Could I say something about ________ in this text ,sir? Yes, you ________.


  1. A.
    first part, could
  2. B.
    part one, can
  3. C.
    the first part, could
  4. D.
    the part one, would
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科目：高中英語 來源：2013-2014學(xué)年湖北省黃岡市高三年級(jí)3月測(cè)試英語試卷（解析版） 題型：閱讀理解

It's time to remind myself what I love about life here in California,USA, to remember what I desperately miss when I go home.

Real radio

In the USA there are so many radio stations that those iPod tuner things don’t work at all. There is, simply, no dead air. It took me a while to discover the USA's many pub­lic radio stations, which don't broadcast any advertisements. KCRW is my favorites station, for its blend of indie music and current affairs. But I also listen to KJAZZ and KPCC. But before you feel jealous — it’s all online. My favorites: American life Snap Judgement and Henry Rollins live every Saturday night. Take listen online for free News? Well, there's not a lot of news from South Africa, and when it is, it's bad and full of fear, so I ignore it. But I care about any place I live in, and that includes the USA. And on public radio, the USA is covered in depth, from the perspective of individual stories rather than statistics.

The festivals

I’m jealously watching tweets and Facebook boasts and reviews from SXSW — seems like half the people I used to work with in South Africa are there,meeting Grumpy Cat and watching bands they’ve always wanted to see live. It’s great to know that these 1000s of festivals are so close, and that one day,if film school schedule ever allows me to leave campus for more than a few days, I can go to one or two of them. I have already ex­changed my much loved Ford Mustang for a bigger, less sexy car — a car spacious enough to sleep in — so that next year I can be there, not just dream of it.

The famous people

When I go back to SA, I'm often asked if I’ve spotted any famous people. It's awkward for me. I feel the the same way about it as I feel when an American asks me if there are lions in the streets. Except yes, I have. No,not lions. I have met some famous people. I chatted to RJ Mitte from Breaking Bad outside a dub in West Hollywood. Many of my professors are famous directors. The problem is, once you meet these famous people, they're just people, FFS. This feels disappointing at first, like you're missing a Jesus mo­ment of some sort. But if you think about it, it's inspiring. What it means, is that I, litlle me (right now, also "just a person") could be a famous just-a-person person one day, and get to make all the films I just dream of now.

1.The underlined sentence "There is,simply, no dead air." probably means____.

A. there is no useless radio programmes in the USA

B. there is no useful radio programmes in the USA

C. there is no polluted air in the USA

D. there is no advertisements from the radio programmes in the USA

2.There are so many festivals that_____.

A. I often leave campus for more than few days

B. I often attend some of them in person

C. I bought a bigger Ford? Mustang

D. I can share many reviews and performances online with my friends in South Africa

3.The author thinks the famous people in the USA _____.

A. are just Like lions????????????? ???????????? B. are well-known but ordinary

C. are disappointing????????????? D. are inspiring

4.The author is most likely to be _____.

A. a director in America????????????? ?????????? B. a professor in South Africa

C. a student in America????????????? ???????? D. an actor in South Africa

 

