勞倫斯是一位性格十分復(fù)雜，內(nèi)心充滿苦悶，對(duì)現(xiàn)代工業(yè)文明持批判和否定態(tài)度，致力于揭示人性中的本能力量，對(duì)人性能夠得到充分的自由發(fā)揮懷著憧憬的作家。今天小編在這給大家整理了一些必修二語文《鳥啼》教案，我們一起來看看吧!

必修二語文《鳥啼》教案

教學(xué)目標(biāo)：

1、體會(huì)大自然中存在的生命意義。

2、體會(huì)勞淪斯對(duì)生與死的思考。

教學(xué)時(shí)數(shù)：一課時(shí)

教學(xué)過程：

1、 導(dǎo)入：在《我的鄰居胡蜂》中，我們體會(huì)到了人與自然的和諧關(guān)系，今天我們體會(huì)一下大自然中存在的生命意義——《鳥啼》(板書)。

2、 作者簡(jiǎn)介：課本上的注釋，教師補(bǔ)充：勞倫斯?大衛(wèi)?赫伯特(1885-1930)，英國作家。生在諾丁漢郡一個(gè)礦工家庭，曾在諾丁漢大學(xué)學(xué)習(xí)師范教育。當(dāng)過會(huì)計(jì)、職員、教師，曾在英國各地以及其他一些國家漂泊十余年，廣泛接觸了社會(huì)。1909年開始發(fā)表詩歌。1911年出版第一部長篇小說《白孔雀》。成名作是長篇小說《兒子和情人》(1913)，帶有自傳性質(zhì)，描寫礦工家庭的困苦生活，但用母愛和性愛的沖突來解釋主人公波爾?莫萊的矛盾心理。弗洛伊德主義的心理分析與對(duì)社會(huì)矛盾的揭示糾糾纏在一起，是勞倫斯創(chuàng)傷的突出特點(diǎn)。這一特點(diǎn)在長篇小說《虹》(1915)、《恰特萊夫人的情人》(1928)中更加鮮明。他的作品還有長篇小說《迷途的姑娘》(1920)、《戀愛中的女人》(1921)、《亞倫的藜杖》(1922)、《袋鼠》(1923)、《羽蛇》(1926)，短篇小說集《英國，我的英國》(1922)等

3、 重點(diǎn)詞語： 田鳧 跌宕 慰藉 攫住 海蜇 蟄伏

4、 文本研習(xí)：①在預(yù)習(xí)的基礎(chǔ)上課文劃分層次(提問3-4名同學(xué))

明確：全文共15段，劃分為兩個(gè)部分：

第一部分：(1—5自然段)主要寫嚴(yán)寒過后，春天來臨，鳥兒的啼鳴。

第二部分：(6—15自然段)側(cè)重寫鳥二啼鳴給人類的啟示，寫“我們”的思考。

5、難點(diǎn)分析：①文章開始于對(duì)鳥兒死亡場(chǎng)景的描寫，讓人倍感凄涼，然而在天氣轉(zhuǎn)暖之后，鳥兒不停地啼鳴，呼告了一個(gè)春天新世界的到來，顯示了一種生命本身的張力。作者筆下的小鳥充滿了生命的沖動(dòng)。

②默讀課文第一部分，劃出文中表現(xiàn)鳥啼的句子，體會(huì)這些句子的含義。

明確：鳥啼是新生命的象征，象征著嚴(yán)寒過后新生命的到來。

③課文第一部分除了描寫鳥啼，還寫到了鳥尸，在文中劃出描寫鳥尸的句子，體會(huì)這些句子的含義。

明確：鳥尸是死亡的象征。

④分析描寫“鳥啼”和“鳥尸”的句子的作用。

明確：“鳥啼”象征新生命，“鳥尸”象征死亡，兩者在文中起到了 強(qiáng)烈的對(duì)比效果，肯定了生命沖動(dòng)力量的不可阻擋。

⑤象征著新生命的“鳥啼”給了人類很多啟示，默讀課文，在文中找出表現(xiàn)受到啟示的句子，

明確：第7段中“冬天走開了，不管怎樣，我們的心會(huì)放出歌聲。”第9段“無論人們情愿與否，……那就是新的天堂和新的大地”第12段，第15段“誰能阻撓到來的生命沖動(dòng)呢……就如向死而生的鳥兒一樣?！钡鹊?。

