[King's Speech]电影视频片段
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书摘：Out With It（1）ZT
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书摘：Out With It（2）ZT
http://bbs.wenxuecity.com/yingyuziliao/179059.html
书摘：Out With It（3）ZT
OUT WITH IT: How Stuttering Helped Me Find My Voice
by Katherine Preston
Holly looks up, wags her tail, does a couple of laps on my bed, and
then lies down looking at me. I grab the rope toy that I have
brought up with me and watch her chase it manically for a few
moments. She grabs hold and tugs until I let go. I watch her nudge
it back towards me.
I wipe a couple of traitorous tears from my cheek. "I know, I know,
you think I'm alright," I don't want Holly to think I am pathetic.
She is under my care; I feel that I have someone else to look after
for the first time in my life. I'm not keen to let her down and I
want to keep her loyalty.
"But some people think I'm weird, a freak." I am gulping a little as
I watch her c ock her head. She moves towards the side of the bed
and, not wanting to let go of her warmth, I pull her into my lap and
add, "Don't worry--it's mostly smelly boys." I'm not sure who I'm
trying to reassure.
"Why do I have to talk funny?" I nuzzle my forehead against the soft
golden fuzz of her head and ruffle her ears until she starts to
squirm in my arms. As I lift her to face me, I have stopped
sniffling, "You know, if I was fluent, I could be an actress. Or a
TV presenter. I would tell everyone everything that was on my mind.
I'd be eloquent and witty and insightful. You would never be able to
shut me up. I would enter competitions for people who could talk the
most."
She manages to wriggle free, jumps off the bed, and starts turning
circles by the door. I lift her into the nook of my waist and, as
silently as possible, creak my bedroom door open. I have to keep it
quiet; the last thing I want to do is wake my parents. I creep out
of my room and carry her squirming body back down the stairs to the
kitchen. As I stretch my legs over the steps that I know will creak,
I can see the boxes spilling out of various rooms. I can see my
teddies breaking free of one cardboard box and our old photo albums
sneaking out of another. I notice that my dad's golf clubs are
stacked up by the front door.
We are moving house, leaving our Knight*****ridge town house and moving
to a house far, far away in the countryside. For months I had begged
my parents to leave London. I had presented my arguments
relentlessly over days and weeks, slowly chipping away at their
hesitancy. I had listed the benefits of living in the country: the
cleaner air, the fields to run around in, the possibility of having
a bigger home, the room to breathe. They had stalled, spoken to
friends, whispered their conversations late into the night. Finally,
they had agreed; we would give it a go, see if we liked it.
I had been ecstatic when they told me. Now I'm a little more
nervous. Will it work? As I put Holly back into her bed, I whisper
that she'll love our new home, there will be hundreds of pheasants
for her to chase all day. I promise her that, as much as I hate
change, I think this is a good change, I hope it is. I reassure her
that we are heading to a new place, a new beginning.
The discoloration on the wall next to her head catches my eye. I
doubt that anyone else would see it, but I know it is there, however
well disguised. I stare at the lick of fresh white paint and brush
my fingers against the fine hairs of the brushstrokes. It is a
guilty reminder of all the mornings that we have come down to find a
pile of rubble under Holly's tiny paws. A sad testament to all the
nights she must have spent desperately tunneling into the brick wall
of our kitchen.
I know that my dad has patiently filled in the holes every morning
with plaster and taken out his paint pot before the real estate
agent comes around with another prospective buyer to trample around
our home. I have heard him joke with his friends that she's
impressively strong for a three-month-old puppy, that one day the
plaster may all fall out, and whoever ends up with the house will
worry that they've been landed with the ghost of gigantic termites.
I hope that tonight she'll stay asleep until the morning.
As I start to sneak back upstairs I resolve that this year will be
different, that this year I will tackle my stutter once and for all.
I will teach myself how to be the same as everyone else. I give
myself a checklist:
1. Say my name very loudly out of my window ten times every evening.
2. Ask every stranger I meet on the street what the time is.
3. Take ten deep breaths every morning.
4. Watch how Mum speaks and talk like her.
Foolproof. I give myself just over six months. If I can speak
fluently on my own, then surely I can make myself speak "properly"
when I'm out in public. I tell myself that I'm just lazy, that I
just have to try harder. Through force of will, I will make myself
fluent by the age of eleven.