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科目：高中英語 來源： 題型：閱讀理解

My Way to Success

From the day I signed up for the Naumburg Competition, everything changed. I had made a decision to start again, to save my life, and that meant a 360-degree turnaround.
I kept on practicing. An enormous amount of work had to be done in two months. I went from not practicing at all to thirteen hours a day.
I spent two weeks just playing scales. If I thought I sounded bad before, now I sounded worse than awful.
At the time I lived on 72nd Street, close to West End Avenue. I had an apartment with a window the size of a shoebox. I didn't do mylaundry. I left my apartment only to walk to Juilliard─and not onBroadway like everyone else. I walked up Amsterdam Avenue because I didn't want to see anybody, didn't want to run into anybody, didn't want anyone to ask what I was doing.
I stopped going to classes and became a hermit. I even talked Miss DeLay into giving my lesson at night.
My eating habits were awful. I lived on fried sausages, a pint of peanut butter/chocolate ice cream, and a gallon of Coca-Cola every day. That's all I ate for eight weeks.
I was nuts. I was completely obsessed with getting back into shape, with doing well in this competition. If I could, people would know I was still on earth. Not to count me out; to stop asking, “Whatever happened to Nadja?”
The last week before the Naumburg auditions, I couldn't touch the violin. I had worked and worked and worked and worked and then I just couldn't work anymore.
I certainly could have used it. I wasn't as prepared as I should have been. But I simply had to say, “Nadja, you've dedicated yourself to this thing. Ready or not, do your best.”
Fifty violinists from around the world auditioned for the competition on May 25, 26, and 27, 1981. Those that made it past thepreliminaries would go on to the semifinals. Those that passed that stage would go to the finals. In years past, one violinist was chosen as winner and two received second and third place.
On May 26, the day of my audition, I went to the Merkin Concert Hall at 67th Street and Broadway. I waited, played for twenty minutes, and went home. I couldn't tell whether the preliminary judges were impressed or not. I'd find out the next evening.
Maybe subconsciously I was trying to keep busy; that night, when I fried the sausages, I accidentally set my apartment on fire. I grabbed my cat and my violin, and ran out the door. The fire was put out, but everything in my place was wrecked.
Fortunately, the phone was okay and on the evening of May 27, I had the news from Lucy Rowan Mann of Naumburg. Thirteen of us had made it.
Talk about mixed emotions. I was thrilled to be among the thirteen; a group that included established violinists, some of whom had already made records. But it also meant I had to play the next day in the semifinals of the competition.
Everyone entering the competition had been given two lists of concertos. One was a list of standard repertory pieces. The other list was twentieth-century repertory. For our big competition piece, we were to choose from each list and play a movement from one in the semifinals, and a movement from the other in the finals─if we made it that far.
From the standard repertory list, I chose the Tchaikovsky Concerto. I had been playing the Tchaik for three years, so it was a good piece for me.
From the twentieth-century list, I chose the Prokofiev G minor Concerto. I had never played it onstage before.
My goal had been just passing the auditions, but now my thought pattern began to change. If I wanted a sliver of a chance of advancing again, my brain said, “Play your strong piece first.”
Logically, I should play the Tchaikovsky in the semifinals just to make it to the next stage. Who cared if that left me with a piece I probably wouldn't play as well in the finals of the competition? It'd be a miracle to get that far.
There wouldn't be more than seven violinists chosen for the final round, and if I were in the top seven of an international group, that was plenty good enough.
The semifinals were held on May 28 in Merkin Concert Hall. You were to play for thirty minutes: your big piece first, then the judges would ask to hear another.
There was a panel of eight judges. They had a piece of paper with my choices of the Tchaikovsky and the Prokofiev in front of them. “Which would you like to play?” they asked.
I said meekly, “Prokofiev.”
My brain and all the logic in the world had said, “Play your strong piece.” My heart said, “Go for it all. Play your weak piece now, save Tchaikovsky for the finals.”
Maybe I don't listen to logic so easily after all.
My good friend, the pianist Sandra Rivers, had been chosen as accompanist for the competition. She knew I was nervous. There had been a very short time to prepare; I was sure there'd be memory slips, that I'd blank out in the middle and the judges would throw me out. My hands were like ice.
The first eight measures of the Prokofiev don't have accompaniment. The violin starts the piece alone. So I started playing.
I got through the first movement and Sandra said later my face was as white as snow. She said I was so tense, I was beyond shaking. Just a solid brick.
It was the best I'd ever played it. No memory slips at all. Technically, musically, it was there.
I finished it thinking, “Have I sold my soul for this? Is the devil going to visit me at midnight? How come it went so well?”
I didn't know why, but often I do my best under the worst of circumstances. I don't know if it's guts or a determination not to disappoint people. Who knows what it is, but it came through for me, and I thank God for that.
