English Audio Request

45-46.
The claim that we have recently entered the information age is misleading. Flooded by cellphones, the Internet, and television, we incorrectly imagine that our ancestors inhabited an innocent world where the news did not travel far beyond the village. It may not be valid to assume that the media make our time distinct from the past, because we know relatively little about how information was shared in the past. In fact, the Olympics celebrate the memory of the Greek soldier who brought the news of the Athenian victory over the Persians. Most of us could come up with many other examples―message drums, smoke signals, church bells, ship flags. But their primitiveness would only confirm our sense that we live in a fundamentally different world, one of constant, instant access to information.
All ages have had a means of sharing information. What makes our time distinct is not the density of the data we take in. It is the technology that does the transmitting. Thanks to satellites, we can find out instantly about events that occur on the other side of the world. It usually took five weeks for Benjamin Franklin in Paris to receive a letter sent from Philadelphia. But the news was still new and surprising to people there.

47-48.
Perhaps the greatest thing about being a devoted operagoer is that there is so much room for growth. Although you have heard an opera once, you can still hear it five or twenty times more. I have heard at least twenty performances of my favorite operas, and I would happily hear them twenty more times. With each rehearing, you refine what you know. The better you know an opera, the more you will be challenged by the ideas of new singers, conductors, directors, and designers. Your first experience with Rigoletto and Tosca is only your introduction to those masterpieces. Each time you hear a different singer in any of the key roles, you are hearing a new interpretation. Even the same singer will vary on two different occasions. Artists grow and change in their approach to a character based on their own life experiences and their moods. For example, I saw a famous soprano from Eastern Europe sing Tosca twice within ten months. The first time was a good, honest performance that pleased the audience. The second was impressive. Between the performances, the singer’s husband had suddenly died. The love scenes in the second performance seemed much more moving, and her response to the death of her lover was undeniably charming.

49-50.
I was eight years old. At that moment in my life, nothing was more important to me than baseball. My team was the New York Giants, and I followed the doings of those men in the black-and-orange caps with all the devotion of a true believer. Even now, remembering that team, which no longer exists, I can recite the names of nearly every baseball player on the team. But none was greater, and none more perfect than Willie Mays.
That spring, I was taken to my first big-league game. Just as we approached the exit after the game, I caught sight of Willie Mays. He was standing near the gate not ten feet away from me. I rushed to him and said, “Mr. Mays, could I please have your autograph?” He said, “Sure, kid. You got a pencil?” I didn’t have one in my pocket. The great Willie Mays stood there watching in silence. He just shrugged and said, “Sorry, kid.” And then he walked out of the ballpark into the night. I didn’t want to cry, but tears started falling down my cheeks, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.
After that night, I started carrying a pencil with me wherever I went. It became a habit of mine never to leave the house without making sure I had a pencil in my pocket. It’s not that I had any particular plans for that pencil, but I didn’t want to be unprepared. I had been caught empty-handed once, and I wasn’t about to let it happen again. If nothing else, the years have taught me this:If there’s a pencil in your pocket, there’s a good chance that one day you’ll feel tempted to start using it.