An Integrated English Course Book 3

1. An Integrated English Course Book 3 Unit Ten

2. Learning Objectives • By the end of this unit, you are supposed to • understand the main idea, structure of the text and the author’s writing style • master the key language points and grammatical structures in the text • consider the different love of the mother and the father

3. Teaching Procedure Pre-reading Questions Text I. The Wonderful Lousy Poems ● Passage ● Structural analysis ● Main idea of the passage ● Language points ● sentence studies ● vocabulary studies Text II. Dad

4. Pre-reading Questions 1. Have you ever tried to write a poem?

5. 2. How different is your father from your mother in their methods when they try to give you proper education?

6. Text I. The Wonderful Lousy Poems (abridged) When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem. At that time my father was a Hollywood tycoon, head of Paramount Studios. My mother was a founder and prime mover in various intellectual projects, helping to bring "culture" to the exuberant Hollywood community, of the 1920s. My mother read the little poem and began to cry. "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!" Shyly, proud-bursting, I stammered that I had. My mother poured out her welcome praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius. She had no idea that I had such talent for writing. I must write more poems, keep on writing, perhaps someday even publish them.

7. I glowed. "What time will Father be home?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him what I had accomplished. My mother said she hoped he would be home around 7. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.   First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I used colored crayons to draw an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. Then I waited. As 7 o'clock drew near, I confidently placed it right on my father's plate on the dining-room table. But my father did not return at 7. I rearranged the poem so it would appear at a slightly more advantageous angle on his plate. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. The suspense was exquisite. I admired my father. He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother. This evening it was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in, and his mood seemed thunderous. He was an hour late for dinner, but he could not sit down. He circled the long dining-room table with a Scotch highball in his hand, calling down terrible oaths on his glamorous employees. I can see him now, a big Havana cigar in one hand, the rapidly disappearing highball in the other, crying out against the sad fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a teeming Hollywood studio.

8. "Imagine, we would have finished the picture tonight," my father was shouting. "Instead that blank blank MORON, that blank blank BLANK suddenly gets it into her beautiful but empty little head that she can't play the last scene. So the whole company has to stand there at $1,000 a minute while this silly little BLANK walks off the set! Now I have to go down to her beach house tonight and beg her to come back on Monday." My father always paced determinedly as he ranted against the studio greats, and now as he wheeled he paused and glared at his plate. There was a suspenseful silence. He was reaching for my poem. I lowered my head and stared down into my plate. I was full of anxious daydreams. How wonderful it would be if this very first work of mine drove away the angry clouds that now darkened my important father's face! "What is this?" I heard him say.

9. "Ben, Buddy has been waiting for you for hours," my mother said. "A wonderful thing has happened. Buddy has written his first poem. And it's beautiful, absolutely amaz-“ "If you don't mind, I'd like to decide that for myself," Father said. Now was the moment of decision. I kept my face lowered to my plate. It could not have taken very long to read that poem. It was only 10 lines long. But it seemed to take hours. I remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table again. I could not bear to look up for the verdict. But in a moment I was to hear it. "I think it's lousy," my father said. I couldn't look up. I was ashamed of my eyes getting wet. "Ben, sometimes I don't understand you," my mother was saying. "This is just a little boy. You're not in your studio now. These are the first lines of poetry he's ever written. He needs encouragement."

10. "I don't know why," my father held his ground. "Isn't there enough lousy poetry in the world already? I don't know any law that says Buddy has to become a poet." I forget what my mother said. I wasn't hearing so well because it is hard to hear clearly when your head is making its own sounds of crying. On my left, she was saying soothing things to me and critical things of my father. But I clearly remember his self-defense: "Look, I pay my best writers $2,000 a week. All afternoon I've been tearing apart their stuff. I only pay Buddy 50 cents a week. And you're trying to tell me I don't have a right to tear apart his stuff if I think it's lousy!“ That expressive vernacular adjective hit me over the heart like a hard fist. I couldn't stand it another second. I ran from the dining room bawling. I staggered up to my room and threw myself on the bed and sobbed. When I had cried the worst of the disappointment out of me, I could hear my parents still quarreling over my first poem at the dinner table.