As the first movement ended, the judges said, “Thank you.” Then they asked for the Carmen Fantasy.
I turned and asked Sandy for an A, to retune, and later she said the blood was just rushing back into my face.
I whispered, “Sandy, I made it. I did it.”
“Yeah,” she whispered back, kiddingly, “too bad you didn't screw up. Maybe next time.”
At that point I didn't care if I did make the finals because I had played the Prokofiev so well. I was so proud of myself for coming through.
I needed a shot in the arm; that afternoon I got evicted. While I was at Merkin, my moped had blown up. For my landlord, that was the last straw.
What good news. I was completely broke and didn't have the next month's rent anyway. The landlord wanted me out that day. I said, “Please, can I have two days. I might get into the finals, can I please go through this first?”
I talked him into it, and got back to my place in time for the phone call. “Congratulations, Nadja,”“they said. “You have made the finals.”
I had achieved the ridiculously unlikely, and I had saved my best piece. Yet part of me was sorry. I wanted it to be over already. In the three days from the preliminaries to the semifinals, I lost eight pounds. I was so tired of the pressure.
There was a fellow who advanced to the finals with me, an old, good friend since Pre-College. Competition against friends is inevitable in music, but I never saw competition push a friendship out the window so quickly. By the day of the finals, I hated him and he hated me. Pressure was that intense.
The finals were held on May 29 at Carnegie Hall and open to the public. I was the fourth violinist of the morning, then there was a lunch break, and three more violinists in the afternoon.
I played my Tchaikovsky, Saint-Sa‘ns’s Havanaise, and Ravel's Tzigane for the judges: managers, famous violinists, teachers, and critics. I went on stage at five past eleven and finished at noon. Those fifty-five minutes seemed like three days.
I was so relieved when I finished playing; I was finished! It's impossible to say how happy I was to see the dressing room. I went out for lunch with my friends. It was like coming back from the grave. We laughed and joked and watched TV.
As I returned to Carnegie Hall to hear the other violinists, I realized I'd made a big mistake: they might ask for recalls. A recall is when they can't decide between two people and they want you to play again. It's been done; it's done all the time in competitions. No way was I in shape to go onstage and play again.
In the late afternoon, the competition was over. Everybody had finished playing. Quite luckily─no recalls.
The judges deliberated for an hour. The tension in the air was unbelievable. All the violinists were sitting with their little circle of friends. I had my few friends around me, but no one was saying much now.
Finally, the Naumburg Foundation president Robert Mann came on stage.
“It's always so difficult to choose ...” he began.
“Every year we hold this competition,” Robert Mann said. “And in the past, we've awarded three prizes. This year we've elected to only have one prize, the first prize.”
My heart sank. Nothing for me. Not even Miss Congeniality.
“We have found,” Mann went on, “that second place usually brings great dismay to the artist because they feel like a loser. We don't want anyone here to feel like a loser. Every finalist will receive five hundred dollars except the winner, who will receive three thousand dollars.”
And then he repeated how difficult it was to choose, how well everyone had played ...dah, dah, dah.
I was looking down at the floor.  
“The winner is ...”
And he said my name.
A friend next to me said, “Nadja, I think you won!”
I went numb. My friends pulled me up and pointed me toward the stage. It was a long walk because I had slipped into a seat in the back. Sitting up in front was my old friend. I would have to walk right past him and I was dreading it, but before I could, he got up and stopped me.
He threw his arms around me and I threw my arms around him. I kept telling him how sorry I was. I was holding him and started to cry, saying, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” I didn't want to lose, but I really didn't want him to lose either. And he was holding me and saying, “Don't be sorry. I'm so proud of you.” It was over, and we would be friends again.
I took my bow, then ran to Juilliard. Ten blocks uptown, one block west, to give Miss DeLay the news. She could be proud of me now, too.
Suddenly, everything was clear. Playing the violin is what I'd do with my life. Heaven handed me a prize: “You've been through a lot, kid. Here's an international competition.”
Everything had changed when I prepared for the Naumburg, and now everything changed again. I made my first recording. Between September 1981 and May 1982, I played a hundred concerts in America, made one trip to Europe, then two months of summer festivals. And people asked me back.
There was a great deal of anxiety playing in Europe for the first time. But I was able to rely on my self-confidence to pull me through.
Self-confidence onstage doesn't mean a lack of nerves backstage. The stakes had increased. This wasn't practice anymore, this was my life. I'd stare into a dressing-room mirror and say, “Nadja, people have bought tickets, hired baby-sitters, you've got to calm down; go out there and prove yourself.”
Every night I'd prove myself again. My life work had truly begun

