hce_nthu
112年
英文
第 37 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…
In the quote from Book 18 of the Iliad,
- A Achilles was distraught over the message delivered by Nestor
- B Achilles was grieving for the death of Antilochus
- C Patroclus spoke to Achilles
- D Achilles was seen tugging at his own hair
- E The black ashes were scattered over Antilochus’s immortal tunic
思路引導 VIP
請仔細閱讀引文最後一段對於主角阿基里斯（Achilles）動作的具體描寫。當他聽到摯友死訊、陷入極度絕望時，文中提到了他對自己的身體做了哪些「自殘式」或「毀滅性」的肢體動作來宣洩悲痛？
🤖
AI 詳解
AI 專屬家教
精準的細節捕捉
恭喜你答對了！這題考驗的是對文學敘事細節的精確掌握，你能從里奇蒙·拉蒂摩爾（Richmond Lattimore）的譯文中，準確辨識出阿基里斯（Achilles）極度悲慟下的具體行為，表現得非常出色。
文本證據與角色辨析
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