11. That may have been the end of the anecdote — but not of its significance for me. A few years later I took a second look at that first poem, and reluctantly I had to agree with my father's harsh judgment. It was a pretty lousy poem. After a while, I worked up the courage to show him something new, a primitive short story written in what I fancied to be the dark Russian manner. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless. I was learning to rewrite. And my mother was learning that she could criticize me without crushing me. You might say we were all learning. I was going on 12. But it wasn't until I was at work on my first novel, a dozen years later, that the true meaning of that painful "first poem" experience dawned on me. I had written a first chapter, but I didn't think it was good enough. I wanted to do it over. My editor, a wise hand who had counseled O'Neill and Sinclair Lewis and William Faulkner, told me not to worry, to keep on going, the first chapter was fine. Keep writing, just let it flow, it's wonderful, he encouraged me. Only when it was all finished and I was in a triumphant glow of achievement did he take me down a peg. "That chapter may be a little weak at that. If I were you, I'd look at it again." Now, on the crest of having written a novel, I could absorb a sharp critical blow.

12. As I worked my way into other books and plays and films, it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been to have had a mother who said, "Buddy, did you really write this — I think it's wonderful!" and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with his, "I think it's lousy." A writer, in fact all of us in life, needs that mother force, the loving force from which all creation flows; and yet the mother force alone is incomplete, even misleading, finally destructive, without the father force to caution, "Watch. Listen. Review. Improves." Those conflicting but complementary voices of my childhood echo down through the years — wonderful, lousy, wonderful, lousy — like two powerful, opposing winds buffeting me. I try to navigate my little craft so as not to capsize before either. Between the two poles of affirmation and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course.

13. Structural analysis The text can be divided into three parts. Part One: (Paragraphs 1-6) This is the introductory part of the text. Budd wrote his first poem which is hightly praised by his mother and was now expecting his father’s arrival in excitement, for he was sure his father would appreciate his wonderful poem more than his mother.

14. Part Two: (Paragraphs 7-20) In this part, Budd’s father came home, and beyound his expectation, the poem was denounced as “lousy”.

15. Part Three: (Para. 21-24): In this last part, the author makes a comparison between the father’s love and the mother’s love. He learns that although conflicting, they are complementary and in fact, both of them are indispensable to his growth.

16. Main Idea of the passage The text is a story about the author’s past experience. While narrating his past experience, the author presents to the reader a portrait of his father in work, and toward the end of the text, he makes a comment of two kinds of forces love.

17. Comprehension questions 1. How did his father respond to Budd’s first poem? His mother's response was positive and affirmative. She poured out her welcome praise and cried that she had not expected that her son had such a talent for poetry writing. She encouraged the son to keep on writing.

18. 2. Why did Budd look forward to his father’s arrival? His father was a Hollywood tycoon and began his career as a writer. Budd believed that his father would be able to discover his talent and appreciate his poem more than his mother did.

19. 3. How did his father respond to the poem? Quite beyond his expectation, his father at first ignored his poem and then, when he did notice it and read it, he dropped the poem back and declared that it is "lousy," which hurt Budd severely.

20. 4. which kind of love was importatn to Budd’s growth, the mother’s love or the father’s love? Both were important to Budd's growth. The mother's love was encouraging and inspiring. She encouraged Budd to keep on writing. The father's love was strict and stern. His principle in the education of the son was to "Watch. Listen. Review. Improve." These two kinds of love were indispensable in Budd's development. "I try to navigate my little craft so as not to capsize before either. " That is to say, both his mother's affirmation and his fatehr’s doubt were in the name of love, and Budd followed the course between them.

21. Language points exuberant 1) (of people and their behavior) overflowing with life and cheerful excitement His paintings were full of exuberant color. 2) (of plants) growing strongly and plentifully The exuberant grouth fo a tropical rain forest

22. glow to give out heat and/or soft light without flames or smoke the iron bar was heated until it glowed. (+with) to show redness and heat, esp. in the face, e.g., after hard work or because of strong feelings She was glowing with health and happiness. She glowed with pride at her son’s achievement.

23. elaborate: full of detail; carefully worked out and with a large number of parts She made elaborate preparations for the party, and then no one came. The curtains had an elaborate pattern of flowers.

24. do justice to: to treat in a fair or proper way; to geit the best result from She cooked a delicious dinner, but we couldn’t really do it justice because we’d eaten too much already. She didn’t do herself justice in the exam.

25. circle I) to move in a circle, especially in the air (about / around / round) (over somebody / something) vultures circling (around) over a dead animal 2) to move in or form a circle round (somebody / something) The plane circled the airport before landing. The moon circles the earth every 28 days.

