2017年1月SAT阅读真题.

2011年1月SAT阅读真题材料 无题目 第一篇： Myfirst commissioned work was to write letters for her. "You write for me,honey?" she would say, holding out a ball-point she had been given at agrocery store promotion, clicking it like a castanet. My fee was cookies andmilk, payable bore, during, and after completion of the project. Isettled down at her kitchen table while she rooted around the drawer where shekept coupons and playing cards and bank calendars. Eventually she located apiece of stationery and a mismatched envelope. She laid the small, pastel sheetbore me, smoothing it out; a floral motif was clotted across the top of thepage and bled down one side. The paper was so insubstantial even ballpoint inkseeped through the other side. "That&aposs OK," she would say. "Weonly need one side." True.In life she was a gifted gossip, unfurling an extended riff of chatter from abare motif of rumor. But her writing style displayed a brevity that madeHemingway&aposs prose look like nattering garrulity. She dictated her letters as ifshe were paying by the word. "DearSister," she began, followed by a little time-buying cough and throatclearing. "We are all well here." Pause. "And hope you are welltoo." Longer pause, the steamy broth of inspiration heating up on her sideof the table. Then, in a lurch, "Winter is hard so I don&apost get outmuch." Thiswas followed instantly by an unconquerable fit of envy: "Not like you inCalifornia." Then she came to a complete halt, perhaps demoralized by thisevidence that you can&apost put much on paper bore you betray your secret self,try as you will to keep things civil. Shesat, she brooded, she stared out the window. She was locked in the perversereticence of composition. She gazed at me, but I understood she did not see me.She was looking for her next thought. "Read what I wrote," she wouldfinally say, having lost not only what she was looking for but what she alreadyhad pinned down. I went over the little trail of sentences that led to her deadend. Moresilence, then a sigh. She gave up the ghost. "Put &aposGod bless you,&apos "she said. She reached across to see the lean rectangle of words on the paper."Now leave some space," she said, "and put &aposLove.&apos" Ihanded over the paper for her to sign. Shealways asked if her signature looked nice. She wrote her one word - Teresa -with a flourish. For her, writing was painting, a visual art, not declarativebut sensuous. Shesent her lean documents regularly to her only remaining sister who lived in LosAngeles, a place she had not visited. They had last seen each other as childrenin their village in Bohemia. But she never mentioned that or anything from thatworld. There was no taint of reminiscence in her prose. Evenat ten I was appalled by the minimalism of these letters. They enraged me."Is that all you have to say?" I would ask her, a nasty edge to myvoice. Itwasn&apost long bore I began padding the text. Without telling her, I added ananecdote my father had told at dinner the night bore, or I conducted thisunknown reader through the heavy plot of my brother&aposs attempt to make firststring on the St. Thomas hockey team. I allowed myself a descriptive aria onthe beauty of Minnesota winters (for the benit of my California reader whomight need some background material on the subject of ice hockey). A little ofthis, a little of that - there was always something I could toss into my grandmother&apossmeager soup to thicken it up. Ofcourse, the protagonist of the hockey tale was not "my brother." Hewas "my grandson." I departed from my own life without a regret andbreezily inhabited my grandmother&aposs. I complained about my hip joint, I bemoanedthe rising cost of hamburger, I even touched on the loneliness of old age, andhinted at the inattention of my son&aposs wife (that is, my own mother who was nextdoor, oblivious to treachery). Intime, my grandmother gave in to the inevitable. Without ever discussing it, weunderstood that when she came looking for me, clicking her ballpoint, I was towrite the letter, and her job was to keep the cookies coming. I abandoned herskimpy floral stationery which badly cramped my style, and thumped down on thetable a stack of ruled 8 1/2 x 11. "Justsay something interesting," she would say. And I was off to the races. Itook over her life in prose. Somewhere along the line, though, she decided totake full possession of her sign-off. She asked me to show her how to write"Love" so she could add it to "Teresa" in her own hand. Shepracticed the new word many times on scratch paper bore she allowed herselfto commit it to the bottom of a letter. Butwhen she finally took the leap, I realized I had forgotten to tell her aboutthe comma. On a single slanting line she had written: Love Teresa. The wordsdidn&apost look like a closure, but a command. 第二篇的一部分（选自little friend）： "Ascattering of lesser artifacts had been salvaged from Tribulation--linens,monogrammed dishes, a ponderous rosewood sideboard, vases, china clocks, diningroom chairs, broadcast throughout her own house and the houses of her aunts:random fragments, a legbone here, a vertebra there, from which Harriet setabout reconstructing the burned magnificence she had never seen. And theserescued articles beamed warmly with a serene old light all their own: thesilver was heavier, the embroideries richer, the crystal more delicate and theporcelain a finer, rarer blue" (43).

