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God did not create the universe and the "Big Bang" was an inevitable consequence of the laws of physics, the eminent British theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking argues in a new book."Because there is a law such as gravity, the universe can and will create itself from nothing. Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the universe exists, why we exist, " Hawking writes."It is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the universe going. "Hawking, 68, who won global recognition with his 1988 book A Brief History of Time, an account of the origins of the universe, is renowned for his work on black holes, cosmology and quantum gravity.Since 1974, the scientist has worked on marrying the two cornerstones of modem physics—Albert Einstein"s General Theory of Relativity, which concerns gravity and large-scale phenomena, and quantum theory, which covers subatomic particles.
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Translate the following two passages into Chinese．Of course, my first impulse was to prepare this man"s remains for burial(laughter), but upon reflection I said I would reprieve him for a moment or two, and give him a chance to prove his assertion if he could. We stepped into a bookstore, and he did prove it. I had really stolen that dedication, almost word for word. I could not imagine how this curious thing had happened: for I knew one thing, for a dead certainty—that a certain amount of pride always goes along with a teaspoonful of brains, and that this pride protects a man from deliberately stealing other people"s ideas. That is what a teaspoonful of brains will do for a man—and admirers had often told me I had nearly a basketful, though they were rather reserved as to the size of the basket(laughter).
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Translate the following two passages into Chinese．Every time I sit down to write, and let my mind go easy, the words, it is so dark, or something to do with darkness. Terror. The terror of this city. Fear of being alone. Only one thing stops me from jumping up and screaming or running to the telephone to ring somebody, it is to deliberately think myself back into that hot light...white light, light, closed eyes, the red light hot on the eyeballs. The rough pulsing heat of a granite boulder. My palm flat on it, moving over the lichens. The grain of the lichens. Tiny, like minute animals" ears, a warm rough silk on my palm, dragging insistently at the pores of my skin. And hot. The smell of the sun on hot rock. Dry and hot, and the silk of dust on my cheek, smelling of sun. The sun. Letters from the agent about the novel. Every time one of them arrives I want to laugh—the laughter of disgust. Bad laughter, the laughter of helplessness, a self-punishment. Unreal letters, when I think of a slope of hot pored granite, my cheeks against hot rock, the red light on my eyelids. Lunch with the agent. Unreal—the novel is more and more a sort of creature with its own life. Frontiers of War now has nothing to do with me, it is a property of other people.
( )不属于网络存储模式。
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