Some years ago, writing in my diary used to be a usual activity. I would return from school and spend the expected half hour recording the day’s events, feelings, and impressions in my little blue diary. I did not really need to express my emotions by way of words, but I gained a certain satisfaction from seeing my experiences forever recorded on paper. After all, isn’t accumulating memories a way of preserving the past?

　　When I was thirteen years old, I went on a long journey on foot in a great valley, well-equipped with pens, a diary, and a camera. During the trip, I was busy recording every incident, name and place I came across. I felt proud to be spending my time productively, dutifully preserving for future generations a detailed description of my travels. On my last night there, I wandered out of my tent, diary in hand. The sky was clear and lit by the glare of the moon, and the walls of the valley looked threatening behind their screen of shadows. I automatically took out my pen….

　　At that point, I understood that nothing I wrote could ever match or replace the few seconds I allowed myself to experience the dramatic beauty of the valley. All I remembered of the previous few days were the dull characterizations I had set down in my diary.

　　Now, I only write in my diary when I need to write down a special thought or feeling. I still love to record ideas and quotations that strike me in books, or observations that are particularly meaningful. I take pictures, but not very often—only of objects I find really beautiful. I’m no longer blindly satisfied with having something to remember when I grow old. I realize that life will simply pass me by if I stay behind the camera, busy preserving the present so as to live it in the future.

　　I don’t want to wake up one day and have nothing but a pile of pictures and notes. Maybe I won’t have as many exact representations of people and places; maybe I’ll forget certain facts, but at least the experiences will always remain inside me. I don’t live to make memories—I just live, and the memories form themselves.

　　51. Before the age of thirteen, the author regarded keeping a diary as a way of ______.

　　A. observing her school routine

　　B. expressing her satisfaction

　　C. impressing her classmates

　　D. preserving her history

　　52. What caused a change in the author’s understanding of keeping a diary?

　　A. A dull night on the journey.

　　B. The beauty of the great valley.

　　C. A striking quotation from a book.

　　D. Her concerns for future generations.

　　53. What does the author put in her diary now?

　　A. Notes and beautiful pictures.

　　B. Special thoughts and feelings.

　　C. Detailed accounts of daily activities.

　　D. Descriptions of unforgettable events.

　　54. The author comes to realize that to live a meaningful life is ______.

　　A. to experience it

　　B. to live the present in the future

　　C. to make memories

　　D. to give accurate representations of it

完形填空（共20小题；每小题1分，满分20分）
On the day before the bass（鲈鱼）season opened, he and his father were fishing early in the evening.
　　When his pole  1 he knew something huge was on the other end. His father watched with    2  as the boy skillfully worked the fish alongside the dock.  3 , he very cautiously lifted the   4  fish from the water. It was the largest one he had ever seen,   5  it was a bass.
　　The boy and his father looked at the handsome fish, gills（鱼鳃）playing back and forth in the moonlight. The father  6 a match and looked at his watch. It was 10 P.M.——two hours    7  the season opened. He looked at the fish, then at the boy. “You’ll have to put it back, son,” he said.
　　“Dad！”  8  the boy.
　　“There will be other fish,” said his father.
　　“Not as big as this one,” cried the boy again.
　　He looked around the lake. No other fishermen or boats were anywhere    9  in the moonlight. He looked again at his father.  10  no one had seen them, nor could anyone ever know what time he caught the fish, the boy could  11 from his father’s voice that the decision was not changed. He slowly  12  the hook out of the lip of the huge bass and lowered it into the   13  water. The boy suspected that he would never again see such a great fish.
　　That was 34 years ago. Today, the boy is a successful architect in New York City. And he was   14 . He has never again caught such a magnificent fish as the one he caught that night long ago. But he does see that same fish—— again and again——every time he   15  a question of ethics(道德).
For his father taught him, ethics are simple 16 of right and wrong. It is only the  17  of ethics that is difficult. Do we do right when no one is looking？We would if we were taught to put the fish back when we were young. For we would have learned the   18 . The decision to do right lives fresh and fragrant in our   19 . It is a   20  we will proudly tell our friends and grandchildren.

Some years ago, writing in my diary used to be a usual activity. I would return from school and spend the expected half hour recording the day’s events, feelings, and impressions in my little blue diary. I did not really need to express my emotions by way of words, but I gained a certain satisfaction from seeing my experiences forever recorded on paper. After all, isn’t accumulating memories a way of preserving the past?

　When I was thirteen years old, I went on a long journey on foot in a great valley, well-equipped with pens, a diary, and a camera. During the trip, I was busy recording every incident, name and place I came across. I felt proud to be spending my time productively, dutifully preserving for future generations a detailed description of my travels. On my last night there, I wandered out of my tent, diary in hand. The sky was clear and lit by the glare of the moon, and the walls of the valley looked threatening behind their screen of shadows. I automatically took out my pen….

At that point, I understood that nothing I wrote could ever match or replace the few seconds I allowed myself to experience the dramatic beauty of the valley. All I remembered of the previous few days were the dull characterizations I had set down in my diary.

Now, I only write in my diary when I need to write down a special thought or feeling. I still love to record ideas and quotations that strike me in books, or observations that are particularly meaningful. I take pictures, but not very often—only of objects I find really beautiful. I’m no longer blindly satisfied with having something to remember when I grow old. I realize that life will simply pass me by if I stay behind the camera, busy preserving the present so as to live it in the future.

