题目内容
In this section there are four reading passages followed by a total of 20 multiple, choice questions. Read the passages and then mark your answers on your coloured answer sheet.TEXT A Is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else’s dream And is there anything more miraculous than having one of your own The voluptuous pleasure of Haruki Murakami’s enthralling fictions—full of enigmatic imagery, random nonsense, and profundities that may or may not hold up in the light of day—reminds me of dreaming. Like no other author I can think of, Murakami captures the juxtapositions of the trivial and the momentous that characterize dream life, those crazy incidents that seem so vivid in the moment and so blurry and preposterous later on. His characters live ordinary lives, boiling pasta for lunch, riding the bus, and blasting Prince while working out at the gym. Then suddenly and matter-of-factly, they do something utterly nuts, like strike up a conversation with a coquettish Siamese cat, or maybe mackerel and sardines begin to rain from the sky. In Murakami’s world, these things make complete, cock-eyed sense. Like many of Murakami’s heroes, Kafka Tamura in Kafka on the Shore has more rewarding relationships with literature and music than with people. (Murakami’s passion for music is infectious; nothing made me want to rush out and purchase a Brahms CD until I read his Sputnik Sweetheart.) On his 15th birthday, Kafka runs away from his Tokyo home for obscure reasons related to his famous sculptor father. His choice of a destination is arbitrary. Or is it "Shikoku, I decide. That’s where I’ll go… The more I look at the map—actually every time I study it—the more I feel Shikoku tugging at me." On the island of Shikoku, Kafka makes himself a fixture at the local library, where he setties into a comfortable sofa and starts reading The Arabian Nights: "Like the genie in the bottle they have this sort of vital, living sense of play, of freedom that common sense can’t keep bottled up." As in a David Lynch movie, all the library staffers are philosophical eccentrics ready to advance the surreal narrative. Oshima, the androgynous clerk, talks to Kafka about ( inevitably) Kafka and the merits of driving while listening to Schubert ("a dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I’m driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right there"). The tragically alluring head librarian, Miss Saeki, once wrote a hit song called "Kafka ma the Shore"—and may or may not be Katkn’s long-lost mother. Alarmingly, she also stars in his erotic fantasies. In alternating chapters, Murakami records the even odder antics of Nakata, a simpleminded cat catcher who spends his days chatting with tabbies in a vacant Tokyo lot. One afternoon, a menacing clog leads him to the home of a sadistic cat killer who goes by the name Johnnie Walker. Walker ends up dead by the end of the encounter; back in Shikoku, Kafka unaccountably finds himself drenched in blood. Soon, Nakata too begins feeling an inexplicable pull toward the island. If this plot sounds totally demented, trust me, it gets even weirder than that. Like a dream, yon just have to be them. And, like a dream, what this dazzling novel means—or whether it means anything at all—we may never know. What is the writer’s tone in this passage
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TEXT D I know now that the man who sat with me on the old wooden stairs that hot summer night over thirty-five years ago was not a tall man. But to a five-year-old, he was a giant. We sat side by side, watching the sun go down behind the old Texaco service station across the busy street, a street that I was never allowed to cross unless accompanied by an adult, or at the very least, an older sibling. Cherry-scented smoke from Grandpa’s pipe kept the hungry mosquitoes at bay while gray, wispy swirls danced around our heads. Now and again, he blew a smoke ring and laughed as I fried to target the hole with ray finger. I, clad in a cool summer night, and Grandpa, his sleeveless T-shirt, sat watching the traffic. We counted cars and tried to guess the color of the next one to turn the corner. Once again, I was caught in the middle of circumstances. The fourth born of six children, it was not uncommon that I was either too young or too old for something. This night I was both. While my two baby brothers slept inside the house, my three older siblings played with friends around the comer, where I was not allowed to go. I stayed with Grandpa, and that was okay with me. I was where I wanted to be. My grandfather was babysitting while my mother, father and grandmother went out. "Thirsty" Grandpa asked, never removing the pipe from his mouth. "Yes," was my reply. "How would you like to nm over to the gas station there and get yourself a bottle of Coke" I couldn’t believe my ears. Had I heard it right Was he talking to me On my family’s modest income, Coke was not a part of our budget or diet. A few tantalizing sips was all I had ever had, and certainly never my own bottle. "Okay," I replied shyly, already wondering how I would get across the street. Surely Grandpa was going to come with me. Grandpa stretched his long leg out straight and reached his huge hand deep into the pocket. I could hear the familiar jangling of the loose change he always carded. Opening his fist, he exposed a mound of silver coins. There must have been a million dollars there, He instructed me to pick out a dime. After he deposited the rest of the