2011年1月SAT阅读真题材料 无题目 第一篇： Myfirst commissioned work was to write letters for her. "You write for me,honey?" she would say, holding out a ball-point she had been given at agrocery store promotion, clicking it like a castanet. My fee was cookies andmilk, payable bore, during, and after completion of the project. Isettled down at her kitchen table while she rooted around the drawer where shekept coupons and playing cards and bank calendars. Eventually she located apiece of stationery and a mismatched envelope. She laid the small, pastel sheetbore me, smoothing it out; a floral motif was clotted across the top of thepage and bled down one side. The paper was so insubstantial even ballpoint inkseeped through the other side. "That&aposs OK," she would say. "Weonly need one side." True.In life she was a gifted gossip, unfurling an extended riff of chatter from abare motif of rumor. But her writing style displayed a brevity that madeHemingway&aposs prose look like nattering garrulity. She dictated her letters as ifshe were paying by the word. "DearSister," she began, followed by a little time-buying cough and throatclearing. "We are all well here." Pause. "And hope you are welltoo." Longer pause, the steamy broth of inspiration heating up on her sideof the table. Then, in a lurch, "Winter is hard so I don&apost get outmuch." Thiswas followed instantly by an unconquerable fit of envy: "Not like you inCalifornia." Then she came to a complete halt, perhaps demoralized by thisevidence that you can&apost put much on paper bore you betray your secret self,try as you will to keep things civil. Shesat, she brooded, she stared out the window. She was locked in the perversereticence of composition. She gazed at me, but I understood she did not see me.She was looking for her next thought. "Read what I wrote," she wouldfinally say, having lost not only what she was looking for but what she alreadyhad pinned down. I went over the little trail of sentences that led to her deadend. Moresilence, then a sigh. She gave up the ghost. "Put &aposGod bless you,&apos "she said. She reached across to see the lean rectangle of words on the paper."Now leave some space," she said, "and put &aposLove.&apos" Ihanded over the paper for her to sign. Shealways asked if her signature looked nice. She wrote her one word - Teresa -with a flourish. For her, writing was painting, a visual art, not declarativebut sensuous. Shesent her lean documents regularly to her only remaining sister who lived in LosAngeles, a place she had not visited. They had last seen each other as childrenin their village in Bohemia. But she never mentioned that or anything from thatworld. There was no taint of reminiscence in her prose. Evenat ten I was appalled by the minimalism of these letters. They enraged me."Is that all you have to say?" I would ask her, a nasty edge to myvoice. Itwasn&apost long bore I began padding the text. Without telling her, I added ananecdote my father had told at dinner the night bore, or I conducted thisunknown reader through the heavy plot of my brother&aposs attempt to make firststring on the St. Thomas hockey team. I allowed myself a descriptive aria onthe beauty of Minnesota winters (for the benit of my California reader whomight need some background material on the subject of ice hockey). A little ofthis, a little of that - there was always something I could toss into my grandmother&apossmeager soup to thicken it up. 上12下

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