2014 DSE English Past Paper 閱讀材料 (中英翻譯 + MP3 配音) 免費版

2014 DSE English Past Paper

• (A) Apologies all around

  
  

• (B1) The World Needs More Love Letters

  
  

• (B2) Celebrity

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Apologies all around - A  

歉意傳遞

“Oh look!” Rachel shouted. ‘“There’s a robot at the door.”

Winston Sinclair hoped it wasn’t one of those sales robots. They were nearly impossible to get rid of. He picked up Rachel and raised the viewing screen she had used. The robot was one metre tall, grey, squat, plain-looking. 

“Robot, what do you want?”

It had a cheap synthesized voice. “Winston Sinclair, born February 18, 2000?”

“Yeah...”

“Worked at CommaTech from 2023 to 2026?”

“Honey, don’t buy anything,” his wife Elizabeth called from the living room. 

“Pardon, Winston Sinclair, I am not here to sell you something. I am not here to buy something. 

Winston Sinclair, sir, I am here to apologize.”

Winston sat on the couch with Elizabeth and Rachel while the robot explained. 

“I contain an apology for Winston Sinclair from Karl Anderson.”

“Karl Anderson? I haven’t heard that name in, gosh, probably ten years.”

Rachel pulled at his shirt sleeve. “Daddy, who’s Karl?”

“We worked together at Comma Tech, then he got a great job at Future Industries. I applied to work there, but they never called back.”

The robot beeped. “Pardon, Winston Sinclair. Will you hear the apology?”

“Uh, okay.”

An identity card reader on its side lit up. “Please confirm your identity.”

Winston pulled his card from his wallet and waved it over the reader.

“Identity confirmed, Winston Sinclair.” The robot whirred as a small video screen unfurled into where its head might have been. “Playing apology.”

The man in the video had more grey and less hair, but it was definitely Karl.

“Hello, Winston. Isn’t this the strangest bot? It just shows up one day and... well, anyway.” Karl licked his lips. “Nine years ago, you applied to Future Industries. I didn’t want a young hotshot like you competing with me, so I spread the rumor that you were impossible to work with. I’ve felt bad ever since and I’d like to apologize for doing that. I’m really sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

The screen rolled back into the robot. 

Winston jumped up. “THAT SCOUNDREL!!!”

“Winston!”

“Sorry — I really wanted that job. I always wondered what happened. I don’t believe it!”Winston stalked around the living room. “I was miserable at CommaTech for another year until I left, and then — ”

“And then you went to IndustriCorp,” Elizabeth said. “And you met me, and we got married, and we had Rachel, and here we are. I’d say things worked out just fine.”

“Sorry — I really wanted that job. I always wondered what happened. I don’t believe it!”Winston stalked around the living room. “I was miserable at CommaTech for another year until I left, and then — ”

“And then you went to IndustriCorp,” Elizabeth said. “And you met me, and we got married, and we had Rachel, and here we are. I’d say things worked out just fine.”

The robot chimed. “Winston Sinclair, do you accept the apology?”

He had wanted that job so badly back then. But if he’d gotten it, then Future Industries would be his life. Not Elizabeth. Not Rachel, who right now was poking a plastic magic wand at the robot from underneath the coffee table. 

Elizabeth was right. Things had worked out just fine. Better, even. She saw the big picture, like she always did. It was one of the reasons he loved her. 

“Winston Sinclair, do you accept the apology?”

He sat down on the couch and reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Yes. I do.”

The robot extended a small metal arm, probably a camera. 

“Please record your acceptance.” Winston took a breath. “Hi Karl, this is Winston. I accept your apology. Things worked out. I hope you’re well. Hey, call me sometime and we’! catch up. Bye.”

The robot clicked. “Winston Sinclair, now you must record an apology.”

“Excuse me?”

“You must record an apology. I will deliver it. This is my function.”

Well, Winston thought, what do I have to apologize for? 

“Okay. I scratched a hover-bike with my car door yesterday.”

The robot was quiet while an LED on its front blinked, then went solid red. “Insufficient value.”

“What!?”

“Value of new apology must calculate to within plus or minus twelve percent of value of accepted apology.”

Winston rose from the couch. “I need to think about this over dinner.”

While the family ate, the robot stayed in the living room and recharged. 

“Pardon, Winston Sinclair,” the robot beeped. “You must record an apology.”

“Oh, geez, robot. Fine. I stole two books from the library when I was twelve.”

Again, the silence. “Insufficient value.”

“I teased Devon Marcus in tenth grade.”

“Insufficient value.”

“In university, I cheated on my fourth-year mathematics exam.”

“Insufficient value.”

A moment from Winston’s past emerged in his mind. He slowly turned his chair around. 

“What if 1 broke someone’s heart?”

“Age at heart breaking?”

“Twenty-two.”

The LED blinked for what felt like forever. It turned green. “Value is sufficient. You may 

apologize.”Sitting on the couch, Winston talked as the robot recorded. 