change back into his pocket, he stood up. "Okay," he said, helping me down the stairs and to the curb, "I’m going to stay here and keep an ear out for the babies. I’ll tell yon when it’s safe to cross. You go over to the Coke machine, get your Coke and come back out. Wait for me to tell you when it’s safe to cross back." My heart pounded. I clutched my dime tightly in my sweaty palm. Excitement took my breath away. Grandpa held my hand tightly. Together we looked up the street and down, and back up again. He stepped off the curb and told me it was safe to cross. He let go of my hand and I ran. I ran faster than I had ever run before. The street seemed wide. I wondered if I would make it to the other side. Reaching the other side, I turned to fred Grandpa. There he was, standing exactly where I had left him, smiling proudly. I waved. "Go on, hurry up," he yelled. My heart pounded wildly as I walked inside the dark garage. I had been inside the garage before with my father. My surroundings were familiar. I heard the Coca-Cola machine motor humming even before I saw it. I walked directly to the big old red-and-white dispenser. I knew where to insert my dime. I had seen it done before and had fantasized about this moment many times. The big old monster greedily accepted my dime, and I heard the bottles shift. On tiptoes I reached up and opened the heavy door. There they were: one neat row of thick green bottles, necks staring directly at me, and ice cold from the refrigeration. I held the door open with my shoulder and grabbed one. With a quick yank, I pulled it free from its bondage. Another one immediately took its place. The bottle was cold in my sweaty hands. I will never forget the feeling of the cool glass on my akin With two hands, I positioned the bottleneck under the heavy brass opener that was bolted to the wall. The cap dropped into an old wooden box, and I reached in to retrieve it. I was cold and bent in the middle, but I knew I needed to have this souvenir. Coke in hand, I prondly marched back out into the early evening dusk Grandpa was waiting patiently. He smiled. "Stop right there," he yelled. One or two cars sped by me, and once again, Grandpa stepped off the curb. "Come on, now," he said, "run." I did. Cool brown foam sprayed my hands. "Don’t ever do that alone," he warned. I held the Coke bottle tightly; fearful he would make me pour it into a cup, ruining this dream come true. He didn’t, One long swallow of the cold beverage cooled my sweating body. I don’t think I ever felt so proud. From the passage we can infer that the relationship between the author and his Grandpa was
In this section there are four reading passages followed by a total of 20 multiple, choice questions. Read the passages and then mark your answers on your coloured answer sheet.TEXT A Is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else’s dream And is there anything more miraculous than having one of your own The voluptuous pleasure of Haruki Murakami’s enthralling fictions—full of enigmatic imagery, random nonsense, and profundities that may or may not hold up in the light of day—reminds me of dreaming. Like no other author I can think of, Murakami captures the juxtapositions of the trivial and the momentous that characterize dream life, those crazy incidents that seem so vivid in the moment and so blurry and preposterous later on. His characters live ordinary lives, boiling pasta for lunch, riding the bus, and blasting Prince while working out at the gym. Then suddenly and matter-of-factly, they do something utterly nuts, like strike up a conversation with a coquettish Siamese cat, or maybe mackerel and sardines begin to rain from the sky. In Murakami’s world, these things make complete, cock-eyed sense. Like many of Murakami’s heroes, Kafka Tamura in Kafka on the Shore has more rewarding relationships with literature and music than with people. (Murakami’s passion for music is infectious; nothing made me want to rush out and purchase a Brahms CD until I read his Sputnik Sweetheart.) On his 15th birthday, Kafka runs away from his Tokyo home for obscure reasons related to his famous sculptor father. His choice of a destination is arbitrary. Or is it "Shikoku, I decide. That’s where I’ll go… The more I look at the map—actually every time I study it—the more I feel Shikoku tugging at me." On the island of Shikoku, Kafka makes himself a fixture at the local library, where he setties into a comfortable sofa and starts reading The Arabian Nights: "Like the genie in the bottle they have this sort of vital, living sense of play, of freedom that common sense can’t keep bottled up." As in a David Lynch movie, all the library staffers are philosophical eccentrics ready to advance the surreal narrative. Oshima, the androgynous clerk, talks to Kafka about ( inevitably) Kafka and the merits of driving while listening to Schubert ("a dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I’m driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right there"). The tragically alluring head librarian, Miss Saeki, once wrote a hit song called "Kafka ma the Shore"—and may or may not be Katkn’s long-lost mother. Alarmingly, she also stars in his erotic fantasies. In alternating chapters, Murakami records the even odder antics of Nakata, a simpleminded cat catcher who spends his days chatting with tabbies in a vacant Tokyo lot. One afternoon, a menacing clog leads him to the home of a sadistic cat killer who goes by the name Johnnie Walker. Walker ends up dead by the end of the encounter; back in Shikoku, Kafka unaccountably finds himself drenched in blood. Soon, Nakata too begins feeling an inexplicable pull toward the island. If this plot sounds totally demented, trust me, it gets even weirder than that. Like a dream, yon just have to be them. And, like a dream, what this dazzling novel means—or whether it means anything at all—we may never know. The word "demented" in the last paragraph refers to