⑥通過這些啟示，勞倫斯做了什么樣思考?(總結(jié)一下)

明確：生命和死亡全不相容，我們是為著生的，或者是為著死的，非此即彼，在本質(zhì)上不可兼得;同時(shí)，他也肯定了生命的價(jià)值，春天必然會(huì)來臨，誰也無法阻擋生命的沖動(dòng)，無法阻擋我們對(duì)于新生命、新世界的渴望與追求。

穿插：勞倫斯是一位性格十分復(fù)雜，內(nèi)心充滿苦悶，對(duì)現(xiàn)代工業(yè)文明持批判和否定態(tài)度，致力于揭示人性中的本能力量，對(duì)人性能夠得到充分的自由發(fā)揮懷著憧憬的作家。他的散文是一個(gè)孤獨(dú)者在他那個(gè)喧嘩年代和騷動(dòng)的文化氛圍中發(fā)出的生的感嘆。他曾說過，我的文章是寫給50年后的人看的。

作業(yè)布置：完成《學(xué)習(xí)與評(píng)價(jià)》上的練習(xí)題

《鳥啼》英文原文及譯文

The frost held for many weeks, until the birds were dying rapidly. Everywhere in the fields and under the hedges lay the ragged remains of lapwings, starlings, thrushes, redwings, innumerable ragged, bloody cloaks of birds, whence the flesh was eaten by invisible beasts of prey.

Then, quite suddenly, one morning, the change came. The wind went to the south, came off the sea warm and soothing. In the afternoon there were little gleams of sunshine, and the doves began, without interval, slowly and awkwardly to coo. The doves were cooing, though with a laboured sound, as if they were still winter-stunned. Nevertheless, all the afternoon they continued their noise, in the mild air, before the frost had thawed off the road. At evening the wind blew gently, still gathering a bruising quality of frost from the hard earth. Then, in the yellow-gleamy sunset, wild birds began to whistle faintly in the blackthorn thickets of the stream-bottom.

It was startling and almost frightening, after the heavy silence of frost. How could they sing at once, when the ground was thickly strewn with the torn carcasses of birds? Yet out of the evening came the uncertain, silvery sounds that made one’s soul start alert, almost with fear. How could the little silver bugles sound the rally so swiftly, in the soft air, when the earth was yet bound? Yet the birds continued their whistling, rather dimly and brokenly, but throwing the threads of silver, germinating noise into the air.

It was almost a pain to realize, so swiftly, the new world. “Le monde est mort. Vive le monde!” But the birds omitted even the first part of the announcement, their cry was only a faint, blind, fecund “vive!”

There is another world. The winter is gone. There is a new world of spring. The voice of the turtle is heard in the land. But the flesh shrinks from so sudden a transition. Surely the call is premature, while the clods are still frozen, and the ground is littered with the remains of wings! Yet we have no choice. In the bottoms of impenetrable blackthorn, each evening and morning now, out flickers a whistling of birds.

Where does it come from, the song? After so long a cruelty, how can they make it up so quickly? But it bubbles through them, they are like little well-heads, little fountain-heads whence the spring trickles and bubbles forth. It is not of their own doing. In their throats the new life distils itself into sound. It is the rising of the silvery sap of a new summer, gurgling itself forth.

All the time, whilst the earth lay choked and killed and winter-mortified, the deep undersprings were quiet. They only wait for the ponderous encumbrance of the old order to give way, yield in the thaw, and there they are, a silver realm at once. Under the surge of ruin, unmitigated winter, lies the silver potentiality of all blossom. One day the black tide must spend itself and fade back. Then all-suddenly appears the crocus, hovering triumphant in the year, and we know the order has changed, there is a new regime, sound of a new “Vive! Vive!”

It is no use any more to look at the torn remnants of birds that lie exposed. It is no longer any use remembering the sullen thunder of frost and the intolerable pressure of cold upon us. For whether we will or not, they are gone. The choice is not ours. We many remain wintry and destructive for a little longer, if we wish it, but the winter is gone out of us, and willy-nilly our hearts sing a little at sunset.

