Question
URGENT AIDEZ MOI FAIRE UN RESUME EN ANGLAIS DE CE TEXTE (environ une dizaine de lignes)
And for the first time in my life, the following afternoon, I went into the west. It was a warm and beautiful day for hitchhiking. To get out of the complexities of Chicago traffic I took a bus to Joliet, Illinois, went by the Joliet pen, stationed myself just outside town and pointed my way. All the way from New York to Joliet by bus, and I had spent more than half my money.
My first ride was a dynamite truck with a red flag, about thirty miles into great green Illinois, the truckdriver pointing out the place where Route 6, which we were on, intersects Route 66 before they both shoot west for incredible distances.
Along about three in the afternoon, after an apple pie and ice cream in a roadside stand, a woman stopped for me in a little coupe. I had a twinge of hard joy as I ran after the car. But she was a middle-aged woman actually the mother of sons of my age, and wanted somebody to help her drive to Iowa. I was all for it. Iowa! Not so far from Denver, and once I got to Denver I could relax. She drove the first few hours, at one point insisted on visiting an old church somewhere, as if we were tourists, and then I took over the wheel and, though I'm not much of a driver, drove clear through the rest of Illinois to Davenport, Iowa, via Rock Island. And here for the first time of my life I saw my beloved Mississippi River, low water, with its big rank smell that smells like the raw body of America itself because it washes it up. Rock Island – railroad tracks, shacks, small dowtown section; and over the bridge to Davenport, same kind of town, all smelling of sawdust in the warm midwest sun. Here the lady had to go on to her Iowa hometown by another route, and I go out.
The sun was going down. I walked, after a few cold beers, to the edge of town, and it was a long walk. All the men were driving home from work, wearing railroad hats, baseball hats, all kinds of hats, just like after work in any town anywhere. One of them gave me a ride up the hill and left me at a lonely crossroads on the edge of the prairie. It was beautiful there. The only cars that went by were farmer-cars; they gave me suspicious looks, they clanked along. Not a truck. A few cars zipped by. The sun went all the way down and I was standing in the purple darkness. Now I was scared. There weren't even any lights in the Iowa countryside; in a minute nobody would be able to see me. Luckily a man going back to Davenport gave me a lift downtown. But I right where I started from.
On the Road, Jack KEROUAC (1957)
And for the first time in my life, the following afternoon, I went into the west. It was a warm and beautiful day for hitchhiking. To get out of the complexities of Chicago traffic I took a bus to Joliet, Illinois, went by the Joliet pen, stationed myself just outside town and pointed my way. All the way from New York to Joliet by bus, and I had spent more than half my money.
My first ride was a dynamite truck with a red flag, about thirty miles into great green Illinois, the truckdriver pointing out the place where Route 6, which we were on, intersects Route 66 before they both shoot west for incredible distances.
Along about three in the afternoon, after an apple pie and ice cream in a roadside stand, a woman stopped for me in a little coupe. I had a twinge of hard joy as I ran after the car. But she was a middle-aged woman actually the mother of sons of my age, and wanted somebody to help her drive to Iowa. I was all for it. Iowa! Not so far from Denver, and once I got to Denver I could relax. She drove the first few hours, at one point insisted on visiting an old church somewhere, as if we were tourists, and then I took over the wheel and, though I'm not much of a driver, drove clear through the rest of Illinois to Davenport, Iowa, via Rock Island. And here for the first time of my life I saw my beloved Mississippi River, low water, with its big rank smell that smells like the raw body of America itself because it washes it up. Rock Island – railroad tracks, shacks, small dowtown section; and over the bridge to Davenport, same kind of town, all smelling of sawdust in the warm midwest sun. Here the lady had to go on to her Iowa hometown by another route, and I go out.
The sun was going down. I walked, after a few cold beers, to the edge of town, and it was a long walk. All the men were driving home from work, wearing railroad hats, baseball hats, all kinds of hats, just like after work in any town anywhere. One of them gave me a ride up the hill and left me at a lonely crossroads on the edge of the prairie. It was beautiful there. The only cars that went by were farmer-cars; they gave me suspicious looks, they clanked along. Not a truck. A few cars zipped by. The sun went all the way down and I was standing in the purple darkness. Now I was scared. There weren't even any lights in the Iowa countryside; in a minute nobody would be able to see me. Luckily a man going back to Davenport gave me a lift downtown. But I right where I started from.
On the Road, Jack KEROUAC (1957)
Asked by: USER6944
2639 Viewed
500 Answers
Answer (500)
Et pour la première fois de ma vie , le lendemain après-midi , je suis allé dans l'ouest . Ce fut une journée chaude et belle pour l'auto-stop . Pour sortir de la complexité du trafic de Chicago , je pris un bus à Joliet , Illinois , est allé par la Joliet stylo, me plaçai abords de la ville et a souligné mon chemin . Tout le chemin de New York à Joliet en bus , et je l'avais passé plus de la moitié de mon argent.Mon premier tour était un camion de la dynamite avec un drapeau rouge, une trentaine de miles dans une grande Illinois vert, le camionneur soulignant l'endroit où la route 6 , que nous étions , croise la route 66 à la fois avant qu'ils tirent l'ouest pour des distances incroyables .Le long d'environ trois l'après-midi, après une tarte aux pommes et la crème glacée dans un bord de la route, une femme arrêtée pour moi dans un petit coupé. Je ai eu un pincement au coeur de joie dur que je courais après que la voiture. Mais elle était une femme d'âge moyen en fait la mère de fils de mon âge, et voulait quelqu'un pour aider sa voiture de l'Iowa. Je suis tout à fait pour. Iowa! Pas si loin de Denver, et une fois que je suis arrivé à Denver, je pouvais me détendre. Elle a conduit les premières heures, à un moment donné a insisté pour visiter une ancienneLe soleil se couchait . Je marchais , après quelques bières froides , à la lisière de la ville , et ce fut une longue marche . Tous les hommes conduisaient la maison du travail , portant des chapeaux de chemin de fer , casquettes de baseball , toutes sortes de chapeaux , tout comme après le travail dans une ville n'importe où . L'un d'eux m'a donné un tour jusqu'à la colline et m'a laissé à un carrefour solitaire sur le bord de la prairie . Il était beau là-bas. Les seules voitures qui passaient étaient agriculteurs -cars; ils me donnaient des regards soupçonneux , ils sonnaient long . Pas un camion . Quelques voitures zippé par . Le soleil a fait tout le chemin vers le bas et je me tenais dans l'obscurité pourpre. Maintenant, je avais peur . Il n'y avait même pas de lumières dans la campagne de l'Iowa ; dans une personne de minutes serait capable de me voir . Heureusement un homme remontant à Davenport m'a donné un centre de ascenseur. Mais je là où je suis parti .Sur la route , de Jack Kerouac (1957 ) église quelque part, comme si nous étions des touristes, et puis je pris le volant et, si je ne suis pas beaucoup d'un pilote, conduit clairement à travers le reste de l'Illinois Davenport, Iowa, par l'intermédiaire de Rock Island. Et ici, pour la première fois de ma vie que je voyais mon fleuve Mississippi, la marée basse bien-aimée, avec son grand odeur de rang qui sent le corps cru de l'Amérique elle-même, car il se lave en place. Rock Island - voies ferrées, des cabanes, petite section dowtown; et sur le pont à Davenport, même genre de ville, l'odeur de la sciure de bois tout en le chaud soleil midwest. Voici la dame a dû aller à sa ville natale de l'Iowa par une autre voie, et je sors.