TEXT D I know now that the man who sat with me on the old wooden stairs that hot summer night over thirty-five years ago was not a tall man. But to a five-year-old, he was a giant. We sat side by side, watching the sun go down behind the old Texaco service station across the busy street, a street that I was never allowed to cross unless accompanied by an adult, or at the very least, an older sibling. Cherry-scented smoke from Grandpa’s pipe kept the hungry mosquitoes at bay while gray, wispy swirls danced around our heads. Now and again, he blew a smoke ring and laughed as I fried to target the hole with ray finger. I, clad in a cool summer night, and Grandpa, his sleeveless T-shirt, sat watching the traffic. We counted cars and tried to guess the color of the next one to turn the corner. Once again, I was caught in the middle of circumstances. The fourth born of six children, it was not uncommon that I was either too young or too old for something. This night I was both. While my two baby brothers slept inside the house, my three older siblings played with friends around the comer, where I was not allowed to go. I stayed with Grandpa, and that was okay with me. I was where I wanted to be. My grandfather was babysitting while my mother, father and grandmother went out. "Thirsty" Grandpa asked, never removing the pipe from his mouth. "Yes," was my reply. "How would you like to nm over to the gas station there and get yourself a bottle of Coke" I couldn’t believe my ears. Had I heard it right Was he talking to me On my family’s modest income, Coke was not a part of our budget or diet. A few tantalizing sips was all I had ever had, and certainly never my own bottle. "Okay," I replied shyly, already wondering how I would get across the street. Surely Grandpa was going to come with me. Grandpa stretched his long leg out straight and reached his huge hand deep into the pocket. I could hear the familiar jangling of the loose change he always carded. Opening his fist, he exposed a mound of silver coins. There must have been a million dollars there, He instructed me to pick out a dime. After he deposited the rest of the change back into his pocket, he stood up. "Okay," he said, helping me down the stairs and to the curb, "I’m going to stay here and keep an ear out for the babies. I’ll tell yon when it’s safe to cross. You go over to the Coke machine, get your Coke and come back out. Wait for me to tell you when it’s safe to cross back." My heart pounded. I clutched my dime tightly in my sweaty palm. Excitement took my breath away. Grandpa held my hand tightly. Together we looked up the street and down, and back up again. He stepped off the curb and told me it was safe to cross. He let go of my hand and I ran. I ran faster than I had ever run before. The street seemed wide. I wondered if I would make it to the other side. Reaching the other side, I turned to fred Grandpa. There he was, standing exactly where I had left him, smiling proudly. I waved. "Go on, hurry up," he yelled. My heart pounded wildly as I walked inside the dark garage. I had been inside the garage before with my father. My surroundings were familiar. I heard the Coca-Cola machine motor humming even before I saw it. I walked directly to the big old red-and-white dispenser. I knew where to insert my dime. I had seen it done before and had fantasized about this moment many times. The big old monster greedily accepted my dime, and I heard the bottles shift. On tiptoes I reached up and opened the heavy door. There they were: one neat row of thick green bottles, necks staring directly at me, and ice cold from the refrigeration. I held the door open with my shoulder and grabbed one. With a quick yank, I pulled it free from its bondage. Another one immediately took its place. The bottle was cold in my sweaty hands. I will never forget the feeling of the cool glass on my akin With two hands, I positioned the bottleneck under the heavy brass opener that was bolted to the wall. The cap dropped into an old wooden box, and I reached in to retrieve it. I was cold and bent in the middle, but I knew I needed to have this souvenir. Coke in hand, I prondly marched back out into the early evening dusk Grandpa was waiting patiently. He smiled. "Stop right there," he yelled. One or two cars sped by me, and once again, Grandpa stepped off the curb. "Come on, now," he said, "run." I did. Cool brown foam sprayed my hands. "Don’t ever do that alone," he warned. I held the Coke bottle tightly; fearful he would make me pour it into a cup, ruining this dream come true. He didn’t, One long swallow of the cold beverage cooled my sweating body. I don’t think I ever felt so proud. The author’s grandpa was described as being all the following EXCEPT
In this section you will hear everything ONCE ONLY. Listen carefully and then answer the questions that follow. Mark the correct answer to each question on your coloured answer sheet. As children grow up, their online photos and webpages may be viewed by authority from the fields of
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