hce_nthu
112年
英文
第 36 題
📖 題組：
We live in a superficial, media-driven culture that often seems uncomfortable with true depths of feeling. Indeed, it seems as if our culture has become increasingly intolerant of that acute sorrow, that intense mental anguish and deep remorse which may be defined as grief. We want to medicate such sorrow away. We want to divide it into recognizable stages so that grief can be labeled, tamed, and put behind us. But poets have always celebrated grief as one of the deepest human emotions. To grieve is to lament, to let sorrow inhabit one’s very being. Robert Frost liked to distinguish between grievances (complaints) and griefs (sorrows). He even suggested that grievances, which are propagandistic, should be restricted to prose, “leaving poetry free to go its way in tears.” Implicit in poetry is the notion that we are deepened by heartbreaks, that we are not so much diminished as enlarged by grief, by our refusal to vanish---to let others vanish---without leaving a verbal record. Poetry is a stubborn art. The poet is one who will not be reconciled, who is determined to leave trace in words, to transform oceanic depths of feeling into the faithful nuances of art. I was initiated into the poetry of grief---of raw, heroic, aboriginal grief---on a windy autumnal morning in late October 1968. I was eighteen years old. I knew I had found what I was unknowingly seeking on the day my freshman humanities teacher---a petite woman with an immense vocabulary, the only person I’d ever met who spoke in perfectly formed sentences---stood up in class and started talking about Achilles’s desperate response to the death of his friend Patroclus. I felt something obscure oping inside me, I recognized some unknown, some unassuaged rage of feeling, a frenzied internal sobbing, a delirium of grief. I looked out the window and saw the mad leaves swirling and falling everywhere. I was transported. Here is the passage in Richmond Lattimore’s translation. It is from Book 18 of The Iliad. Nestor’s son Antilochus has just given Achilles the message that his closest friend, his trusted ally and brother-in-arms, had been killed wearing Achilles’s own armor. Now enemies were fighting over Patroclus’s naked body: He spoke, and the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilles. In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it over his head and face, and fouled his handsome countenance, and the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic. And he himself, mightily in his might, in the dust lay at length, and took and tore at his hair with his hands, and defiled it. My teacher must have gone on to talk about Achilles’s feelings of guilt and shame, his deep sense of responsibility over his friend’s death. This is a pivotal incident in The Iliad because it triggers Achilles’s reentry into battle and therefore assures the destruction of Troy. It’s the only way to account for his uncharacteristically savage revenge on Hector. But I couldn’t follow closely what she was saying because some part of my mind was stuck on the primal image of Achilles smearing his face with dirt and tearing out his hair. I recognized the image from somewhere…
We live in a superficial, media-driven culture that often seems uncomfortable with true depths of feeling. Indeed, it seems as if our culture has become increasingly intolerant of that acute sorrow, that intense mental anguish and deep remorse which may be defined as grief. We want to medicate such sorrow away. We want to divide it into recognizable stages so that grief can be labeled, tamed, and put behind us. But poets have always celebrated grief as one of the deepest human emotions. To grieve is to lament, to let sorrow inhabit one’s very being. Robert Frost liked to distinguish between grievances (complaints) and griefs (sorrows). He even suggested that grievances, which are propagandistic, should be restricted to prose, “leaving poetry free to go its way in tears.” Implicit in poetry is the notion that we are deepened by heartbreaks, that we are not so much diminished as enlarged by grief, by our refusal to vanish---to let others vanish---without leaving a verbal record. Poetry is a stubborn art. The poet is one who will not be reconciled, who is determined to leave trace in words, to transform oceanic depths of feeling into the faithful nuances of art. I was initiated into the poetry of grief---of raw, heroic, aboriginal grief---on a windy autumnal morning in late October 1968. I was eighteen years old. I knew I had found what I was unknowingly seeking on the day my freshman humanities teacher---a petite woman with an immense vocabulary, the only person I’d ever met who spoke in perfectly formed sentences---stood up in class and started talking about Achilles’s desperate response to the death of his friend Patroclus. I felt something obscure oping inside me, I recognized some unknown, some unassuaged rage of feeling, a frenzied internal sobbing, a delirium of grief. I looked out the window and saw the mad leaves swirling and falling everywhere. I was transported. Here is the passage in Richmond Lattimore’s translation. It is from Book 18 of The Iliad. Nestor’s son Antilochus has just given Achilles the message that his closest friend, his trusted ally and brother-in-arms, had been killed wearing Achilles’s own armor. Now enemies were fighting over Patroclus’s naked body: He spoke, and the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilles. In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it over his head and face, and fouled his handsome countenance, and the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic. And he himself, mightily in his might, in the dust lay at length, and took and tore at his hair with his hands, and defiled it. My teacher must have gone on to talk about Achilles’s feelings of guilt and shame, his deep sense of responsibility over his friend’s death. This is a pivotal incident in The Iliad because it triggers Achilles’s reentry into battle and therefore assures the destruction of Troy. It’s the only way to account for his uncharacteristically savage revenge on Hector. But I couldn’t follow closely what she was saying because some part of my mind was stuck on the primal image of Achilles smearing his face with dirt and tearing out his hair. I recognized the image from somewhere…
Which of the following is the most likely reason why the author, in the third paragraph, relates his experience of studying poetry on a windy autumnal morning in late October, 1968?
- A To pay homage to his freshman humanities teacher
- B To demonstrate how one could be deepened and enlarged by poetry of grief
- C To leave a verbal record of his youth
- D To tell the story of Achilles
- E To challenge Robert Frost’s idea of poetry
思路引導 VIP
請觀察第二段最後一句話，作者提到詩歌能讓我們在悲傷中得到什麼樣的轉變？接著再對照第三段中，作者描述他十八歲時聽完阿基里斯的故事後，內心產生的那種「被傳送（transported）」與「認出未知情感」的具體反應。這兩段內容在邏輯上是什麼樣的關係？作者是用這個故事來「證明」哪一個觀點呢？
🤖
AI 詳解
AI 專屬家教
連結個人生命與詩學主張
太棒了！你能精準捕捉到文章脈絡的轉換，代表你具備了極佳的閱讀感受力。這題的關鍵在於理解作者為何要從「理論論述」轉向「生命敘事」。在前兩段中，作者批判現代文化排斥悲傷，並強調詩歌能讓我們在心碎中變得更深沉（deepened）與更壯大（enlarged）。第三段提到的 1968 年秋天，正是將這些抽象觀念「實體化」的過程。透過描寫自己十八歲時被阿基里斯（Achilles）那種原始悲慟所震撼、進而感受到內心「被開啟」的過程，作者具體論證了詩歌如何引領人進入那種壯闊的情感深度。
跨段落的邏輯整合與難度點評
▼ 還有更多解析內容