I have since fallen in love with other poems，but “Patty Poem” remains my poem．After all，“Patty Poem” gave me my love for poetry not because it was the poem that lifted my spirits，but because it was the one that hurt me the most．

Surviving Hurricane Sandy（飓风桑迪）

Natalie Doan，14，has always felt lucky to live in Rockaway，New York．Living just a few blocks from the beach，Natalie can see the ocean and hear the wave from her house．“It’s the ocean that makes Rockaway so special，”she says．

On October 29，2012，that ocean turned fierce．That night，Hurricane Sandy attacked the East Coast，and Rockaway was hit especially hard．Fortunately，Natalie’s family escaped to Brooklyn shortly before the city’s bridge closed．

When they returned to Rockaway the next day，they found their neighborhood in ruins．Many of Natalie’s friends had lost their homes and were living far away．All around her，people were suffering，especially the elderly．Natalie’s school was so damaged that she had to temporarily attend a school in Brooklyn．

In the following few days，the men and women helping Rockaway recover inspired Natalie．Volunteers came with carloads of donated clothing and toys．Neighbors devoted their spare time to helping others rebuild．Teenagers climbed dozens of flights of stairs to deliver water and food to elderly people trapped in powerless high﹣rise buildings．

“My mom tells me that I can’t control what happens to me，”Natalie says．“but I can always choose how I deal with it．”

Natalie’s choice was to help．

She created a website page matching survivors in need with donors who wanted to help．Natalie posted introduction about a boy named Patrick，who lost his baseball card collecting when his house burned down．Within days，Patrick’s collection was replaced．

In the coming months，her website page helped lots of kids：Christopher，who received a new basketball； Charlie，who got a new keyboard．Natalie also worked with other organizations to bring much﹣need supplies to Rockaway．Her efforts made her a famous person．Last April，she was invited to the White House and honored as a Hurricane Sandy Champion of Change．

Today，the scars（创痕）of destruction are still seen in Rockaway，but hope is in the air．The streets are clear，and many homes have been rebuilt．“I can’t imagine living anywhere but Rockaway，”Natalie declares．“My neighborhood will be back，even stronger than before．”

When Natalie returned to Rockaway after the hurricane，she found 　　．

According to paragraph4，who inspired Natalie most？

How did Natalie help the survivors？

What does the story intend to tell us？

In the depths of the French Guianese rainforest，there still remain unusual groups of indigenous（土著的） people．Surprisingly，these people live largely by their own laws and their own social customs．And yet，people in this area are in fact French citizens because it has been a colony（殖民地） of the French Republic since 1946．In theory，they should live by the French law is often ignored or unknown，thus making them into an interesting area of “lawlessness” in the world．

The lives of these people have finally been recorded thanks to the effects of a Frenchman from Paris called Gin．Gin spent five months in early 2015 exploring the most remote corners of this area，which sits on the edge of the Amazon rainforest，with half its population of only 250，000living in its capital，Cayenne．

“I have a special love for the French Guianese people．I have worked there on and off for almost ten years，”says Gin．“I’ve been able to keep firm friendships with them．Thus I have been allowed to gain access to their living environment．I don’t see it as a lawless land．But rather I see it as an area of freedom．”

“I wanted to show the audience a photographic record touching upon the uncivilized life，”continues Gin．“I prefer to work in black and white，which allows me to show different specific worlds more clearly．”

His black﹣and﹣white pictures present a world almost lost in time．These pictures show people seemingly pushed into a world that they were unprepared for．These local citizens now have to balance their traditional self﹣supporting hunting lifestyle with the lifestyle offered by the modern French Republic，which brings with it not only necessary state welfare，but also alcoholism，betrayal and even suicide．

Why does the author feel surprised about the indigenous people in French Guiana？

Gin introduced the special world of the indigenous Guianese as 　　．

What is Gin’s attitude towards the lives of the indigenous Guianese？

What does the underlined word “it” in the last paragraph refer to？

  On one of her trips to New York several years ago，Eudora Welty decided to take a couple of New York friends out to dinner．They settled in at a comfortable East Side cafe and within minutes，another customer was approaching their table．

“Hey，aren’t you from Mississippi？”the elegant，white﹣haired writer remembered being asked by the stranger．“I’m from Mississippi too．”

 Without a second thought，the woman joined the Welty party．When her dinner partner showed up，she also pulled up a chair．

“They began telling me all the news of Mississippi，”Welty said．“I didn’t know what my New York friends were thinking．”

    Taxis on a rainy New York night are rarer than sunshine．By the time the group got up to leave，it was pouring outside．Welty’s new friends immediately sent a waiter to find a cab．Heading back downtown toward her hotel，her big﹣city friends were amazed at the turn of events that had changed their Big Apple dinner into a Mississippi.

