Is there something as truth? For a good many centuries "the search for truth" has been (31
Is there something as truth? For a good many centuries "the search for truth" has been (31) the noblest activity of the human mind, but the seekers after truth have come to such (32) conclusions that it often seems that very little progress has been made. (33) , there are many people who reel that we are actually going backward. They (34) , often contemptuously, that we have accumulated more "knowledge" than our ancestors, but they think we are farther from the truth than ever, or even that we have (35) the truth that we once possessed. If people look for anything long enough without finding it, the question naturally arises (36) the thing is really there to find. You have seen a picture of an animal with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail--and maybe an eagle's wings for good (37) There is plenty of evidence that each part of this animal (38) --but there is no (39) evidence that the parts ever occur in this combination. It is at least conceivable that the seekers after "truth" have made a similar mistake and invented an (40) combination.A.regardedB.consideredC.ponderedD.referred
It is astonishing how little is known about the working of the mind. But however little or much is known, it is fairly clear that the model of the logic-machine is not only wrong but mischievous. There are people who profess to believe that man can live by logic alone. If only they say, men developed their reason, looked at all situations and dilemmas logically, and proceeded to devise rational solutions, all human problems would be solved. Be reasonable. Think logically. Act rationally. This line of thought is very persuasive, not to say seductive, 1. It is astonishing, however, how frequently the people most fanatically devoted to logic and reason, to a cold review of the "facts" and a calculated construction of the truth, turn out not only to be terribly emotional in argumentation, but obstinate any "truth" is "proved"——deeply committed to emotional positions that prove reek-resistible to the most massive accumulation of unsympathetic facts and proofs.
2. If man's mind cannot be turned into a logic-machine, neither can it function properly as a great emotional sponge, to be squeezed at will. All of us have known people who gush as a general response to life——who gush in seeing a sunset, who gush in reading a book, who gush in meeting a friend. They may seem to live by emotion alone, but their constant gushing is a disguise for absence of genuine feeling, a torrent rushing to fill a vacuum. It is not uncommon to find beneath the gush a cold, analytic mind that is astonishing in its meticulousness and ruthless in its calculation.
Somewhere between machine and sponge lies the reality of the mind——a blend of reason and emotion, of actuality and imagination, of fact and feeling. 3. The entanglement is so complete, the mixture so thoroughly mixed, that it is probably impossible to achieve pure reason or pure reason or pure emotion, at least for any sustained period of time.
4. It is probably best to assume that all our reasoning is fused with our emotional commitments and beliefs, all our thoughts colored by feelings that lie deep within our psyches. Moreover, it is probably best to assume that this stream of emotion is not a poison, not even a taint, but is a positive life-source, a stream of psychic energy that animates and vitalizes our entire thought process. 5. The roots of reason are embedded in feelings——feelings that have formed and accumulated and developed over a lifetime of personality-shaping. These feelings are not for occasional using but are inescapable. To know what we think, we must know how we feel. It is feeling that shapes belief and forms opinion. It is feeling that directs the strategy of argument. It is our feelings, then, with which we must come to honorable terms.
You might think that borrowing a match upon the street is a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it will assure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swear on oath to the truth of my experience of the other evening.
I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar that I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till a decent, ordinary man came along. Then I said:
"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan of a match?"
"A match?" he said, "why, certainly." Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. "I know I have one," he went on, "and I'd almost swear it's in the bottom pocket — or, hold on, though, I guess it may be in the top — just wait till I put these parcels down on the sidewalk."
"Oh, don't trouble," I said. "It's really of no consequence."
"Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I know there must be one in here somewhere"—he was digging his fingers into his pockets as he spoke — "but you see this isn't the waistcoat that I generally…"
I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well, never mind," I protested; "if that isn't the waistcoat that you generally — why, it doesn't matter."
"Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said. "I've got one of the cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must be in with my watch. No, it's not there either. Wait till I try my coat. If that damned tailor only knew enough to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!"
He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown down his walking-stick and was searching his pockets with his teeth set. "It's that cursed young boy of mine," he exasperated; "this comes of his fooling in my pockets. By God! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say, I'll bet that it's in my hippocket. You just hold up the tail of my overcoat a second till I…"
"No, no," I protested again,"please don't take all this trouble, it really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn't take off your overcoat, and oh, pray don't throw away your letters and things in the snow like that, and tear out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don't trample over your overcoat and put your feet through the parcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your little boy, with that peculiar grumble in your voice. Don't — please don't tear your clothes so savagely."
Suddenly the man gave a grunt of joy, and drew his hand up from inside the lining of his coat.
"I've got it," he cried. "Here you are!" Then he brought it out under the light.
It was a toothpick.
Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under the wheels of a trolley-car and ran.
The author narrates the story in a _________________ tone?
A.sorrowful
B.humorous
C.indifferent
D.excited