I don’t want to wake up one day and have nothing but a pile of pictures and notes. Maybe I won’t have as many exact representations of people and places; maybe I’ll forget certain facts, but at least the experiences will always remain inside me. I don’t live to make memories—I just live, and the memories form themselves.

1. Before the age of thirteen, the author regarded keeping a diary as a way of ______.

A. observing her school routine     B. expressing her satisfaction

C. impressing her classmates       D. preserving her history

2.What caused a change in the author’s understanding of keeping a diary?

A. A dull night on the journey.

B. The beauty of the great valley.

C. A striking quotation from a book

 D. Her concerns for future generations.

3.What does the author put in her diary now?

A. Notes and beautiful pictures.

B. Special thoughts and feelings.

C. Detailed accounts of daily activities.

D. Descriptions of unforgettable events.

4.The author comes to realize that to live a meaningful life is ______.

A. to experience it             B. to live the present in the future

C. to make memories           D. to give accurate representations of it

    I must have been about fourteen then, and I put away the incident from my mind with the
easy carelessness of  youth. But the words, Carl Walter spoke that day, came back to me years
later, and ever since have been of great value to me.
Carl Walter was my piano teacher. During one of my lessons he asked how much practicing I was doing. I said three or four hours a day.
"Do you practice in long stretches, an hour at a time?"
"I try to."
"Well, don't," he exclaimed. "When you grow up, time won't come in long stretches.    Practice in minutes, whenever you can find them five or ten before school, after lunch, between household tasks. Spread the practice through the day, and piano-playing will become a part of your life."
When I was teaching at Columbia, I wanted to write, but class periods, theme-reading, and committee meetings filled my days and evenings. For two years I got practically nothing down on paper, and my excuse was that I had no time. Then I remembered what Carl Walter had said. During the next week I conducted an experiment. Whenever I had five minutes unoccupied, I sat down and wrote a hundred words or so. To my astonishment, at the end of the week I had a rather large manuscript ready for revision, later on I wrote novels by the same piecemeal method. Though my teaching schedule had become heavier than ever, in every day there were idle moments which could be caught and put to use. I even took up piano--playing again, finding that the small intervals of the day provided sufficient time for both writing and piano practice.
There is an important trick in this time--using formula: you must get into your work quickly. If you have but five minutes for writing, you can't afford to waste four chewing your pencil. You must make your mental preparations beforehand, and concentrate on your task almost instantly when the time comes. Fortunately, rapid concentration is easier than most of us realize.
I admit I have never learnt how to let go easily at the end of the five or ten minutes. But life can be counted on to supply interruptions. Carl Walter has had a tremendous influence on my life. To him I owe the discovery that even very short periods of time add up to all useful hours I need, if I plunge（投入）in without delay.
56．The meaning of “stretch” in the underlined part is the same as that in sentence “       ”.
A．The forests in the north of the province stretch for hundreds of miles.
B．Bob worked as a government official for a stretch of over twenty years.
C．My family wasn’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination.
D．During his senior year his earnings far enough to buy an old car.
57．Which of the following statements is true?
　　A．The writer didn’t completely take the teacher’s words to heart at first.
　　B．Carl Walter has had a great influence on the writer's life since he became a student.
　　C．The writer owes great thanks to his teacher for teaching him to work in long stretches.
　　D．Rapid concentration is actually more difficult than most people imagine.
58．We can infer that the writer             . 
A．has new books published each year however busy his teaching is
B．is always tired of interruptions in life because his teaching schedule is always heavy
C．has formed a bad habit of chewing a pencil while writing his novels
D．can find sufficient time for mental preparations beforehand, so he's devoted to work   instantly
59．What is the best title of this passage?
A．Concentrate on Your Work           B．A Little at a Time
C．How I Became a Writer                 D．Good AdviceIs Most Valuable

阅读下面的短文，掌握其大意，然后从36－55各题所给的四个选项（A，B，C，D）中选出最佳选项。

Born in America, I spoke English, not Chinese, the language of my ancestors. When I was three, my parents flashed cards with Chinese 36 at my face, but I pushed them 37 .My mom believed I would learn 38 I was ready .But the 39 never came.

　　On a Chinese New Year’s Eve, my uncle spoke to me in Chinese, but all I could do was 40 at him, confused, scratching my head. “Still can’t speak Chinese?” He 41 me, “You can’t even buy a fish in Chinatown.”

　　“Hey, this is America, not China. I’ll get some 42 with or without Chinese.” I replied and turned to my mom for 43.

　　“Remember to ask for fresh fish, Xin Xian Yu,” she said, handing over a $20 bill .I 44 the words, running downstairs into the streets of Chinatown.

　　I found the fish 45 surrounded in a sea of customers. “I’d like to buy some fresh fish,” I shouted to the fishman .But he 46 my English words and turned to serve the next customer .The laugh of the people behind increased 47 their impatience. With every 48, the breath of the dragons on my back grew stronger—my blood boiling— 49 me to cry out. “Xian Sheng Yu, please” “Very Xian Sheng,” I repeated .The crowd erupted into laughter. My face turned 50 and I ran back home 51  , except for the $20 bill I held tightly in my pocket .

　　Should I laugh or cry? They’re Chinese. I’m Chinese. I should feel right at 52 . Instead , I was the joke , a disgrace (丢脸)to the language.

　　Sometimes, I laugh at my fish 53  , but , in the end the joke is on 54 . Every laugh is a culture 55 ; every laugh is my heritage (传统)fading away.