Even whilst we stare at the ragged horror of birds scattered broadcast, part-eaten, the soft, uneven cooing of the pigeon ripples from the outhouses, and there is a faint silver whistling in the bushes come twilight. No matter, we stand and stare at the torn and unsightly ruins of life, we watch the weary, mutilated columns of winter retreating under our eyes. Yet in our ears are the silver vivid bugles of a new creation advancing on us from behind, we hear the rolling of the soft and happy drums of the doves.

We may not choose the world. We have hardly any choice for ourselves. We follow with our eyes the bloody and horrid line of march of this extreme winter, as it passes away. But we cannot hold back the spring. We cannot make the birds silent, prevent the bubbling of the wood-pigeons. We cannot stay the fine world of silver-fecund creation from gathering itself and taking place upon us. Whether we will or mo, the daphne tree will soon be giving off perfume, the lambs dancing on two feet, the celandines will twinkle all over the ground, there will be new heaven and new earth.

For it is in us, as well as without us. Those who can may follow the columns of winter in their retreat from off the earth. Some of us, we have no choice, the spring is within us, the silver fountain begins to bubble under our breast, there is a gladness in spite of ourselves. And on the instant we accept the gladness! The first day of change, out whistles an unusual, interrupted pean, a fragment that will augment itself imperceptibly. And this in spite of the extreme bitterness of the suffering, in spite of the myriads of torn dead.

Such a long, long winter, and the frost only broke yesterday. Yet it seems, already, we cannot remember it. It is strangely remote, like a far-off darkness. It is as unreal as a dream in the night. This is the morning of reality, when we are ourselves. This is natural and real, the glimmering of a new creation that stirs in us and about us. We know there was winter, long, fearful. We know the earth was strangled and mortified, we know the body of life was torn and scattered broadcast. But what is this retrospective knowledge? It is something extraneous to us, extraneous to this that we are now. and what we are, and what, it seems, we always have been, is this quickening lovely silver plasm of pure creativity. All the mortification and tearing, ah yes, it was upon us, encompassing us. It was like a storm or a mist or a falling from a height. It was entangled upon us, like bats in our hair, driving us mad. But it was never really our innermost self. Within, we were always apart, we were this, this limpid fountain of silver, then quiescent, rising and breaking now into the flowering.

It is strange, the utter in compatibility of death with life. Whilst there is death, life is not to be found. It is all death, one overwhelming flood. And then a new tide rises, and it is all life, a fountain of silvery blissfulness. It is one or the other. We are for life, or we are for death, one or the other, but never in our essence both at once.

Death takes us, and all is a torn redness, passing into darkness. Life rises, and we are faint fine jets of silver running out to blossom. All is incompatible with all. There is the silvery-speckled, incandescent-lovely thrush, whistling pipingly his first song in the blackthorn thicket. How is he to be connected with the bloody, feathered unsightliness of thrush-remnants just outside the bushes? There is no connection. They are not to be referred the one to the other. Where one is, the other is not. In the kingdom of death the silvery song is not. But where there is life, there is no death. No death whatever, only silvery gladness, perfect, the otherworld.

The blackbird cannot stop his song, neither can the pigeon. It takes place in him, even though all his race was yesterday destroyed. He cannot mourn, or be silent, or adhere to the dead. Of the dead he is not, since life has kept him. The dead must bury their dead. Life has now taken hold on him and tossed him into the new ether of a new firmament, where he bursts into song as if he were combustible.

What is the past, those others, now he is tossed clean into the new, across the untranslatable difference?

In his song is heard the first brokenness and uncertainty of the transition. The transit from the grip of death into new being is a death from death, in its sheer metempsychosis a dizzy agony. But only for a second, the moment of trajectory, the passage from one state to the other, from the grip of death to the liberty of newness. In a moment he is in the kingdom of wonder, singing at the center of a new creation.

The bird did not hang back. He did not cling to his death and his dead. There is no death, and the dead have buried their dead. Tossed into the chasm between two worlds, he lifted his wings in dread, and found himself carried on the impulse.

