As kids, my friends and I spent a lot of time out in the woods,"The woods" was our part-time address, destination,purpose,and excuse.If I went to a friend's house and found him not at home,his mother might say, "Oh,he's out in the woods,"with a tone of airy acceptance.It's similar to the tone people sometimes use nowadays to tell me that someone I'm looking for is on the golf course or at the gym,or even "away from his desk."For us ten-year-olds,"being out in the woods" was just an excuse to do whatever we feel like for a while.

    We sometimes told ourselves that what we were doing in the woods was exploring.Exploring was a more popular idea back then than it is today.History seemed to be mostly about explorers.Our explorations,though,seemed to have less system than the historic kind: something usually came up along the way.Say we stayed in the woods, throwing rocks,shooting frogs,picking blackberries,digging in what we were briefly persuaded was an Italian burial mound.

    Often we got "lost" and had to climb a tree to find out where we were.If you read a story in which someone does that successfully,be skeptical: the topmost branches are usually too skinny to hold weight,and we could never climb high enough to see anything except other trees.There were four or five trees that we visited regularly—tall beeches,easy to climb and comfortable to sit in.

    It was in a tree,too,that our days of fooling around in the woods came to an end.By then some of us had reached seventh grade and had begun the rough ride of adolescence.In March,the month when we usually took to the woods again after winter,two friends and I set out to go exploring.We climbed a tree,and all of a sudden it occurred to all three of us at the same time that we really were rather big to be up in a tree.Soon there would be the spring dances on Friday evenings in the high school cafeteria.

    At thirteen, I was diagnosed with kind of attention disorder. It made school difficult for me. When people else in the class was focusing on tasks, I could not.

    In my first literature class, Mrs. Smith asked us to read a story and then write on it, all within 45 minutes. I raised my hard right away and said, “Mrs. Smith, you see, the doctor said I have attention problems. I might not be able to do it.” She glanced down at me through her glasses, "you are no different from your classmates, young man.”

    I tried, but I didn't finish the reading when the bell rang. I had to take it home.

    In the quietness of my bedroom, the story suddenly all became clear to me. It was about a blind person, Louis Braille. He lived in a time when the blind couldn't get much education. But Louis didn't give up. Instead, he invented a reading system of raised dots（点）,which opened up a whole new world of knowledge to the blind.

    Wasn't I the “blind” in my class, being made to learn like the “sighted” students? My thoughts spilled out and my pen started to dance. I completed the task within 40 minutes. Indeed, I was no different from others; I just needed a quieter place. If Louis could find his way out of his problems, why should I ever give up?

    I didn't expect anything when I handled in my paper to Mrs. Smith, so it was quite a surprise when it came back to me the next day-with an “A” on it. At the bottom of the paper were these words: "See what you can do when you keep trying?”

    Perhaps you have heard a lot about the Internet, but what is it, do you know? The Internet is a network. It uses the telephone to join millions of computers together around the world.

    Maybe that doesn't sound very interesting. But when you've joined to the Internet, there are lots and lots of things you can do. You can send E-mails to your friends, and they can get them in a few seconds. You can also do with all kinds of information on the World Wide Web (WWW).

    There are many different kinds of computers now. They all can be joined to the Internet. Most of them are small machines sitting on people's desks at home, but there are still many others in schools, offices or large companies. These computers are owned by people and companies, but no one really owns the Internet itself.

    There are lots of places for you to go into the Internet. For example, your school may have the Internet. You can use it during lessons or free time. Libraries often have computers joined to the Internet. You are welcome to use it at only time.

    Thanks to the Internet, the world is becoming smaller and smaller. It is possible for you to work at home with a computer in front in the future, getting and sending the information you need. You can buy or sell whatever you want by the Internet. But do you know 98% of the information on the Internet is in English? So what will English be like tomorrow?

    About 15 years ago, I taught A Problem from Hell, a book on genocides (大屠杀), to a group of 18- and 19-year-olds in a mid-west university in the US. In my class there was a young man who had spent his boyhood in Bosnia as NATO bombed his hometown. My other students, amazed by his connection to the genocide in the textbook, asked him what it was like to grow up in a war-zone. "A pretty normal childhood as you had here," he said. "We played cards inside a lot, and when there was no bombing we kicked a ball in the street."

    In the past few years, the world has seen a rapid increase in refugees (难民), with the number hitting 60 million. Viet Thanh Nguyen's story collection The Refugees reminds us that literature is news that stays news. Set in the Vietnamese communities in California as well as in Vietnam, the stories do not aim to surprise us with new twists or shock us with wonderful details, as war and refugee stories could easily choose to do. Rather, like the young man from Bosnia, Nguyen's characters tell these stories because they are the only ones known to them.