“Hi, Cherisse. This is Winston Sinclair. I want to apologize. That night by the lake? When I told you I didn’t believe in love? I lied. I was scared of being close, and I ran away. I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your calls and your mail. I’m hoping you'll forgive me.” He sat back. “That’s it.”Winston felt good, lighter somehow. He imagined this was how Karl had felt.

The robot collected itself, unplugged, and moved to the door. 

Winston stood. “Robot, wait.”

“Yes?”

“I thought of another apology.”

“Only one apology is allowed. Now I must leave.”

Winston opened the door for the robot. 

“Karl Anderson will receive this acceptance,”the robot recited. “Cherisse Deveraux will receive this apology. Goodbye, Winston Sinclair.”While Rachel waved goodbye to the robot, Winston watched it go down the path, down the driveway, and down the street until it disappeared into the night. He stood on the porch a few minutes more, and then went inside. He picked up the internet tablet and started searching. 

“What are you doing, honey?” Elizabeth said from the table.

“ I’m looking for instructions. I’m going to build a robot.”

The World Needs More Love Letters - B1

世界需要更多暖心信箋

[1] The website The World Needs More Love Letters aims to spread joy through letters. Not through emails, or your usual love letters, written to real people you love, but surprise letters for strangers. These letters don’t say “I love you”, but they are full of kindness, telling people how special they are. It’s the sort of stuff that most people don’t really say out loud even to the people they care about, let alone a total stranger.

[2] The website was started by a 24-year-old woman named Hannah Brencher. After college, she moved to New York City but was hit by depression and loneliness. One day she felt so alone, she wanted to reach out to someone. So she started writing letters. Letters to complete strangers.

[3] With my supplies to hand, I can’t stop thinking about what I might say. By the time I sit down to write my letters, I feel very self-conscious. I don’t want to make a spelling mistake, cross it out and ruin the whole thing. I browse Brencher’s website for inspiration. But everything I start to write sounds, well ... cheesy. And stupid. “Hey! You! Yes, you!” Nope.

[4] I try again, and write a few over-used expressions before I cross them out and start afresh. “In a city like London where people go out of their way not to smile or even catch your eye, I just felt like saying hello.” I add, “I hope you had a good day, but if not, wishing this random note will make you feel better.”That’ll do for a first attempt.

[5] My next letter is basically the same, except I address it to “the stranger sitting on the train”. By letter number three, I figure less is more so simply say: “YOU ARE WAY BETTER THAN YOU THINK YOU ARE.” Which, let’s face it, we’d all love to hear someone say. I mark the envelope: “Something to cheer you up if you’re having a bad day.” I like that one. I think I nailed it.

[1] The World Needs More Love Letters is a very cute idea. It also sounds, well, a bit American touchy-feely. I’m not sure that’s something we British do well. But I know that if I received such a letter, it would put a smile on my face. So I decide to give it a try.

[2] On the morning I decide to write my love letters to strangers, I made the journalistic schoolgirl-error of forgetting my notepad and pen. So I go to the nearest stationery shop and also buy some cards with matching envelopes.

[3] With my supplies to hand, I can’t stop thinking about what I might say. By the time I sit down to write my letters, I feel very self-conscious. I don’t want to make a spelling mistake, cross it out and ruin the whole thing. I browse Brencher’s website for inspiration. But everything I start to write sounds, well ... cheesy. And stupid. “Hey! You! Yes, you!” Nope.

[4] I try again, and write a few over-used expressions before I cross them out and start afresh. “In a city like London where people go out of their way not to smile or even catch your eye, I just felt like saying hello.” I add, “I hope you had a good day, but if not, wishing this random note will make you feel better.”That’ll do for a first attempt.

[5] My next letter is basically the same, except I address it to “the stranger sitting on the train”. By letter number three, I figure less is more so simply say: “YOU ARE WAY BETTER THAN YOU THINK YOU ARE.” Which, let’s face it, we’d all love to hear someone say. I mark the envelope: “Something to cheer you up if you’re having a bad day.” I like that one. I think I nailed it.

[6] The next part is the letter-drop: where to leave them? I slip one in the sofa in the cafe that I’m in, between the cushions so the next person notices. Then I drop the other one on the train, as if it wasn’t me that left it on that seat at all. On my way home I notice a nice-looking bike with a basket. So I drop the last note in there.

[7] It’s kind of exciting leaving these notes behind. (I actually stand a safe distance from the bike, pretending to window shop just in case I catch the bike owner coming back.) I’d like to think they would appreciate the gesture, although I can equally understand why they might think I am a lunatic. But I guess, as Brencher’s experiment shows, it’s really not that much weirder to take the time to write a random letter for someone with the aim of making their day that bit brighter than it is to, say, Tweet a whole bunch of people you’ll never meet or never really know.

[8] When I get home, I realise I have got one card and one envelope left. So I scrawl a lil’ something for my husband and leave it under his pillow. Way better than sending a text.