26. oath 1) (words used in making) a solemn promise to do something or solemn declaration that something is true (usually appealing to God, etc. as a witness) There is a standard form of oath used in law courts. 2) casual and improper use of the name of God, etc. to express anger, surpnse, etc. ; swear-word He hurled a few oaths at his wife and walked out, slamming the door.

27. glamorous: attractive, charming, exciting glamorous film stars glamor ~ attractive or exciting quality which somebody / something has, and which seems out of reach to others hopeful young actors and actresses dazzled by the glamor of Hollywood Now that she's an air hostess, foreign travel has lost its glamor for her.

28. sentence somebody (to something): to state that somebody is to have a certain punishment He has been sentenced to three years in prison. (figurative) a crippling disease which sentenced him to a lifetime in a wheelchair

29. blank I) without writing or print; unmarked a blank sheet of paper; a blank page 2) without expression, understanding or interest; empty a blank expression / face / gaze He looked blank. (= He is puzzled. ) Her questions drew blank looks all around. ( = No one seemed to know how to answer them. ) 3) (attributive) total;absolute a blank denial/refusal

30. rant:to speak loudly, violently or theatrically He ranted (on) at me about my mistakes.

31. wheel 1) to push or pull (a vehicle with wheels) wheel a barrow (along the street) 2) to move in a curve or circle birds wheeling about in the sky above us Left / Right

32. glare n. 1) strong unpleasant dazzling light avoid the glare of the sun, of car headlights, etc. 2) angry or fierce look; fixed look give somebody a hostile glare v. 1) to shine with a dazzling, unpleasant light The searchlight glared, illuminating the prison yard. 2) to stare angrily or fiercely (at somebody / something) He didn't shout or swear, but just glared silently at me.

33. hold one's ground: to maintain one's claim, intention, argument, etc. ; not to yield or give way The speaker calmly held his ground in the face of angry opposition. She held her ground in spite of all the counter-arguments.

34. tear apart : to destroy or defeat something completely; to criticize something harshly ms The civil war tore the country apart. Will his absence tear the whole project apart?

35. work up 1) to develop or improve something gradually work up a business 2) to increase something in numbers or strength working up the support for the party

36. crush 1) to press or squeeze (somebody / something) so hard that it breaks or is damaged Several people were crushed to death by the faIling rocks. 2) to break something hard into small pieces or into powder by pressing Huge hammers crush (up) the rocks. 3) to defeat (somebody / something) completely; to subdue The rebeIlion was crushed by government forces. He felt completely crushed by her last remark.

37. dawn on: to gradually become clear to one's mind; to become evident to somebody It finally dawned on me that he had been lying. The truth began to dawn on him.

38. counsel 1) to give professional advice to (somebody with a problem) a psychiatrist who counsels alcoholics 2) to give (the stated advice) I would counsel caution in such a case. 3) to advise He counseled them to give up the plan.

39. take/bring somebody down a peg : to make (a proud or conceited person) more humble The arrogant film star needs/wants taking down a peg or two.

40. on the crest of : at the point of great success, happiness, etc. After its election victory, the party was on the crest of a wave.

41. echo 1) (of places) to send (something) back The valley echoed back his song. 2) (figurative) (of people, places, etc. ) to repeat something; to imitate; to recall They echoed their leader's every word. 3) (of places) to repeat a sound (to / with something) The hills echoed to the sound of laughter.

42. buffet: to knock or push somebody / something roughly from side to side flowers buffeted by the rain and wind a boat buffeted (about) by the waves

43. navigate 1) to find the position and plot the course of a ship, an aircraft, a car etc. , using maps and instruments Which officer in the ship navigates? 2) to steer (a ship) ; to pilot (an aircraft) navigate the tanker around the Cape 3) to sail along, over or through (a sea, river, etc. ) Who first navigated the Atlantic?

44. capsize : to (cause a boat to) overturn or be overturned The boat capsized in heavy seas. Huge waves can capsize the ship.