For much of my childhood I made promises. I promised myself that I
would change, that I would rid myself of my stutter. For much of my
life I believed, unfairly, that it was simply a matter of willpower.
Over the years I would watch myself fail at fluency, and every
morning I would wake up with the dangerously impractical resolution
that today would be different, that I would be stronger, that I
would force my speech into submission. I stubbornly clung to the
hope that one day I would wake up and the stutter would have simply
disappeared.
When I was ten years old I was far too busy house-training my dog
and trying to fit in at my new school, to make time in my day for
getting comfortable in my own skin. I was far too focused on
reaching for perfection and not at all interested in seeing the good
in my unique speech patterns. I was obsessed with speech and
desperate to get rid of my stutter.
Every second that I spoke seemed to drag into a year. Every tiny
interaction felt like an obstacle course ready to trip me up. I had
started to watch others with jealous interest, and I fiercely
guarded any fluency that I chanced upon. Less than ten stutters a
day was a good day, over a hundred was a very bad day indeed. I was
a happy child, I had a largely idyllic life, I rarely felt sorry for
myself. Yet I was what my mum termed a "worrywart." I was easily
hurt, highly sensitive, and my emotions swung from intense joy to
deep fear.
Having witnessed some of my struggles, my parents had tried to help.
They had done their research and found the best speech therapists
that London had to offer. They did anything they could, made any
move they could, to make me feel secure and happy. Yet none of it
was helping and, at ten years old, my misguided, self-taught
attempts to find fluency began to feel like the only viable option.
I had to succeed. If I didn't become fluent, I wasn't sure what
would happen to me.
At the crux of it all I was terrified. I was afraid of what people
would think of me, afraid of suffocating on my stillborn words, and
afraid of the lack of control I had over my own speech. The terror
crashed through my armor and made me desperate to fight.
来源: 京燕花园 于
http://bbs.wenxuecity.com/yingyuziliao/179115.html
书摘：Out With It（1）ZT
http://bbs.wenxuecity.com/yingyuziliao/179058.html
书摘：Out With It（2）ZT
http://bbs.wenxuecity.com/yingyuziliao/179059.html
书摘：Out With It（3）ZT
OUT WITH IT: How Stuttering Helped Me Find My Voice
by Katherine Preston
Holly looks up, wags her tail, does a couple of laps on my bed, and
then lies down looking at me. I grab the rope toy that I have
brought up with me and watch her chase it manically for a few
moments. She grabs hold and tugs until I let go. I watch her nudge
it back towards me.
I wipe a couple of traitorous tears from my cheek. "I know, I know,
you think I'm alright," I don't want Holly to think I am pathetic.
She is under my care; I feel that I have someone else to look after
for the first time in my life. I'm not keen to let her down and I
want to keep her loyalty.
"But some people think I'm weird, a freak." I am gulping a little as
I watch her c ock her head. She moves towards the side of the bed
and, not wanting to let go of her warmth, I pull her into my lap and
add, "Don't worry--it's mostly smelly boys." I'm not sure who I'm
trying to reassure.
"Why do I have to talk funny?" I nuzzle my forehead against the soft
golden fuzz of her head and ruffle her ears until she starts to
squirm in my arms. As I lift her to face me, I have stopped
sniffling, "You know, if I was fluent, I could be an actress. Or a
TV presenter. I would tell everyone everything that was on my mind.
I'd be eloquent and witty and insightful. You would never be able to
shut me up. I would enter competitions for people who could talk the
most."
She manages to wriggle free, jumps off the bed, and starts turning
circles by the door. I lift her into the nook of my waist and, as
silently as possible, creak my bedroom door open. I have to keep it
quiet; the last thing I want to do is wake my parents. I creep out
of my room and carry her squirming body back down the stairs to the
kitchen. As I stretch my legs over the steps that I know will creak,
I can see the boxes spilling out of various rooms. I can see my
teddies breaking free of one cardboard box and our old photo albums
sneaking out of another. I notice that my dad's golf clubs are
stacked up by the front door.