Celebrity - B2

星光迷思

[1] The morning after The Cellar Ti apes' was aired on BBC2, Iwent for a walk along the King’s Road. How ought I to treat those who approached me? I switched on a sweet gentle smile and practised a kind of ‘Who?...me?’ gesture that involved looking behind me and then pointing with questioning disbelief at my own undeserving chest. I made sure, before setting out, that there were pens in my pocket for autographs.

[2] The first people I passed as I made my way up Blacklands Terrace were an elderly couple who paid me no attention. Foreigners possibly, or the kind of Chelseaites* who thought it smart not to have a television. I walked twice around Sloane Square. Not one person stopped me. There was simply no reaction from anyone anywhere. I went into a newsagent and hung around the piles of television listings magazines. To pick up a Radio Times people had to ask me to step aside; obviously and by definition these persons must have been television watchers, but my features, by now set into a wild, despairing grin, meant nothing to them. This was most strange. Television, everybody in the world knew, conferred instant fame. Instead I had woken up to find myself anonymous. I was still nothing more than another face in the London crowd.

[3] I pulled a compensatory BBC Micro magazine from the shelf and left. As I was trailing disappointedly back to the flat I heard a voice behind me. 

‘Excuse me, excuse me!’

I turned to see an excited young girl. At last. ‘Yes?’

‘You forgot your change.’

[4] Ever since I can remember I had dreamt of being famous. I know how embarrassing an admission this is. From the first moment I was aware of such a class of person existing, I had wanted to be a celebrity. We are forever telling ourselves that we live in a celebrity-obsessed culture; many hands are daily wrung at the supremacy of appearance over achievement. To desire fame argues a shallow and delusional outlook. This much we all know. But if we clever ones can see so clearly that fame is a snare and a delusion, we can also see just as clearly that as each year passes a greater and greater proportion of the western world’s youth is becoming entramelled in that snare and dazzled by that delusion.

[5] You may wonder how our culture can be so broken and so sick as to venerate a pack of talentless nobodies who offer no moral, spiritual or intellectual sustenance and no discernible gifts beyond unthreatening photogeneity. My counter-argument to this would be, firstly, the phenomenon simply is not as new as everyone thinks it is. Read any novel published in the early part of the twentieth century and you will find female uneducated characters who spend their spare moments dreaming of movie stars, tennis-players, explorers... The propensity to worship idols is not new. We humans are naturally disposed to worship gods and heroes. I would rather see that impulse directed into the adoration of daft singers than into the veneration of militant politicians.

[6] Secondly, is it not a rule in life that no one is quite as stupid as we would like them to be? If the social-networking services of the digital age teach us anything it is that only a fool would underestimate the intelligence, intuition and cognitive skills of the ‘masses’. I am talking about more than the ‘wisdom of crowds’ here. If you look beyond sillinesses like the puzzling inability of the majority to distinguish between your and you’re, you will see that it is possible to be a fan of reality TV, talent shows and bubblegum pop and still have a brain. Which is all a way of questioning whether pop-culture hero worship is really so mentally damaging, so corrupting of the soul of mankind as we are so often told.

[7] Thirdly, look at the kind of people who most object to the childishness and cheapness of celebrity culture. Does one really want to side with such apoplectic bores? I should know, I often catch myself being one, and it isn’t pretty. I will defend the absolute value of Mozart® over Miley Cyrus’, of course I will, but we should be wary of false dichotomies. You do not have to choose between one or the other. You can have both. The human cultural jungle should be as varied as the Amazonian rain forest. We are all richer for biodiversity. We may decide that a puma is worth more to us than a caterpillar, but surely we can agree that the habitat is all the better for being able to sustain each. Monocultures are uninhabitably dull and end as deserts.

[8] Against all that it might be said that the quarrel is not with harmless idolatry. The problem, some would argue, is not that everybody worships celebrity, but they want it for themselves. Online user-generated content and the rise of the talent show and reality TV have bred a generation for whom it is not enough to flick through fan magazines, they want their own shot at stardom. They want, moreover, to go straight to fame and fortune, short-circuiting tedious considerations like hard work and talent.

[9] Work was coming in thick and fast. But I was not famous. A few invitations to film premieres and first nights began to trickle in, but I found that I could walk the red carpet entirely unmolested. I remember going to some event with Rowan Atkinson’, the press night of a new play, I think. To hear his name shouted out by photographers and see the crowd of fans pressing up against the crash barriers caused the most intense excitement in me, combined with a sick flood of fury and resentment that no one, not one single person, recognized me or wanted my picture. Oh, Stephen. I have clicked on and selected that sentence, deleted it, restored it, deleted it and restored it again. A large part of me would rather not have you know that I am so futile, fatuous and feeble-minded, but an even larger part recognizes that this is our bargain. I cannot speak for others or presume to drag out their entrails for public inspection, but I can speak for (and against) myself. Maybe, to put a kinder construction to it, I was living proof that you could want to be famous and want to do the work, you could relish the red carpet and relish working into the early hours cranking out articles, scripts, sketches and scenarios with a genuine sense of pleasure and fulfilment.