“My friend said：‘Now we believe your stories，’”Welty added．And I said：‘Now you know．These are the people that make me write them．’”

Sitting on a sofa in her room，Welty，a slim figure in a simple gray dress，looked pleased with this explanation．

“I don’t make them up，”she said of the characters in her fiction these last 50 or so years．“I don’t have to．”

    Beauticians，bartenders，piano players and people with purple hats，Welty’s people come from afternoons spent visiting with old friends，from walks through the streets of her native Jackson，Miss，from conversations overheard on a bus．It annoys Welty that，at 78，her left ear has now given out．Sometimes，sitting on a bus or a train，she hears only a fragment（片段） of a particularly interesting story．

What happened when Welty was with her friends at the cafe？

What can we learn about the characters in Welty’s fiction？

“Where did she come from？”asked an astonished sprinting world，before concluding that she must be one of those one﹣hit wonders that spring up from time to time，only to disappear again without signs．But Shelly Ann was to prove that she was anything but a one﹣hit wonder．At the Beijing Olympic she swept away any doubts about her ability to perform consistently by becoming the first Jamaican woman ever to win the 100 meters Olympic gold．She did it again one year on at the World Championship in Briton，becoming world champion with a time of 10.73﹣the fourth record ever．

Shelly﹣Ann is a little woman with a big smile．She has a mental toughness that did not come about by chance．Her journey to becoming the fastest woman on earth has been anything but smooth and effortless．She grew up in one of Jamaica’s toughest inner﹣city communities known as Waterhouse，where she lived in a one﹣room apartment，sleeping four in a bed with her mother and two brothers．Waterhouse，one  of the poorest communities in Jamaica，is a really violent and overpopulated place．Several of Shelly﹣Ann's friends and family were caught up in the killings； one of her cousins was shot dead only a few streets away from where she lived．Sometimes her family didn’t have enough to eat．She ran at the school championships barefooted because she couldn’t afford shoes．Her mother Maxime，one of a family of fourteen，had been an athlete herself as a young girl but，like so many other girls in Waterhouse，had to stop after she had her first baby．Maxime’s early entry in to the adult world with its responsibilities gave her the determination to ensure that her kids would not end up in Waterhouse's roundabout of poverty．One of the first things Maxime used to do with Shelly﹣Ann was taking her to the track，and she was ready to sacrifice everything．

It didn't take long for Shelly﹣Ann to realize that sports could be her way out of Waterhouse．On a summer evening in Beijing in 2008，all those long，hard hours of work and commitment finally bore fruit．The barefoot kid who just a few years previously had been living in poverty，surrounded by criminals and violence，had written a new chapter in the history of sports．

But Shelly﹣Ann’s victory was far greater than that．The night she won Olympic gold in Beijing，the routine murders in Waterhouse and the drug wars in the neighbouring streets stopped．The dark cloud above one of the world’s toughest criminal neighbourhoods simply disappeared for a few days．“I have so much fire burning for my country，”Shelly said．She plans to start a foundation for homeless children and wants to build a community centre in Waterhouse．She hopes to inspire the Jamaicans to lay down their weapons．She intends to fight to make it a woman’s as well as a man’s world．

As Muhammad Al i puts it，“Champions aren't made in gyms．Champions are made from something they have deep inside them．A desire，a dream，a vision．”One of the things Shelly﹣Ann can be proud of is her understanding of this truth．

I had one trip last year where I was caught by a hurricane in America．I picked up the stem cells in Providence，Rhode Island，and was meant to fly to Washington then back to London．But when I arrived at the check﹣in desk at Providence，the lady on the desk said：”Well，I’m really sorry，I’ve got some bad news for you﹣there are no fights from Washington．”So I took my box and put it on the desk and I said：”In this box are some stem cells that are urgently needed for a patient﹣please，please，you’ve got to get me back to the United Kingdom．”She just dropped everything．She arranged for a flight on a small plane to be held for me．re﹣routed（改道）me through Newark and got me back to the UK even earlier than originally scheduled．

For this courier job，you’re consciously aware than that box you’re got something that is potentially going to save somebody’s life．