    Included in the collection are two of the most touching pieces, both about siblings (兄弟或姊妹) separated by geography and history. In "Black-Eyed Women", the narrator (讲述人), a young Vietnamese woman, is visited by the ghost of her elder brother, who died young on the boat when the family took flight from the war. The tale of love and loss, violence and violation, may not be unfamiliar to the reader, but the determination of the brother's ghost (he has taken decades to swim across the Pacific to reach America) and the sister's abandoning herself to a half death make the story lasting.

    As an echo, the closing story, "Fatherland", explores a more complex situation between two siblings. The narrator, a young Vietnamese woman, meets her half-sister, visiting from the US for the first time. Adding to the tension is the fact that her father has named the narrator and her siblings after his first set of children. Two sisters, one American and one Vietnamese, yet named the same by the father – it may sound strange, but isn't it the fate many refugees have to face: a life left behind, that could have been theirs; and a life in an adopted country.

    The theme of doubleness –  choice and inevitability (不可避免性), home and homelessness, starting afresh and being stuck – is present not only in the stories of Vietnamese refugees, but also of those who have become refugees from their own homes and loved ones. "Smiling at your relatives never got you very far, but smiling at strangers and acquaintances sometimes did." So a pilot, who fought in the Vietnam war and is now revisiting the country for the first time, thinks while waving at the locals from a tour bus. He's distant from his daughter, just as a Mexican American in the collection is distant from his wife, or a young man from Hong Kong is distant from his father.

    The collection is full of refugees, whether from external or from a deeper, more internal conflict between even those who are closest to each other. With anger but not despair, with reconciliation (和解) but not unrealistic hope, and with genuine humour that is not used to insult anyone, Nguyen has breathed life into many unforgettable characters.

    On the day the tornado(龙卷风) hit, there was no sign fierce weather was on its way— the sky was blue and the sun had been out. The first warning my husband, Jimmy, 67, and I, 65, got came around 9 p.m., from some text on the TV Jimmy was watching. He ran upstairs to find me in our third-floor bedroom, and we changed the channel from the national television to our local Pensacola, Florida, station.

    Soon the tornado was on top of us. It was the loudest thing I have ever heard. The bones of the house shook, and the power went out. And the wind began to roar(咆哮) through the house, most likely through blown-out windows and the door to our garage. Everything was moving. And the back wall of the house came off and flew into the darkness outside. We had three flights of steps to get to the storeroom down there, the relative safety of the first floor.

    I didn't know how or if we would make it down the steps. It felt as if there were no floor underneath me as the wind lifted me off my feet. As we finally reached the last flight of steps, our front door blew out. Suddenly, a three-foot-long tree branch flew over our heads, missing us by inches.

    By the time I reached the storeroom, the tornado had been over us for about a minute. Jimmy pushed me down to the storeroom floor, but he couldn't get inside himself because of the wind. I held Jimmy's arm as the tornado blew the door open. My knees were full of glass, but I felt no pain. If I had let go, Jimmy would have flown right out the back of the house.

    All of a sudden, Jimmy lifted off his feet. I thought he was gone. And then everything stopped. He landed on his feet. In those first quiet moments, I couldn't believe it was over. Our neighbor says the storm lasted four minutes. In that time, four of the twelve town houses in our unit were completely destroyed. Amazingly, none of us were seriously injured.

    Last year my children gifted me a stainless steel (不锈钢的) coffee plunger (法式按压咖啡壶). I love to start the day with a strong black coffee and couldn't wait to use it. I looked forward to the following morning's coffee making, knowing that I probably wouldn't smash (打碎) this plunger as easily as I had done so often in the past.

    But as I poured my first cup of coffee, the plunger spilled (洒出) all over the table. Thankfully no one was around to see my disappointed face! I kept trying, but each morning would see me wiping up the coffee. Then I realized that if I poured very slowly there would be no spilling.

    This was at first a very painful experience. My normal practice was to rush through breakfast so that I could get on with my day.

    But in time I learned not only to pour slowly but to enjoy the experience: the smell, the taste, and the stillness of a new day.

    It prompted (促使) me to reflect upon whether there were other areas of my life I was rushing through. Most of life, it seemed.

    I started to leave extra time to do even the most ordinary tasks. When shop owners would apologize for keeping me waiting, I'd say, "Not a problem, I'm not in a hurry." Even hanging out washing became pleasurable when a couple of extra minutes of standing still and listening to the birds singing in the trees around me became part of my routine.

    Besides, one of my favorite experiences living in the inner city for many years was sitting on the front doorstep of our home spending time with strangers. We sat on the steps, each of us with a cup of coffee in our hands, listening to each other's stories. It was one of the warmest things about living in a busy city. It was as if the world around us slowed to a pace (步伐) we could both handle.

    Stillness and quietness not only slow the pace of life, but also feed the soul, helping us to enjoy the world's small pleasures.