Billy had a framed prayer on his office wall which expressed his method for keeping going, even though he was unenthusiastic about living. A lot of patients who saw the prayer on Billy's wall told him that it helped them to keep going too. It went like this:

GOD GRANT ME

THE SERENITY TO ACCEPT

THE THIINGS I CANNOT CHANGE,

COURAGE

TO CHANGE THE THINGS I CAN,

AND WISDOM ALWAYS

TO TELL THE

DIFFERENCE.

Among the things Billy Pilgrim could not change were the past, the present and the future.          

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them".

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. ''The Treasure yours."

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seeks their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."

You can see my translation of this story in CONTINUE.

 Hi. I translated a short story by Virginia Woolf last year. But I had some mistakes that I found them and did it better. Find other mistakes. I wait for your useful comments.

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple. 

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them". 

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

 But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure? 

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. ''The Treasure yours." 

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seeks their joy.

 Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart. 

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips." 

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy. 

Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart." 

You can see my translation of this story in CONTINUE.

برای دیدن ترجمه ی من از این داستان به ادامه مطلب بروید و با انتقادات خود به من کمک کنید

Thanks to my best friends (Brainless Head + Sepideh) for their helpful and to the point comments.

"The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist."

This is a part from a popular novel that I am going to read it these days. 

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. was a Post-modernist writer. One of his great novels is Slaughterhouse-Five (1969). This novel is an anti-war novel. He witnessed the bombing of Dresden in World War 2 and wrote this novel based on it. He used time travel as his novel's plot.

   Recently, I read this novel. It has been said that this is an allegory. All of its characters represent real characters in the Russian Revolution. And its main character, Napoleon, represents Joseph Stalin, uncomplaining old horse, Boxer, is the working classes . . . The most important message of the novel is that man's power can't make a classless society.

   I wonder if I can say that this novel and its message are also true about the Revolution that takes place in our country, Iran. I don't know.

    What's your idea? What do you think? Tell me if you agree or not. I wait for your comments.

A great novel about problems of directors, teachers, and schools. The narrator and also main character of this novel is a teacher who becomes the director of a primary school. He has many problems with teachers, students, their parents, building of school, and so on.

One of the main features of novel is the special style of Al Ahmad in describing the situations. He explains every detail and he's very careful about his diction.

   I am going to write something after two or three months. I don't know exactly what should I write about.

    Last week I've finished a novel by Hemingway. (A farewell to arms) It's a semi-autobiography, in which he narrates his experiences in the world war two. Main character or protagonist was a lieutenant (Mr. Henry) He's an ambulance driver in Italian Army. HE meets and falls in love with a nurse (Catharine). In an attack, he injures in his knee. He's been carried to a hospital in Milan, and Catharine goes to there too. They have a very pleasant time in there, but then he comes back to the front. After a few days he flees and immigrates to Swiss with Catharine. She's pregnant. At the end of the novel Catharine dies in the hospital after she gives birth to her dead infant.

    I'll read more and also I'll write more posts here.    

A film by Al Pachino had a powerful impact on my life. This movie was about a man who arranges great parties for famous people like actors. In one of these parties, Al Pachino, who was tired of his life, advise a young man who like to like him. He said: ''You know, the worst thing in the world is, knowing a lot. Always pretend to be silly. It's too better." After I heard this dialogue, I thought about it a lot. Now, in many occasions I try to treat so.

Knowing a lot will bring some confusion and also some responsibilities. In some cases it is dangerous to know a lot.  It (pretend to be silly) also keeps your friends for ever. When they do something wrong or bad that affects on you, pretend to be silly. Pretend that you don't know what others think, treat and do.

How many times have you felt sad when you see a person, especially a friend, who is not talented like you and even doesn’t try as half as you do; but he is more successful than you? Aren’t you disappointed in these occasions? Don’t you wish to be in stead of him (more successful with less endeavur)? What’s the reason? You try more than him, you seem to be more talented han him, but you can’t be in your suitable place

There may be a lot of reason. I want to speak about ‘concentration’. You find following definition in Longman Concise Dictionary: “ The ability to think very carefully about something for a long time.” Of course this is a clear definition, but let me explain it in my words

I believe ‘concentration’ is the ability to think only  and only about your work. I mean that you should avoid thinkin about unrelated (or even reelated) subjects. Although it sounds easy, in fact it’s very difficult to concentrate on your work. I read following saying sometime in the past: “ when a great person was asked for his most important feature that he has gotten in his life; he answered: I’ve learned to just eat, while I’m eating.” Now. Try it now. You may suppose you can do it. I don’t think so. Of course you can. But not now! When? I don’t know. It depends on you

