how to learn any language-第4章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Italian was a living language you could go someplace some day and actually speak；
whereas Latin was something you could only hope to go on studying？ That’s a little
closer to the mark； but far from the real answer。
My blitz through Italian； after my unsuccessful siege of Latin； owed much to the
fact that in Italian I didn’t miss day four！ I’m convinced that it was day four in ninth
grade Latin that did me in。 No other day’s absence would have derailed me。 When I left
on day three we were bathing in a warm sea of pleasant words。 If only I’d been there on
day four when Miss Leslie explained the importance of grammar； I might have felt a bit
dampened； but I’d have put my head into the book； clapped my hands over my ears； and
mastered it。
After Italian I surged simultaneously into Spanish and French with self study books。
Though by no means fluent in either Spanish or French by summer’s end； I had amassed
an impressive payload of each。 I was ready to stage my come from behind coup。
Regulations in my high school demanded that a student complete two years of Latin
with good grades before continuing with another language。 After that； one could choose
Spanish or French。 I had completed only one year of Latin with poor grades； and I
wanted to take both Spanish and French！
I had not yet learned the apt Spanish proverb that tells us “regulations are for your
enemies。” I learned the concept； however； by living it。
Miss Mitchell was the sole foreign language authority of the high school。 She
taught Spanish and French。 She was considered unbendable – in fact； unapproachable –
in matters of regulation fudging。 I didn’t know that on the first day as classes were
forming。 I’m glad I didn’t。
I went to her classroom and asked if I might talk something over with her。 I told her
I was particularly interested in foreign languages； and even though I’d only had one year
of Latin and didn’t do well in it at all； I’d really like to move into Spanish and French。 If
she could only see her way clear to let me； I’d appreciate it forever and try awfully hard。
She asked if I had a transcript of my grades from Miss Leslie’s Latin class。 No； I
didn’t； I explained； but I had something more to the point。 I’d bought books in Spanish
and French over the summer and gotten a good head start。 I hoped a demonstration of my
zeal would win her favour。
Like a tough agent softening sufficiently to let a persistent unknown comic do part
of his routine； Miss Mitchell invited me to do my stuff。
I conversed； I read； I wrote； I recited； I conjugated； I even sang – first in Spanish；
then in French。 Miss Mitchell gave no outward sign of emotion； but I knew the magic had
worked。
“I’ll have to talk it over with the principal；” she said； “but I don’t think there will be
a problem。 We’ve never had a case anything like this before。 If I can get approval； which
language； Spanish or French； would you like to take？”
In a fit of negotiatory skill I wish would visit me more often； I said； “Please； Miss
Mitchell； let me take both！”
She frowned； but then relented。 I got to take both。
From the ambitious boxer floored early in round one by Latin grammar； I was all of
a sudden the heavyweight language champ of the whole high school！
Ingrid Bergman Made Me Learn Norwegian
I did well in high school Spanish and French。 When you’ve pumped heavy iron； lifting a
salad fork seems easy。 When you’re thrown into a grammar as complex as Latin’s at the
age of fourteen； just about any other language seems easy。 I never quit thanking Spanish；
French； German； Italian； Norwegian； Danish； Swedish； Romanian and Yiddish just for
not being Latin。 I’ve always been particularly grateful to Chinese and Indonesian for
having nothing in their entire languages a Latin student would recognise as grammar。
It was so enjoyable building my knowledge of Spanish； French； Italian and Chinese；
I never thought of taking on any other languages。 Then I saw an Ingrid Bergman movie
and came out in a daze。 I’d never imagined a woman could be that attractive。 I went
directly to the adjoining bookstore and told the clerk； “I want a book in whatever
language it is she speaks。”
Miss Bergman’s native tongue； the clerk told me； was Swedish； and he bought forth
a copy of Hugo’s Swedish Simplified。 It cost two dollars and fifty cents。 I only had two
dollars with me。
“Do you have anything similar – cheaper？” I asked。
He did indeed。 He produced a volume entitled Hugo’s Norwegian Simplified for
only one dollar and fifty cents。
“Will she understand if I speak to her in this？” I asked； pointing to the less
expensive Norwegian text。 The clerk assured me that yes； any American speaking
Norwegian would be understood by any native Swede。
He was right。 A lifetime later； at age thirty； I wheedled an exclusive radio interview
with Ingrid Bergman on the strength of my ability in her language。 She was delighted
when I told her the story。 Or at least she was a nice enough person and a good enough
actress to pretend。
Rumours of Russian
When I arrived at the University of North Carolina； I got my first real opportunity to
speak the European languages I was learning with native speakers。 Students at the
university came from many different countries。 The Cosmopolitan Club； a group of
foreign students and Americans who wanted to meet one another； gathered every Sunday
afternoon in the activities building。 I felt like a bee flitting from blossom to blossom until
it is too heavy with pollen to fly or even buzz。
A rumour rippled across the campus in my senior year that seemed too good to be
true。 The university； it was whispered； was planning to start a class in Russian。
Sure enough； the rumour was soon confirmed。 It was a historic event。 Not only was
the course the first in Russian ever offered by the University of North Carolina （or
possibly by any university in the South）； it also represented the first time the university
had offered what one student called a “funny looking” language of any kind （he meant
languages that don’t use the Roman alphabet）！
The enrollment requirements were stiff。 First you had to have completed at least
two years in a “normal” language （Spanish； French； Italian； Portugese） with good grades。
I qualified and was accepted。
For me the first day of Russian was a lot like the first day of school。 I’d toyed with
one funny looking language already （Chinese）； but I knew Russian was a different kind
of funny looking。 Would I conquer it； as I had Spanish and Norwegian； or would Russian
swallow me whole； as Latin had？
There were forty…five of us in that Russian class thinking varying versions of the
same thing when the teacher； a rangy Alabaman named “Tiger” Titus； entered the room。
After a formal “Good morning” he went straight to the front of the room and wrote the
Russian （Cyrillic） alphabet on the blackboard。
You could feel the group’s spirit sink notch by notch as each of Russian’s “funny
looking” letters appeared。 Students were allowed under university rules to abandon a
course and get themselves into another as long as they did it within three days after the
beginning of the term。 We had defections from Russian class in mid…alphabet。 By the
time Tiger Titus turned around to face us； he had fewer students than had entered the
room。
“My soul！” exclaimed one of the deserters when I caught up with him at the
cafeteria later that day。 “I’ve never seen anything like that Russian alphabet before in my
life。 Why； they’ve got v’s that look like b’s； n’s that look like h’s； u’s that look like y’s；
r’s that look like p’s； and p’s that look like sawed off goal posts。 They got a backwards n
that’s really an e and an x that sounds like you’re gagging on a bone。 They got a vowel
that looks like the number sixty…one； a consonant that looks like a butterfly with its wings
all the way