45. Text II. DadAndrew H. Malcolm The first memory I have of him - of anything, really - is his strel was in the late afternoon in a house under construction near ours. The unfinished wood floor had large, terrifying holes whose yawning darkness I knew led where good. His powerful hands, then age 33, wrapped all the way around my tiny arms, then age 4, and easily swung me up to his shoulders to command all I surveyed. The relationship between a son and his father changes over time. It may grow and flourish in mutual maturity. It may sour in resented dependence or independence. With many children living in single-parent homes today, it may not even exist. But to a little boy right after World War II, a father seemed a god with strange strengths and uncanny powers enabling him to do and know things that no mortal could do or know. Amazing things, like putting a

46. bicycle chain back on, just like that. Or building a hamsterl cage. Or guiding a jigsaw so it formed the letter F; I learned the alphabet that way in those pre-television days, one letter or number every other evening plus a review of the collection. (The vowel we painted red because they were special somehow. ) He even seemed to know what I thought before I did. "you look like you could use a cheeseburger and chocolate shake, " he would say on hot Sunday afternoons. When, at the age of 5, I broke a neighbor's garage window with a wild curve bal1 and waited in fear for 10 days to IIlake the :mnouncement, he seemed to know about it already and to have been waiting for something. There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those fishy little finger grips, but a good firm squeeze accompanied by an equally strong gaze into the other's eyes. "The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake," he would say. And we'd practice it each night on his return from work, the serious toddler in the battered Cleveland Indians cap running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it was firm enough.

47. When my cat killed a bird, he defused the anger of a 9-year-old with a little chat about something called "instinked. " The next year, when my dog got run over and the weight of sorrow was just too immense to stand, he was there, too, with his big arms and his own tears and some thoughts on the natural order of life and death, although what was natural about a speeding car that didn't stop always escaped me. As time passed, there were other rules to learn. "Always do your best. " "Do it now." "NEVER LIE!" And most importantly, "You can do whatever you have to do. " By my teens, he wasn't telling me what to do anymore, which was scary and heady at the same time. He provided perspective, not telling me what was around the great comer of life but letting me know there was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn't thought of. When the most important girl in the world – I forget her name now – turned down a movie date, he just happened to walk by the kitchen phone. "This may be hard to believe right now," he said, "but someday you won't even remember her name.”

48. One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn't trying to please hirr much as I was trying to impress him. I never asked him to come to my foot games. He had a high-pressure career, and it meant driving through most of Fri night. But for all the big games, when I looked over at the sideline, there was that familiar fedora. And, by God, did the opposing team captain ever get a firm ha shake and a gaze he would remember. Then, a school fact contradicted something he said. Impossible that he cc be wrong, but there it was in the book. These accumulated over time, along with personal experiences, to buttress my own developing sense of values. And I could tell we had each taken our own, perfectly normal paths. I began to see, too, his blind spot, his prejudices and his weakness. I never threw these up at him. He hadn't to me, and, anyway, he seemed to need pm tion. I stopped asking his advice; the experiences he drew from no longer seer relevant to the decisions I had to make. On the phone, he would go on about p tics at times, why he would vote the way he did or why some incumbent was a jerk. And I would roll my eyes to the ceiling and smile a little, though I hid it in my voice.

49. He volunteered advice for a while. But then, in more recent years, politics and issues gave way to talk of empty errands and, always, to ailments friends', my mother's and his own, which were serious and included heart disea He had a bedside oxygen tank, and he would ostentatiously retire there during visits, asking my help in easing his body onto the mattress. " You have very strong arms," he once noted. From his bed, he showed me the many sores and scars on his misshapen body and all the bottles for medicine. He talked of the pain and craved much sympathy. He got some. But the scene was not attractive. He told me, as the doctor had. 1 his condition would only deteriorate. "Sometimes," he confided, "I would like to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up. " After much thought and practice ("You can do whatever you have to do.”), one night last winter, I sat down by his bed and remembered for an instant th terrifying dark holes in another house 35 years before. I told my father how much I loved him. I described all the things people were doing for him. But, I said, hekept eating poorly, hiding in his room and violating other doctors' orders. No amount of love could make someone else care about life, I said; it was a two-way street. He wasn't doing his best. The decision was his.

50. He said he knew how hard my words had been to say and how proud he was of me. "I had the best teacher," I said. "You can do whatever you have to do. " He smiled a little. And we shook hands, firmly, for the last time. Several days later, at about 4 a. m. , my mother heard Dad shuffling about their dark room. "I have something I have to do," he said. He paid a bundle of bills. He composed for my mother a long list of legal and financial what-to-do's "in case of emergency. " And he wrote me a note. Then he walked back to his bed and laid himself down. He went to sleep, naturally. And he did not wake up. 1 ,189 words