网络中的"懒英文"

旧文一篇

首先和大家说一声抱歉，最近的这几篇文章中我有一些拼写错误-- 例如我两次都拼错了language这个单词，也没有仔细的检查。例如equality和equal都有拼错; 作为一个靠谱的英文分享公众号，这种事情是不应该发生的, I'm sorriy 😬

不得不承认“autocorrect" 对拼写带来的便利和“放任自流”。昨天参加了学习的结业考试，要在答题薄上写essay. 写完之后回头一看自己的拼写简直是惨不忍睹. 例如我把theory拼成theroy; search拼成serach -- where is my friend autocorrect?

在我的微信朋友圈内，有一些朋友平时会发一些英文的状态。比“误拼”让我更抓狂的是“标点符号的滥用”和“大小写的滥用” -- i HATE This?! 还有一些英文文章会因为不仔细而“把词连在了一起”, which makesme somad.

我们的语言习惯变的懒惰邋遢。这是新的风格？网络文化？Am I being anal-retentive?

尊重我们的读者，我们的语言和思考 －哪怕只是随随便便的一句心情，状态。无论是在纸上还是网络上，“字如其人”都是适用的。

William Zinsser 说:

"I don't know what still newer marvels will make writing twice as easy in the next 30 years. But I do know they won't make writing twice as good. That will still require plain old hard thinking -- what E.B. White was doing in his boathouse -- and the plain old tools of the English language.

微信上一旦推送了文章就“覆水难收”了。再次向我的读者们道歉，感谢指正和意见。

“懒英文”就说到这里。下面我们换个话题，来赏析篇文章.

赏析

On Writing Well中,如何写memoir一章中有一段很精彩的文字：以气味为线索来忆年华，你感受一下。

Alfred Kazin, A Walker in the City

It was the darkness and emptiness of the streets I liked most about Friday evening, as if in preparation for that day of rest and worship which the Jews greet “as a bride”—that day when the very touch of money is prohibited, all work, all travel, all household duties, even to the turning on and off of a light—Jewry had found its way past its tormented heart to some ancient still center of itself. I waited for the streets to go dark on Friday evening as other children waited for the Christmas lights.... When I returned home after three, the warm odor of a coffee cake baking in the oven, and the sight of my mother on her hands and knees scrubbing the linoleum on the dining room floor, filled me with such tenderness that I could feel my senses reaching out to embrace every single object in our household....

My great moment came at six, when my father returned from work, his overalls smelling faintly of turpentine and shellac, white drops of silver paint still gleaming on his chin. Hanging his overcoat in the long dark hall that led into our kitchen, he would leave in one pocket a loosely folded copy of the New York World; and then everything that beckoned to me from that other hemisphere of my brain beyond the East River would start up from the smell of fresh newsprint and the sight of the globe on the front page. It was a paper that carried special associations for me with Brooklyn Bridge. They published the World under the green dome on Park Row overlooking the bridge; the fresh salt air of New York harbor lingered for me in the smell of paint and damp newsprint in the hall. I felt that my father brought the outside straight into our house with each day’s copy of the World.

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