We are moving house, leaving our Knight*****ridge town house and moving
to a house far, far away in the countryside. For months I had begged
my parents to leave London. I had presented my arguments
relentlessly over days and weeks, slowly chipping away at their
hesitancy. I had listed the benefits of living in the country: the
cleaner air, the fields to run around in, the possibility of having
a bigger home, the room to breathe. They had stalled, spoken to
friends, whispered their conversations late into the night. Finally,
they had agreed; we would give it a go, see if we liked it.
I had been ecstatic when they told me. Now I'm a little more
nervous. Will it work? As I put Holly back into her bed, I whisper
that she'll love our new home, there will be hundreds of pheasants
for her to chase all day. I promise her that, as much as I hate
change, I think this is a good change, I hope it is. I reassure her
that we are heading to a new place, a new beginning.
The discoloration on the wall next to her head catches my eye. I
doubt that anyone else would see it, but I know it is there, however
well disguised. I stare at the lick of fresh white paint and brush
my fingers against the fine hairs of the brushstrokes. It is a
guilty reminder of all the mornings that we have come down to find a
pile of rubble under Holly's tiny paws. A sad testament to all the
nights she must have spent desperately tunneling into the brick wall
of our kitchen.
I know that my dad has patiently filled in the holes every morning
with plaster and taken out his paint pot before the real estate
agent comes around with another prospective buyer to trample around
our home. I have heard him joke with his friends that she's
impressively strong for a three-month-old puppy, that one day the
plaster may all fall out, and whoever ends up with the house will
worry that they've been landed with the ghost of gigantic termites.
I hope that tonight she'll stay asleep until the morning.
As I start to sneak back upstairs I resolve that this year will be
different, that this year I will tackle my stutter once and for all.
I will teach myself how to be the same as everyone else. I give
myself a checklist:
1. Say my name very loudly out of my window ten times every evening.
2. Ask every stranger I meet on the street what the time is.
3. Take ten deep breaths every morning.
4. Watch how Mum speaks and talk like her.
Foolproof. I give myself just over six months. If I can speak
fluently on my own, then surely I can make myself speak "properly"
when I'm out in public. I tell myself that I'm just lazy, that I
just have to try harder. Through force of will, I will make myself
fluent by the age of eleven.
For much of my childhood I made promises. I promised myself that I
would change, that I would rid myself of my stutter. For much of my
life I believed, unfairly, that it was simply a matter of willpower.
Over the years I would watch myself fail at fluency, and every
morning I would wake up with the dangerously impractical resolution
that today would be different, that I would be stronger, that I
would force my speech into submission. I stubbornly clung to the
hope that one day I would wake up and the stutter would have simply
disappeared.
When I was ten years old I was far too busy house-training my dog
and trying to fit in at my new school, to make time in my day for
getting comfortable in my own skin. I was far too focused on
reaching for perfection and not at all interested in seeing the good
in my unique speech patterns. I was obsessed with speech and
desperate to get rid of my stutter.
Every second that I spoke seemed to drag into a year. Every tiny
interaction felt like an obstacle course ready to trip me up. I had
started to watch others with jealous interest, and I fiercely
guarded any fluency that I chanced upon. Less than ten stutters a
day was a good day, over a hundred was a very bad day indeed. I was
a happy child, I had a largely idyllic life, I rarely felt sorry for
myself. Yet I was what my mum termed a "worrywart." I was easily
hurt, highly sensitive, and my emotions swung from intense joy to
deep fear.
Having witnessed some of my struggles, my parents had tried to help.
They had done their research and found the best speech therapists
that London had to offer. They did anything they could, made any
move they could, to make me feel secure and happy. Yet none of it
was helping and, at ten years old, my misguided, self-taught
attempts to find fluency began to feel like the only viable option.
I had to succeed. If I didn't become fluent, I wasn't sure what
would happen to me.
At the crux of it all I was terrified. I was afraid of what people
would think of me, afraid of suffocating on my stillborn words, and
afraid of the lack of control I had over my own speech. The terror
crashed through my armor and made me desperate to fight.
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