  1. 1.

    In a gesture to prepare for the competition, Nadja did all the following except _________

    1. A.
      preoccupying herself in practice
    2. B.
      trying to carry out her deeds secretly
    3. C.
      abandoning going to school for classes
    4. D.
      consuming the best food to get enough energy
  2. 2.

    How many violinists does the passage mention advanced to the finals?

    1. A.
      Four
    2. B.
      Five
    3. C.
      Six
    4. D.
      Seven
  3. 3.

    After Nadja finished playing at the finals, she went out for a while and when she came back to hear the other violinists she realized she had made a mistake because _________

    1. A.
      she forgot that there was going to be a recall
    2. B.
      she didn’t get hold of the permission to leave
    3. C.
      chances were that she had to replay and she was off guard
    4. D.
      there was another play she had to take part in in the afternoon

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科目：高中英語 來源：浙江省模擬題 題型：閱讀理解

閱讀理解。
     Until I was twelve years old, I thought everyone in the world knew about the grinnies, if I thought
about the term at all - which is unlikely. After all, everyone in my family used the word quite naturally,
and we understood each other. So far as I knew, it was a word like any other word  - like bath, or
chocolate, or homework. But it was my homework which led to my discovery that grinnies was a
word not known outside my family.
     My last report card had said that I was a "C" student in English, and my parents, both teachers,
decided that no child of theirs would be just an average student of anything. So nightly I spelled words
aloud and answered questions about the fine points of grammar. I wrote and rewrote and rewrote every
composition until I convinced my mother that I could make no more improvements. And the hard work
paid off. One day the teacher returned compositions, and there it was - a big fat, bright red "A" on the
top of my paper. Naturally, I was delighted, but I didn't know I was attracting attention until the teacher
spoke sharply, "Helen, what are you doing?"
     Called suddenly out of my happy thoughts, I said "Oh, I've got the grinnies!" The teacher and my
classmates burst into laughter, and then I understood that grinnies were used inside my family. Other
people were not so lucky.
     And it is really lucky to have the grinnies, an uncontrollable, natural state of great pleasure. Grinnies
are shown on the outside by sparkling eyes and a wide, wide smile - not just any smile, but one that
shows the teeth and stretches the mouth to its limits. A person experiencing the grinnies appears to be
all mouth. On the inside grinnies are characterized by a feeling of joyful anxiety. Grinnies usually last just
a few seconds, but they can come and go. Sometimes, when life seems just perfect, I have occasional
attacks of the grinnies for a whole day.
     The term originated in my mother's family. Her younger sister, Rose, who had deep dimples (酒窩),
often expressed her pleasure with such a grin that the dimples appeared to become permanent. When
Rose was about four, she started explaining her funny look by saying, "I have the grinnies". The term
caught on, and it has been an important word in our family now for two generations.
     The occasion doesn't matter. Anything can bring on the grinnies - just so long as one feels great
delight. When my brother finally rode his bicycle - without training wheels - from our house to the corner
and back, he came home with the grinnies. When I was little, my mother's announcement that we would
have homemade ice cream for dessert always gave me the grinnies. My father had the grinnies when I
was chosen to make a speech at the end-of-school-year ceremony. Grinnies can be brought on by a
good meal, a sense of pride, a new friend, a telephone call from someone special, an achievement. Or
sometimes one gets the grinnies for no reason at all: just a sudden sense of happiness can bring on a
case. Whatever brings them on, an attack of the grinnies is among life's greatest pleasures.
     In fact, now that I look back on the experience, I feel sorry for my seventh-grade teacher. I think it's
a pity that she didn't know the word grinnies. It's such a useful term for saying, "I'm really, really pleased!"
1. After the writer was twelve years old, she ______.
A. thought everyone knew the meaning of "grinnies"
B. equaled "grinnies" to bath or chocolate in meaning
C. got to know "grinnies" was used only inside her family
D. discovered the word "grinnies" through her mother
2. When her English teacher called her name, the writer was ______.
A. looking at the big "A" on the top of her paper
B. listening to her English teacher attentively
C. too happy to notice what's happening around her
D. busy rewriting and improving her compositions
3. According to the writer, the word "grinnies" originates from______.
A. her mother
B. her aunt
C. her brother
D. her father
4. The writer feels sorry for her seventh-grade teacher because the teacher______.
A. has no pity on her students
B. should not have laughed at her
C. doesn't have any luck to meet her parent
D. has no idea of what "grinnies" is
5. What method does the writer use to explain "grinnies"?
A. Cause and effect.
B. Examples.
C. Comparison and contrast.
D. Process.

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科目：高中英語 來源：0108 模擬題 題型：閱讀理解

閱讀理解。
     We spent a day in the country, picking wild flowers. With the car full of flowers we were going home.
On our way back my wife noticed a cupboard outside a furniture shop. It was tall and narrow."Buy it," my
wife said at once. "We'll carry it home on the roof rack. I've always wanted one like that."
     What could I do? Ten minutes later I was ￡20 poorer; and the cupboard was tied on the roof rack. It
was six feet long and eighteen inches square, quite heavy too.
     In the gathering darkness I drove slowly. Other drivers seemed unusually polite that evening. The police
even stopped traffic to let us through. Carrying furniture was a good idea.
     After a time my wife said, "There's a long line of cars behind. Why don't they overtake, I wonder?" In
fact a police car did overtake. The two officers inside looked at us seriously as they passed. But then, with
great kindness, they led us through the rush-hour traffic. The police car stopped at our village church. One
of the officers came to me.
     "Right, sir," he said. "Do you need any more help?"
     I was a bit puzzled. "Thanks, officer," I said. "You have been very kind. I live just on the road."
     He was staring at our car, first at the flowers, then at the cupboard. "Well, well," he said, laughing. "It's
a cupboard you've got there! We thought it was something else."
     My wife began to laugh. The truth hit me like a stone between the eyes. I smiled at the officer. "Yes, it's
a cupboard, but thanks again." I drove home as fast as I could.
1. In fact the husband _____ the cupboard.
A. would like very much to buy
B. badly wanted
C. was glad to have bought
D. would rather not buy
2. Other drivers thought they were _____.
A. carrying a cupboard to the church
B. sending flowers to the church
C. carrying nothing but a piece of furniture
D. going to attend a funeral at the church
3. The police will be more polite to those who are _____.
A. driving in gathering darkness
B. in great sorrow
C. driving with wild flowers in the car
D. carrying furniture
4. What did the husband think of this matter?
A. It was very strange.
B. He felt ashamed of it.
C. He took great pride in it.
D. He was puzzled at it.

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