谁能帮忙写一篇关于 The tiger’s wife的读后感,3页
在家高效学习首先要订立在家学习的计划,按照学习计划进行学习。在家学习由于没有人指导和监督,可能不知道从那儿搞起走。有的人东看一下,西看一下,十分钟还没有进入到主题。因此,订立了计划后就知道今天要学习的内容,围绕学习内容来进行学习,才能做好有的放矢,不会浪费时间。在订立计划的同时,一定要计划上写清楚明确内容,光有计划是不行的。
在家高效学习在注意合理地分配学习时间。各人的学习效率在什么时间最好不一样,有的人喜欢早上背文科方面的内容,有的人喜欢中午的时间看书,有的人喜欢在晚上进行数学方面的计算,找准各人学习效率高的最佳时间,在最佳的时间利用好,才能得到事半功倍的效果。
在家高效学习注意休息和调节。不管在什么地方学习都可能累,累的时候要注意休息和调节。文科学习累了,我可以学习理科,理科学习够了,我可以看文科,听听音乐,看看外边的风景。如果只是学习不休息,只是休息不学习,效果没有,根本谈不上高效。休息的方式有很多种,选择轻松的方式进行学习。在家也要营造一个温馨的学习环境,不要受家人和外边的吵闹。叮嘱家人小心讲话,不要把电视的声音调大。可以泡上一杯素茶,或一杯咖啡,累了小撮一口,会心一笑。
在家高效学习也要注意一些高效的学习方法。如果对一些概念记不住,可以用手写几个关键词,根据关键词来进行记忆。也可以抄上几段,好记忆不如坏笔头。对于理科的,注意进行演算,搞不懂的地方,可以将书先看两遍,再进行计算和分析,把基础打扎实,磨刀不误砍柴工。平时要注意复习和预习。不要学习了就不去管,还要注意知识的积累,和平时的生活联系起来去分析和思考,也就是学的知识要进行运用,才会学习的扎实和不容易忘记。知识点可以进行归纳,归纳成图形,树形,写在一张纸上。当遇到问题,先要进行自己的独立思考和分析,如果实在想不通,可以上网查找资料,查找资料一定要有目的性,对网上的别的东西不能去关注。集中自己的精力学习。
在家高效学习要有好的自觉性。在家没有,没有在学校学习那样,有老师管,要检查作业和有一定的作息时间,有良好的学习环境。家里学习的时间要靠自己来把握,学习的灵活性大,稍不注意时间就跑掉了,一天就过去了。每天学习的情况,学习的知识要进行总结和积累,把自己的好经验总结起来,把不好的明天坚决要改掉。
The forty days of the soul begin on the morning after death. That first night, before its forty days begin, the soul lies still against sweated-on pillows and watches the living fold the hands and close the eyes, choke the room with smoke and silence to keep the new soul from the doors and the windows and the cracks in the floor so that it does not run out of the house like a river. The living know that, at daybreak, the soul will leave them and make its way to the places of its past—the schools and dormitories of its youth, army barracks and tenements, houses razed to the ground and rebuilt, places that recall love and guilt, difficulties and unbridled happiness, optimism and ecstasy, memories of grace meaningless to anyone else—and sometimes this journey will carry it so far for so long that it will forget to come back. For this reason, the living bring their own rituals to a standstill: to welcome the newly loosed spirit, the living will not clean, will not wash or tidy, will not remove the soul's belongings for forty days, hoping that sentiment and longing will bring it home again, encourage it to return with a message, with a sign, or with forgiveness.
If it is properly enticed, the soul will return as the days go by, to rummage through drawers, peer inside cupboards, seek the tactile comfort of its living identity by reassessing the dish rack and the doorbell and the telephone, reminding itself of functionality, all the time touching things that produce sound and make its presence known to the inhabitants of the house. Speaking quietly into the phone, my grandma reminded me of this after she told me of my grandfather's death. For her, the forty days were fact and common sense, knowledge left over from burying two parents and an older sister, assorted cousins and strangers from her hometown, a formula she had recited to comfort my grandfather whenever he lost a patient in whom he was particularly invested—a superstition, according to him, but something in which he had indulged her with less and less protest as old age had hardened her beliefs.
