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2015年1月26日星期一

2015-04 阅读分享


图片取自 黃金yoyo - 《出去玩》台東-成功橘子山麻荖漏

2015.01.19~25

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1。周末读书天(2015.01.24)另外一种人生


* 松露玫瑰 (2015.01.24)星期六讀書日。米布丁好比人生



隨意翻開你手邊的一本書的任何一頁,
寫下映入眼簾的第一個句子,
或是寫下你正在閱讀的書籍的句子,
標上書名、ISBN和頁數,當作回應。

閱讀讓思想更有力量,我們一起來讀書。

~ 松露玫瑰 ~


欢迎大家一起参与 周末读书天 My Weekend with Books 阅读分享,互相鼓励 :D >>[简介连接]>>



5 条评论:

  1. RIGOR MORTIS BEND.

      It’s a place in the 400-meter race where every cell of your body locks up.

      Your lungs ache for air.

      Your quads turn to cement.

      Your arms pump desperately, but they’re stiff and feel like lead.

      Rigor Mortis Bend is the last turn of any track, and at Liberty High you’re greeted with a headwind.

      The finish line comes into view and you will yourself toward it, but the wind pushes you back, your body begs you to give up, and the whole world seems to grind into slow motion.

      Your determination is all that’s left.

      It forces your muscles to fire.

      Forces you to stay in the race.

      Forces you to survive the pain of this moment.

      Your teammates scream for you to push.

      Push! Push! Push!

      You can do it!

      But their voices are muffled by the gasping for air, the pounding of earth, the pumping of blood, the need to collapse.

      Rigor Mortis Bend.

      I feel like I’m living on Rigor Mortis Bend.

    The Running Dream, p16~17
    Wendelin Van Draanen
    ISBN 978-0-375-86667-8

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  2. I HAVE THE DREAM AGAIN:

      Dawn is breaking.

      Sherlock’s whole body is wagging as he dances in a circle by the front door.

      We ease out of the house, then bound down the porch steps, turning right when we hit the street to head toward the river.

      The world is quiet.

      No cars.

      No people.

      No hustle and bustle.

      Just the rhythmic padding of our feet against pavement.

      Sherlock is happy beside me. His white fur seems to flow through the morning mist, and he doesn’t miss a beat. I turn, he turns. I speed up, he speeds up. No leash to connect us. No commands to control him. We’re bound by the joy of running.

      We reach the river, and the air is heavenly. It sparkles my face, washes my lungs, fills me with a sense of fluid motion. I glide beneath the trees, transform into wind.

      We breeze up to Aggery Bridge and I begin the long sprint across it. My legs and lungs burn, but I welcome the pain.

      I’m stronger than pain.

      Sherlock races ahead and I let him. He lives to run the bridge. Reaching two legs forward, kicking two legs back. He waits for me on the other side, wagging, panting, grateful for this stretch of freedom.

      He falls in beside me as I drop back the pace and glide along the streets, back past familiar houses, back home.

      On the porch again, he kisses me and pants as I tousle his ears. “Good boy!” I tell him. “You are such a good boy!”

      The sun is brighter now.

      Our sleepy neighborhood is stirring, waking up.

      And then, with a gasp, so do I.

    The Running Dream, p33~34
    Wendelin Van Draanen
    ISBN 978-0-375-86667-8

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  3.   It hurts to realize how unnecessary I am. From what little I’ve let Fiona tell me, school life seems the same as always. Track meets happen. The same flitty people are still flitting about. The same teachers are keeping to their same routines. The same lunchtime activities and rallies and club meetings still take place.

      I fell off, but the merry-go-round keeps moving.

      Lucy died, but the merry-go-round keeps moving.

      Still. As much as thinking this upsets me, I’m starting to see that I need the merry-go-round much more than it needs me, and in the end my choice is to hop back on or get left in the dust.

      So I take a deep breath and ask about the one thing that means the most to me.

      The one thing I absolutely don’t want to hear about.

      “How’s track?”

      All her little fidgeting motions stop. She studies me a moment, then says, “We lost to Mount Vernon by six points. They swept the four hundred and won the four-by-four-hundred. It lost us the meet.”

      I have a twinge of comfort.

      Maybe the merry-go-round at least slowed down with me gone.

    The Running Dream, p82
    Wendelin Van Draanen
    ISBN 978-0-375-86667-8

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  4.   People don’t understand why we run. It seems so mindless to them. All you do is go around and around the track.

      That’s the funny thing about running. The deceptive thing about it. It may seem mindless, but it’s really largely mental. If the mind’s not strong, the body acts weak, even if it’s not. If the mind says it’s too cold or too rainy or too windy to run, the body will be more than happy to agree. If the mind says it would be better to rest or recover or cut practice, the body will be glad to oblige.

      My mother says I was born a runner; that I entered this world wanting to get up and go. Kaylee, on the other hand, has always hated running. Not because I love it, but simply because she hates it. She tried it a couple of summers ago, but after a week of easy jogs with me, she asked, “When do you stop counting your steps?”

      I didn’t know how to answer that.

      I’d never counted steps in my life.

    The Running Dream, p156~157
    Wendelin Van Draanen
    ISBN 978-0-375-86667-8

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  5.   No one has ever asked me this so directly before. Either people like running or they don’t. Either people get it or they don’t. And if they don’t, they just think people who like it are crazy.

      Which is okay.

      That makes us even.

      But now I have to explain why I like it, and I’m not sure where to start. “Uh … running, or racing?”

      She thinks, then says, “Running. Like this morning.”

      “Hm.” I try to put my finger on it. “Because it feels like freedom?”

      She nods thoughtfully.

      “And your mind travels places where it doesn’t normally go.…”

      “Huh?”

      “Like dreaming in real time?” I laugh. “Never mind. It sounds crazy.”

      She laughs too, so I say the next thing that pops into my mind. “I love the morning air on my face—it’s one of the best things about running. The rest of your body’s warm, but your face is cool.” I laugh again. “I totally get why dogs like to stick their head out of car windows. Running’s like that but with fewer bugs in your teeth.”

      She laughs again, then sighs and says, “I wish I could feel that.”

      “What?” I kid her. “Your mom won’t let you stick your head out the window while she’s driving? What kind of mom do you have?”

      “A good one!” Then she says, “Now racing.”

      “Huh? Oh—what do I like about racing?”

      She nods, so I give that some thought and finally tell her, “It’s electric. From stepping into your lane until you cross the finish line … every cell of your body is charged.”

      “Going over the finish line must be wonderful.”

      I laugh. “Especially if you’re the first one there.”

      “But … it means you finished. You made it. Even if you don’t get a medal.”

      I look at her. “You’re very philosophical about the finish line.”

      She gives a thoughtful nod. “It’s symbolic.” I nod too, because I’m sure I know what she means, but then she adds, “Because it’s also the starting line.”

      For some reason this thought startles me. And I think about all the races where this is true—the 400, the 800, the 1600, all the relays—and it shocks me that I have never looked at it this way.

      Maybe because of staggered starts.

      Maybe because starting feels so different from finishing. At the starting line you’re amped, set, coiled. At the finish line you’re completely spent.

      So the thought that they’re the same line gives me a very strange feeling.

      A sort of uncomfortable feeling.

      Like discovering someone very close to you has been leading a secret double life.

    The Running Dream, p213~214
    Wendelin Van Draanen
    ISBN 978-0-375-86667-8

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