托業(yè)考試寫(xiě)作范文模擬練習(xí)匯總六
托業(yè)備考一定不能落下寫(xiě)作，下面我給大家?guī)?lái)一些優(yōu)秀的寫(xiě)作范文供大家學(xué)習(xí)。
托業(yè)考試寫(xiě)作范文模擬練習(xí)(1)
‘Childhood is certainly not the happiest time of your life’
It’s about time somebody exploded that hoary old myth about childhood being the happiest period of your life. Childhood may certainly be fairly happy, but its greatest moments can’t compare with the sheer joy of being an adult. Who ever asked a six-year-old for an opinion? Children don’t have opinions, or if they do, nobody notices. Adults choose the clothes their children will wear, the books they will read and the friends they will play with. Mother and father are kindly but absolute dictators. This is an adult world and though children may be deeply loved, they have to be manipulated so as not to interfere too seriously with the lives of their elders and betters. The essential difference between manhood and childhood is the same as the difference between independence and subjection.
For all the nostalgic remarks you hear, which adult would honestly change places with a child? Think of the years at school: the years spent living in constant fear of examinations and school reports. Every movement you make, every thought you think is observed by some critical adult who may draw unflattering conclusions about your character. Think of the curfews, the martial law, the times you had to go to bed early, do as you were told, eat disgusting stuff that was supposed to be good for you. Remember how ‘gentle’ pressure was applied with remarks like ‘if you don’t do as I say, I’ll…’ and a dire warning would follow.
Even so, these are only part of child’s troubles. No matter how kind and loving adults may be, children often suffer from terrible, illogical fears which are the result of ignorance and an inability to understand the world around them. Nothing can equal the abject fear a child may feel in the dark, the absolute horror of childish nightmares. Adults can share their fears with other adults; children invariably face their fears alone. But the most painful part of childhood is the period when you begin to emerge from it: adolescence. Teenagers may rebel violently against parental authority, but this causes them great unhappiness. There is a complete lack of self-confidence during this time. Adolescents are over-conscious of their appearance and the impression they make on others. They feel shy, awkward and clumsy. Feeling are intense and hearts easily broken. Teenagers experience moments of tremendous elation or black despair. And through this turmoil, adults seem to be more hostile than ever.
What a relief it is to grow up. Suddenly you regain your balance; the world opens up before you. You are free to choose; you have your own place to live in and your own money to spend. You do not have to seek constant approval for everything you do. You are no longer teased, punished or ridiculed by heartless adults because you failed to come up to some theoretical standard. And if on occasion you are teased, you know how to deal with it. You can simply tell other adults to go to hell: you are one yourself.
托業(yè)考試寫(xiě)作范文模擬練習(xí)(2)
Untidy people are not nice to know’
You don’t have to be a genius to spot them. The men of the species are often uncombed; their ties never knotted squarely beneath their collars. The women of the species always manage to smear lipstick on their faces as well as their lips; in one hand they carry handbags which are stuffed full of accumulated rubbish; with the other, they drag a horde of neglected children behind them. With a sort of happy unconcern, both the male and female species litter railway sations, streets, parks,etc.with sweet wrappings, banana-skins, egg-shells and cast-off shoes. Who are they? That great untidy band of people that make up about three-quarters of the human race. An unending trail of rubbish pursues them wherever they go.
It is most unwise to call on them at their homes-particularly if they aren’t expecting you. You are liable to find socks behind the refrigerator, marbles in the jam and egg-encrusted crockery. Newspapers litter the floor; ashtrays overflow; withered flowers go on withering in stale water. Writing-desks have become dumping grounds for piles of assorted, indescribable junk. And as for the bedrooms, well, it’s best not to say. Avoid looking in their cars, too, because you are likely to find last year’s lolly sticks, chewing-gum clingling to the carpets and a note saying ‘Running In’ on the rear window of a ten-year-old vehicle.
Yes, but what are they really like? Definitely not nice to know. They are invariably dirty, scruffy, forgetful impatient, slovenly slothful, unpunctual, inconsiderate, rude, irritable and (if they’re driving a car) positively dangerous. Untidiness and these delightful qualities always seem to go together, or shall we say that untidiness breeds these qualities. It’s hardly surprising. If you are getting dressed and can only find one sock, you can only end up being irritable and scruffy. If after a visit to a lovely beauty spot you think that other people will enjoy the sight of your orange peel, you can only be inconsiderate and slovenly. If you can’t find an important letter because you stuck it between the pages of a book and them returned the book to the library, you can only be forgeful. If you live in perpetual, self-imposed squalor, you must be slothful-otherwise you’d do something about it.
What a delightful minority tidy people are by comparison! They seem to have a monopoly of the best human qualities. They are clean, neat, patient, hard-working, punctual, considerate and polite. All these gifts are reflected in their homes, their gardens, their work, their personal appearance. They are radiant, welcoming people whom you long to meet, whose esteem you really value. The crux of the matter is that tidy people are kind and generous, while untidy people are mean and selfish. The best proof of this is that tidy people, acting on the highest, selfless motives, invariably marry untidy ones. What happens after that is another story!
托業(yè)考試寫(xiě)作范文模擬練習(xí)(3)
‘The only way to travel is on foot’
The past ages of man have all ben carefully labeled by anthropologists. Descriptions like ‘Palaeolithic Man’, ‘Neolithic Man’, etc., neatly sum up whole periods. When the time comes for anthropologists to turn their attention to the twentieth century, they will surely choose the label ‘Legless Man’. Histories of the time will go something like this: ‘In the twentieth century, people forgot how to use their legs. Men and women moved about in cars, buses and trains from a very early age. There were lifts and escalators in all large buildings to prevent people from walking. This situation was forced upon earth-dwellers of that time because of their extraordinary way of life. In those days, people thought nothing of traveling hundreds of miles each day. But the surprising thing is that they didn’t use their legs even when they went on holiday. They built cable railways, ski-lifts and roads to the top of every huge mountain. All the beauty spots on earth were marred by the presence of large car parks.’
The future history books might also record that we weredeprived of the use of our eyes. In our hurry to get from one place to another, we failed to see anything on the way. Air travel gives you a bird’s-eye view of the world- or even less if the wing of the aircraft happens to get in your way. When you travel by car or train a blurred image of the countryside constantly smears with the urge to go on and on: they never want to stop. It is the lure of the great motorways, or what? And as for sea travel, it hardly deserves mention. It is perfectly summed up in the words of the old song: ‘I joined the navy to see the world, and what did I see? I saw the sea.’ The typical twentieth-century traveler is the man who always say ‘I’ve been there,’ You mention the remotest, most evocative place-names in the world like El Dorado, Kabul, Irkutsk and someone is bound to say ‘I’ve been there’—meaning, ‘I drove through it at 100 miles an hour on the way to somewhere else.’
When you travel at high speeds, the present means nothing: you live mainly in the future because you spend most of your time looking forward to arriving at some other place. But actual arrival, when it is achieved, is meaningless. You want to move on again. By traveling like this, you suspend all experience; the present ceases to be a reality: you might just as well be dead. The traveler on foot, on the other hand, lives constantly in the present. For him traveling and arrving are one and the same thing: he arrives somewhere with every step he makes. He experiences the present moment with his eyes, his ears and the whole of his body. At the end of his journey he feels a delicious physical weariness. He knows that sound, satisfying sleep will be his: the just reward of all true travelers.
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