We are lifted to be cast away into the new beginning. Under our hearts the fountain surges, to toss us forth. Who can thwart the impulse that comes upon us? It comes from the unknown upon us, and it behoves us to pass delicately and exquisitely upon the subtle new wind from heaven, conveyed like birds in unreasoning migration from death to life.

譯文：

嚴(yán)寒持續(xù)了好幾個(gè)星期，鳥兒很快地死去了。田間與灌木籬下，橫陳著田鳧、椋鳥、畫眉等數(shù)不清的腐鳥的血衣，鳥兒的肉已被隱秘的 老饕吃凈了。

突然間，一個(gè)清晨，變化出現(xiàn)了。風(fēng)刮到了南方，海上飄來了溫暖和慰藉。午后，太陽露出了幾星光亮，鴿子開始不間斷地緩慢而笨拙地發(fā)出咕咕的叫聲。這聲音顯得有些吃力，仿佛還沒有從嚴(yán)冬的打擊下緩過氣來。黃昏時(shí)，從河床的薔薇棘叢中，開始傳出野鳥微弱的啼鳴。

當(dāng)大地還散落著厚厚的一層鳥的尸體的時(shí)候，它們?cè)趺磿?huì)突然歌唱起來?從夜色中浮起的隱約的清越的聲音，使人驚訝。當(dāng)大地仍在束縛中時(shí)，那小小的清越之聲已經(jīng)在柔弱的空氣中呼喚春天了。它們的啼鳴，雖然含糊，若斷若續(xù)，卻把明快而萌發(fā)的聲音拋向蒼穹。

冬天離去了。一個(gè)新的春天的世界。田地間響起斑鳩的叫聲。在不能進(jìn)入的荊棘叢底，每一個(gè)夜晚以及每一個(gè)早晨，都會(huì)閃動(dòng)出鳥兒的啼鳴。

它從哪兒來呀?那歌聲?在這么長的嚴(yán)酷后，鳥兒們?cè)趺磿?huì)這么快就復(fù)生?它活潑，像泉水，從那里，春天慢慢滴落又噴涌而出。新生活在鳥兒們喉中凝成悅耳的聲音。它開辟了銀色的通道，為著新鮮的春日，一路潺潺而行。

當(dāng)冬天抑制一切時(shí)，深埋著的春天的生機(jī)一片沉默，只等著舊秩序沉重的阻礙退去。冰消雪化之后，頃刻間現(xiàn)出銀光閃爍的王國。在毀滅一切的冬天巨浪之下，蟄伏著的是寶貴的百花吐艷的潛力。有一天，黑色的浪潮精力耗盡，緩緩后移，番紅花就會(huì)突然間顯現(xiàn)，勝利地?fù)u曳。于是我們知道，規(guī)律變了，這是一片新的天地，喊出了嶄新的生活!生活!

不必再注視那些暴露四野的破碎的鳥尸，也無須再回憶嚴(yán)寒中沉悶的響雷，以及重壓在我們身上的酷冷。冬天走開了，不管怎樣，我們的心會(huì)放出歌聲。

即使當(dāng)我們凝視那些散落遍地、尸身不整的鳥兒腐爛而可怕的景象時(shí)，屋外也會(huì)飄來一陣陣鴿子的咕咕聲，那從灌木叢中發(fā)出的微弱的啼鳴。那些破碎不堪的毀滅了的生命，意味著冬天疲倦而殘缺不全的隊(duì)伍的撤退。我們耳中充塞的，是新生的造物清明而生動(dòng)的號(hào)音，那造物從身后追趕上來，我們聽到了鳥兒們發(fā)出的輕柔而歡快的隆隆鼓聲。

世界不能選擇。我們用眼睛跟隨極端的嚴(yán)冬那沾滿血跡的駭人的行列，直到它走過去。春天不能抑制，任何力量都不能使鳥兒悄然，不能阻止大野鴿的沸騰，不能滯留美好世界中豐饒的創(chuàng)造，它們不可阻擋地振作自己，來到我們身邊。無論人們情愿與否，月桂樹總要飄出花香，綿羊總要站立舞蹈，白屈菜總要遍地閃爍，那就是新的天堂和新的大地。

