1、翻了个译，MTI专业辅导And that Selfish Giant again told me his story,how he had felt betrayed by the kids sneaking into his garden,how he had built this high wall,and it did keep the children out,but a grey winter fell over his gardenand just stayed and stayed.With each rereading, I learned something newabout
2、 the hard stones of the roads that the kids were forced to play onwhen they got expelled from the garden,about the gentleness of a small boy that appeared one day,and even about the Giant himself.Maybe his words werent rageful after all.Maybe they were a plea for empathy,for understanding.My own gar
3、den is my own garden.Years later, I would learn of a writer named John Gardnerwho referred to this as the fictive dream,or the dream of fiction,and I would realize that this was where I was inside that book,spending time with the characters and the world that the author had createdand invited me int
4、o.As a child, I knew that stories were meant to be savored,that stories wanted to be slow,and that some author had spent months, maybe years, writing them.And my job as the reader -especially as the reader who wanted to one day become a writer -was to respect that narrative.Long before there was cab
5、le or the internet or even the telephone,there were people sharing ideas and information and memory through story.Its one of our earliest forms of connective technology.It was the story of something better down the Nilethat sent the Egyptians moving along it,the story of a better way to preserve the
6、 deadthat brought King Tuts remains into the 21st century.And more than two million years ago,when the first humans began making tools from stone,someone must have said, What if?And someone else remembered the story.And whether they told it through words or gestures or drawings,it was passed down; remembered:hit a hammer and hear its story.翻了个译，MTI专业辅导