?Tell me how am I supposed to live without you

I don’t know how many times I listen to this song, but it’s enough for me to know my feelings about a person who introduceed it to me. I don’t know who’s she, I don’t know why I always listen to this song. I don’t know what should I know, I just know that I don’t know who, why, what and I dont know anything. There are many times in my life that I wish I had someone in my life. Yesterday I read a short story from Ernest Hemingway “Hills Like White Elephants”. The story was about a man and a girl in waitng for train. I wish I was in stead of him and say to her: “Do you feel better?” Then I hear: “I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.” Anyway, all of the times I repeat this line to remind you about my feelings: Tell me how am I supposed to live without you

Most of the teachers use punishment to activate lazy students. They punish physically and sometimes mentally. I, as a teacher, have used different kinds of punishment. First and most commonkind is, writing task. In other words, I give them a lot of homework. Secondtype of my punishments is, physical punishment. In the third type of punishment, students must stand near and in front of the wall, so near that they cannot see the class. Recently, I have used less punishment than ever, specially the second type. What’s your opinion about punishment? Do you disagree with all kinds of it? If your answer is ‘yes’ , why? Can you mention some replacements for making the lazy students motivated, interested and also making them more active?

I could hardly believe it
When I heard the news today
I had to come and get it straight from you
They said you were leavin’
Someone’s swept your heart away
From the look upon your face, I see it’s true
So tell me all about it, tell me ’bout the
Plans you’re makin’
Then tell me one thing more before I go

Tell me how am I suppose to live without you
Now that I’ve been lovin’ you so long
How am I suppose to live without you
How am I suppose to carry on
When all that I’ve been livin’ for is gone

I didn’t come here for cryin’
Didn’t come here to break down
It’s just a dream of mine is coming to an end
And how can I blame you
When I build my world around
The hope that one day we’d be so much
More than friends
And I don’t wanna know the price i’m
Gonna pay for dreaming
When even now it’s more than I can take

And I don’t wanna face the price i’m
Gonna pay for dreaming
Now that your dream has come true

Micheal ‌‌‌‌Bolton  

Go lovely rose

tell her that wastes her time and me

that now she knows

 when I resemble her to thee

how sweet and fair she seems to be

John F. Kennedy has a famous statement. When he became the president of the U. S. he remarked in his speech: “ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” I am going to subsitute “friend” in stead of “country”, so “what you can do for your friend, not what your friend can do for you

You see that if we change the place of subject and object, the whole meaning of the sentece will change. How many times you’ve asked yourself this question? Haven’t you still asked it

I do almost nothing for my friends. What about you

There is no place to stay, there is no one to rely on, there is no special subject for thinking, there is nothing more. Let's leave here, come on…let's go...

A boy had cancer and he had one month to live. He liked a girl working in a cd shop. But he did not tell her about his love. Everyday he went to the cd shop and bought a cd, only to talk to her. After a month he died. When the girl went to his home and asked about him, his mom told that he died and took her to his room… She saw all the cds unopened… The girl cried and cried and finally died. You know why she cried? She had kept her own love letters inside the cd packs.

The bird is mortal

I feel sick at heart

I feel sick at heart

I walk to the porch and scratch

My fingers against the stretched skin of night

Dark are lamps of relationship

Dark are lamps of relationship

No one will introduce me

To the sun

No one will take me to the feast of sparrows

Remember flight

The bird is mortal

Gift 

I speak out of the deep of night

Out of the deep of darkness I speak

And out of the deep of night

Should you come to my house, O Kind Soul,

  bring me a lamp and a window

Through which I may view the crowd

  of the happy alley

متن اصلی (فارسی) شعر ها در ادامه مطلب وجود دارد 

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them".

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. ''The Treasure yours."

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seeks their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."

Hello

How can I improve my active words? In other words, how can I increase the variety of words that I use for speaking? Is there a way to transfer words from my passive mind to active? What is the difference between active and passive words?

Here, I am going to answer these questions. Let's begin.

Any English student knows a lot of words. But he cannot use all of them in speaking. Words that cannot be used when we speak English are passive words and words that are used in speaking, are active words. This is a problem if we use a limited range of words for speaking.

There are some suggestions for increasing active words. One of them is what I am doing now. Yes. If you write composition or anything else that involve thinking, you will use more and more words, you can use your new learned-words and your active words will be increased.

Other way for improving your active words is, when you look up new words; write your own sentences in your new word-book. (a book that you write new words and their meaning in it)

Other way for this work is, listen to English more and more and try to use words which you learned in there in your dialogues.

I believe that God above

Created you for me to love

He picked you from all the rest

He knew I'd love you the best 

If You Forget Me

  I want you to know

one thing.

You know how this is:

if I look

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window,

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly

you forget me

do not look for me,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,

the wind of banners

that passes through my life,

and you decide

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots,

remember

that on that day,

at that hour,

I shall lift my arms

and my roots will set off

to seek another land.

But

if each day,

each hour,

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness,

if each day a flower

climbs up to your lips to seek me,

ah my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated,

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,

my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

می توانید برای دیدن ترجمه ی من از این شعر به ادامه مطلب بروید.