新标准大学英语综合教程3课文原文(2)

‖I sell space‖ ‖I do market research.‖,‖I am a data processor.‖‖I am in public relations.‖ ‖I am a systems analyst‖ Such

explanations must seem nonsense to a child. How can he possibly envision anyone analyzing a system or researching a market?

Even grown men who do market research have trouble visualizing what a public relations man does with his day, and it is a safe bet that the average systems analyst is as baffled about what a space salesman does at the shop as the average space salesman is about the tools needed to analyze a system.

In the common everyday job, nothing is made any more. Things are now made by machines. Very little is repaired. The machines that make

things make them in such a fashion that they will quickly fall apart in such a way that repairs will be prohibitively expensive. Thus the buyer is

encouraged to throw the thing away and buy a new one. In effect, the machines are making junk.The handful of people remotely associated with

these machines can, of course, tell their inquisitive children ―Daddy makes junk‖. Most of the workforce, however, is too remote from junk

production to sense any contribution to the industry. What do these people do?

Consider the typical 12-story glass building in the typical American city. Nothing

Some persons mail paper. Some persons telephone other persons and ask that paper be sent to them. Others telephone to ascertain the

whereabouts of paper. Some persons confer about paper. In the grandest offices, men approve of some paper and disapprove of other paper.

The elevators are filled throughout the day with young men carrying paper from floor to floor and with vital men carrying paper to be discussed with other vital men.

What is a child to make of all this? His father may be so eminent that he lunches with other men about paper. Suppose he brings his son to

work to give the boy some idea of what work is all about. What does the boy see happening?

His father calls for paper. He reads paper. Perhaps he scowls at paper. Perhaps he makes an angry red mark on paper. He telephones another man and says they had better lunch over paper.

At lunch they talk about paper. Back at the office, the father orders the paper retyped and reproduced in quintuplicate, and then sent to

another man for comparison with paper that was reproduced in triplicate last year. Imagine his poor son afterwards mulling over the mysteries of work with a friend, who asks him, ‖What’s your father do?‖ What can the boy reply? ―It beats me,‖ perhaps, if he is not very observant. Or if he is, ―Something that has to do with making junk, I think. Same as everybody else.‖

1~7单元课文原文

It was snowing heavily, and although every true New Yorker looks forward to a white Christmas, the shoppers on Fifth Avenue were in a hurry, not just to track down the last-minute presents, but to escape the bitter cold and get home with their families for Christmas Eve.

Josh Lester turned into 46th Street. He was not yet enjoying the Christmas spirit, because he was still at work, albeit a working dinner at Joanne's. Josh was black, in his early thirties, and an agreeable-looking person, dressed smartly but not expensively. He was from a hard-working family in upstate Virginia, and was probably happiest back home in his parents' house. But his demeanor concealed a Harvard law degree and an internship in DC with a congressman, a junior partnership in a New York law firm, along with a razor-sharp intellect and an ability to think on his feet. Josh was very often been maligned, or its jazz orchestra, which had a guest slot for a well-known movie director who played trumpet, but because of the stellar quality of its sophisticated guests: politicians, diplomats, movie actors, hall-of-fame athletes, journalists, writers, rock stars and Nobel Prize winners – in short, anyone who was anyone in this city of power brokers.

Josh told him, and although the waiter refrained from curling his lip, he managed to show both disdain and effortless superiority with a simple flaring of his nostrils.

―Yes, Senator, please come this way,‖ and as Senator Rogers passed through the crowded room, heads turned as the diners recognized her and greeted her with silent applause. In a classless society, Rogers was the closest thing to aristocracy smart.

The appointment meant Josh wouldn't get home until after Christmas. He was not, however, unhappy. He was meeting Jo Rogers, the senior senator for Connecticut, and one of the best-known faces in the US. Senator Rogers was a Democrat in her third term of office, who knew Capitol Hill inside out but who had nevertheless managed to keep her credibility with her voters as a Washington outsider. She was pro-abortion, anti-corruption, pro-low carbon emissions and anti-capital punishment, as fine a progressive liberal as you could find this side of the Atlantic. Talk show hosts called her Honest Senator Jo, and a couple of years ago, Time magazine had her in the running for Woman of the Year. It was election time in the following year, and the word was she was going to run for the Democratic nomination. Rogers had met Josh in DC, thought him highly competent, and had invited him to dinner.

Josh shivered as he checked the address on the slip of paper in his hand. He'd never been to Joanne's, but knew it by reputation, not because of its food, which had

that America had. Alberto hovered for a moment, then went to speak to a colleague.

After two hours, Rogers and Josh got up to leave. There was a further flurry of attention by the staff, including an offer by Alberto to waive payment of the bill, which Rogers refused. As they were putting on their coats, Rogers said, ―Thank you, Alberto. Oh, have I introduced you to my companion, Josh Lester?‖

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