英語美文佳作欣賞
優(yōu)美的文字于細(xì)微處傳達(dá)出美感，并浸潤(rùn)著人們的心靈。通過英語美文,不僅能夠感受語言之美,領(lǐng)悟語言之用，還能產(chǎn)生學(xué)習(xí)語言的興趣。度過一段美好的時(shí)光，即感悟生活，觸動(dòng)心靈。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編為大家?guī)碛⒄Z美文佳作欣賞，希望大家喜歡!
英語美文佳作欣賞：我所知道的愛
I know what love is. I'm not dumb. I've seen enough movies and I read books. Becky, my sister, says I don't have a clue. She says if I'm a lesbian, it's okay; she'll still love me. She says that in some states, like Virginia or something, lesbians can get married so I don't have to get all depressed about it. But I'm not depressed and I'm not a lesbian. I think boobs are stupid. They get in the way and they're heavy. I used to be able to run cross-country. Now I can't even jump rope. Not that I would, that's kids stuff.
Even though I haven't Done It or Seen One, I still would know love if I saw it. Love is like a platypus. I've never seen a platypus in real life, but in 6th grade I did a report on one and if I ran into one on the street and it looked at me with its great sausage-patty eyes I bet I'd say "Hey! That's a platypus." And I'd be right too.
People at school don't think I'm a girl. I mean, everyone knows I'm a girl, I mean, duh, but they don't think of me as a girl. Now Becky...everyone thinks of her as a girl. Even Mr. Naperelski, you can tell he's thinking of her as a girl. She's been Doing It for like two years now and she's had like a million boyfriends, but that doesn't mean she knows what love is. If you ask me, she's even more confused than I am. She thinks love happens when you wear short skirts and tops that show how your boobs rise...but that's not love. That's just high school guys wanting to get in your pants. And as soon as they get in your pants, they want to get into someone else's pants. It's like they're in the playoffs or something. Each girl is like one step closer to the big trophy. I don't know what the big trophy is and they probably don't either, that's the whole point. See, Becky, she acts all happy and all, and it's always Oh, Ted this and Bryan that, but just under her eyes, if you look really close, if you look deep past her purple eye shadow and heavy mascara, you see a little cloud of black. And that's not love. That's not at all what love is.
This girl in my class, well, she got pregnant. I know this now FOR A FACT but hardly anyone else does. I saw her baby. He's really cute too. Lots of curly black hair and eyes so big and wide he looks like he understands everything that's going on in the world, even the really crazy stuff. But when she was pregnant, no one knew about it, and I mean no one, not even her parents. See, she always wore really baggy clothes and she carried this huge straw bag in front of her stomach. Now, maybe that sounds unlikely that no one would notice her belly swelling like a balloon being filled with air, but no one did. She always kept to herself; she could just fade into the background (if you know what I mean), and she'd hug that bag to her like it was the only thing in her life. Maybe at the time it was. So she got bigger and bigger and came to school everyday. Then she was gone. No one noticed really, and I hate to say it, but neither did I. I saw her like a month ago. I ran into her at the Goodwill where I go to buy funky clothes and she was there buying stuff for her baby. It was sorta sad. I mean, I could have nice clothes if I wanted to look like I stepped out of a Gap ad, but her baby, well, those stained t-shirts and mismatched socks were the best he was gonna get. "Hey _____!" I said. I won't tell you her name because I promised I wouldn't tell anyone that I saw her there. "Is that your little boy?" I asked her. I could tell she was real taken aback, but maybe she was a little relieved too that I didn't avoid her or give her crap. And we talked. She said she missed school and all and her parents flipped when they came to get her at the hospital but the baby was the best thing that had ever happened to her. When she talked about him, her hands would touch his curly hair and twirl it and she'd lean in every now and then and just smell him and smile like he was a pumpkin pie or something.
英語美文佳作欣賞：母親的手
Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.
I don't remember when it first started annoying me — her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, "Don't do that anymore —your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.
Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe the boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...
Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow. In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, "Don't do that anymore — your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten — and forgiven — long ago.
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.
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