那些強(qiáng)者將跟隨冬天從大地上隱遁。春天來到我們中間，銀色的泉流在心底奔涌，這喜悅，我們禁不住。在這一時(shí)刻，我們將這喜悅接受了!變化的時(shí)節(jié)，啼唱起不平凡的頌歌，這是極度的苦難所禁不住的，是無數(shù)殘損的死亡所禁不住的。

多么漫長漫長的冬天，冰封昨天才裂開。但看上去，我們已把它全然忘記了。它奇怪地遠(yuǎn)離了，像遠(yuǎn)去的黑暗?？瓷先ツ敲床徽鎸?shí)，像長夜的夢(mèng)。新世界的光芒搖曳在心中，躍動(dòng)在身邊。我們知道過去的是冬天，漫長、恐怖。我們知道大地被窒息、被殘害。我們知道生命的肉體被撕裂，零落遍地。所有的毀害和撕裂，啊，是的，過去曾經(jīng)降臨在我們身上，曾經(jīng)團(tuán)團(tuán)圍住我們。它像高空中的一陣風(fēng)暴，一陣濃霧，或一陣傾盆大雨。它纏在我們周身，像蝙蝠繞進(jìn)我們的頭發(fā)，逼得我們發(fā)瘋。但它永遠(yuǎn)不是我們最深處真正的自我。我們就是這樣，是銀色晶瑩的泉流，先前是安靜的，此時(shí)卻跌宕而起，注入盛開的花朵。

生命和死亡全部不相容。死時(shí)，生便不存在，皆是死亡，猶如一場(chǎng)勢(shì)不可擋的洪水。繼而，一股新的浪頭涌起，便全是生命，便是銀色的極樂的源泉。

死亡攫住了我們，一切殘斷，沉入黑暗。生命復(fù)生，我們便變成水溪下微弱但美麗的噴泉，朝向鮮花奔去。當(dāng)熾烈而可愛的畫眉，在荊棘叢中平靜地發(fā)出它的第一聲啼鳴時(shí)，怎能把它和那些在樹叢外血肉模糊、羽毛紛亂的殘骸聯(lián)系在一起呢?在死亡的王國里，不會(huì)有清越的歌聲，正如死亡不能美化生的世界。

鴿子，還有斑鳩、畫眉……不能停止它們的歌唱。它們?nèi)硇牡赝度肓耍M管同伴昨天遭遇了毀滅。它們不能哀傷，不能靜默，不能追隨死亡。死去的，就讓它死去。現(xiàn)在生命鼓舞著、搖蕩著到新的天堂，新的昊天，在那里，它們禁不住放聲歌唱，似乎從來就這般熾烈。

從鳥兒們的歌聲中，聽到了這場(chǎng)變遷的第一陣爆發(fā)。在心底，泉流在涌動(dòng)，激勵(lì)著我們前行。誰能阻撓到來的生命沖動(dòng)呢?它從陌生的地方來，降臨在我們身上，使我們乘上了從天國吹來的清新柔風(fēng)，就如向死而生的 鳥兒一樣。

《鳥啼》教學(xué)反思

這篇課文一個(gè)課時(shí)很難完成。講了第一部分的描寫，講了第二部分的第12~15段，而第9~11段其實(shí)是對(duì)第一部分描寫的進(jìn)一步闡發(fā)，用了象征手法，語意比較隱晦，也比較難懂。我讓學(xué)生自由朗讀這一部分，自己講講對(duì)感悟較深的句子的理解，或自己提問，而這一環(huán)節(jié)是放到最后的，時(shí)間完全不夠，而這一部分又很重要，既能進(jìn)一步理解鳥啼的含義，又能更好地解釋下文“生與死”這個(gè)問題。所以在課堂設(shè)計(jì)上是否能把這一環(huán)節(jié)提前，由這一環(huán)節(jié)的體悟引申出勞倫斯對(duì)生與死問題的思考，結(jié)合12~15段，再呈現(xiàn)勞倫斯對(duì)生與死問題的思考結(jié)果。