My grandma was shocked, angry because we had been robbed of my grandfather's forty days, reduced now to thirty-seven or thirty-eight by the circumstances of his death. He had died alone, on a trip away from home; she hadn't known that he was already dead when she ironed his clothes the day before, or washed the dishes that morning, and she couldn't account for the spiritual consequences of her ignorance. He had died in a clinic in an obscure town called Zdrevkov on the other side of the border; no one my grandma had spoken to knew where Zdrevkov was, and when she asked me, I told her the truth: I had no idea what he had been doing there.
"You're lying," she said.
"Bako, I'm not."
"He told us he was on his way to meet you."
"That can't be right," I said.
He had lied to her, I realized, and lied to me. He had taken advantage of my own cross-country trip to slip away—a week ago, she was saying, by bus, right after I had set out myself—and had gone off for some reason unknown to either of us. It had taken the Zdrevkov clinic staff three whole days to track my grandma down after he died, to tell her and my mother that he was dead, arrange to send his body. It had arrived at the City morgue that morning, but by then, I was already four hundred miles from home, standing in the public bathroom at the last service station before the border, the pay phone against my ear, my pant legs rolled up, sandals in hand, bare feet slipping on the green tiles under the broken sink.
Somebody had fastened a bent hose onto the faucet, and it hung, nozzle down, from the boiler pipes, coughing thin streams of water onto the floor. It must have been going for hours: water was everywhere, flooding the tile grooves and pooling around the rims of the squat toilets, dripping over the doorstep and into the dried-up garden behind the shack. None of this fazed the bathroom attendant, a middle-aged woman with an orange scarf tied around her hair, whom I had found dozing in a corner chair and dismissed from the room with a handful of bills, afraid of what those seven missed beeper pages from my grandma meant before I even picked up the receiver.
I was furious with her for not having told me that my grandfather had left home. He had told her and my mother that he was worried about my goodwill mission, about the inoculations at the Brejevina orphanage, and that he was coming down to help. But I couldn't berate my grandma without giving myself away, because she would have told me if she had known about his illness, which my grandfather and I had hidden from her. So I let her talk, and said nothing about how I had been with him at the Military Academy of Medicine three months before when he had found out, or how the oncologist, a lifelong colleague of my grandfather's, had shown him the scans and my grandfather had put his hat down on his knee and said, "Fuck. You go looking for a gnat and you find a donkey."
I put two more coins into the slot, and the phone whirred. Sparrows were diving from the brick ledges of the bathroom walls, dropping into the puddles at my feet, shivering water over their backs. The sun outside had baked the early afternoon into stillness, and the hot, wet air stood in the room with me, shining in the doorway that led out to the road, where the cars at border control were packed in a tight line along the glazed tarmac. I could see our car, left side dented from a recent run-in with a tractor, and Zóra sitting in the driver's seat, door propped open, one long leg dragging along the ground, glances darting back toward the bathroom more and more often as she drew closer to the customs booth.
"They called last night," my grandma was saying, her voice louder. "And I thought, they've made a mistake. I didn't want to call you until we were sure, to worry you in case it wasn't him. But your mother went down to the morgue this morning." She was quiet, and then: "I don't understand, I don't understand any of it."
"I don't either, Bako," I said.
"He was going to meet you."
"I didn't know about it."
Then the tone of her voice changed. She was suspicious, my grandma, of why I wasn't crying, why I wasn't hysterical. For the first ten minutes of our conversation, she had probably allowed herself to believe that my calm was the result of my being in a foreign hospital, on assignment, surrounded, perhaps, by colleagues. She would have challenged me a lot sooner if she had known that I was hiding in the border-stop bathroom so that Zóra wouldn't overhear.
She said, "Haven't you got anything to say?"
"I just don't know, Bako. Why would he lie about coming to see me?"
"You haven't asked if it was an accident," she said. "Why haven't you asked that? Why haven't you asked how he died?"
"I didn't even know he had left home," I said. "I didn't know any of this was going on."
"You're not crying," she said.
"Neither are you."
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