Creativity is the key to a bright future. We live in a     1     world. But we always tend to ignore the beauty of it and thus have many regrets in our lives. We only live     2    , so we have to live a fullest one. This life is ours, so we have to live and     3     it. We need to realize this first. Creativity is the mother of invention that depends on individual intention. If we have     4    , then the rejections we get would not be a problem. Bear this only intention in our mind and keep on thinking, and there will be     5     for this perspiration.

Science fiction doesn’t always get the respect it deserves. My friend Ryan calls    1     “brain candy”. My sister says science fiction novels are fairy tales for teenagers. I    2     you ask me, I think people should take science fiction     3     (serious) though it’s so much fun to read.

Yes, science fiction is fun, but it’s also “real” literature. After all, some of     4     great masters of literature—Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov and Ursula Le Guin—have written science fiction.

Not only     5     science fiction books often examples of great literature, but the predictions made by science fiction writers help spark people’s imagination and lay the groundwork for       6     (invent) of the future.

One accurate example by a science fiction writer is the invention of the automatic sliding door,       7     H.G. Wells wrote about in When the Sleeper Wakes in 1899. The f    8     automatic doors were invented in 1954. I wonder if the inventors got the idea from H.G. Wells?

Okay, so maybe we could survive without automatic doors, but in the short story From the London Times of 1904 (published in 1898), Mark Twain described a m    9     significant invention — the Internet (specifically, video blogging) ! Imagine what the world       10     (will) be like without the Internet. Thank you, Mr. Twain. Thank you, science fiction!

3 . Sir Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes stories are known all over the world, worked_________ a doctor before he turned to writing. His Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant detective and violinist, living at 221B Baker Street in London,_________there is now a Sherlock Holmes museum. Holmes’ friend Doctor Watson was probably_________ Conan Doyle himself. The best-known Sherlock story is probably The Hound of the Baskervilles, which Conan Doyle wrote in 1902.

5 . When it came to concealing his troubles, Tommy Wilhelm was not less capable than the next fellow. So at least he thought, and there was a certain amount of evidence to back him up. He had once been an actor—no, not quite, an extra—and he knew what acting should be. Also, he was smoking a cigar, and when a man is smoking a cigar, wearing a hat, he has an advantage: it is harder to find out how he feels. He came from the twenty-third floor down to the lobby on the mezzanine to collect his mail before breakfast, and he believed — he hoped — that he looked passably well: doing all right. It was a matter of sheer hope, because there was not much that he could add to his present effort. On the fourteenth floor he looked for his father to enter the elevator; they often met at this hour, on the way to breakfast. If he worried about his appearance it was mainly for his old father's sake. But there was no stop on the fourteenth, and the elevator sank and sank. Then the smooth door opened and the great dark-red uneven carpet that covered the lobby billowed toward Wilhelm's feet. In the foreground the lobby was dark, sleepy. French drapes like sails kept out the sun, but three high, narrow windows were open, and in the blue air Wilhelm saw a pigeon about to light on the great chain that supported the marquee of the movie house directly underneath the lobby. For one moment he heard the wings beating strongly.

Most of the guests at the Hotel Gloriana were past the age of retirement. Along Broadway in the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties, a great part of New York's vast population of old men and women lives. Unless the weather is too cold or wet they fill the benches about the tiny railed parks and along the subway gratings from Verdi Square to Columbia University, they crowd the shops and cafeterias, the dime stores, the tearooms, the bakeries, the beauty parlors, the reading rooms and club rooms. Among these old people at the Gloriana, Wilhelm felt out of place. He was comparatively young, in his middle forties, large and blond, with big shoulders; his back was heavy and strong, if already a little stooped or thickened. After breakfast the old guests sat down on the green leather armchairs and sofas in the lobby and began to gossip and look into the papers: they had nothing to do but wait out the day. But Wilhelm was used to an active life and liked to go out energetically in the morning. And for several months, because he had no position, he had kept up his morale by rising early: he was shaved and in the lobby by eight o'clock. He bought the paper and some cigars and drank a Coca-Cola or two before he went in to breakfast with his father. After breakfast—out, out, out to attend to business. The getting out had in itself become the chief business. But he had realized that he could not keep this up much longer, and today he was afraid. He was aware that his routine was about to break up and he sensed that a huge trouble long presaged(预感)but till now formless was due. Before evening, he'd know.

Nevertheless he followed his daily course and crossed the lobby.

Rubin, the man at the newsstand, had poor eyes. They may not have been actually weak but they were poor in expression, with lacy lids that furled down at the corners. He dressed well. It didn't seem necessary—he was behind the counter most of the time—but he dressed very well. He had on a rich brown suit; the cuffs embarrassed the hairs on his small hands. He wore a Countess Mara painted necktie. As Wilhelm approached, Rubin did not see him; he was looking out dreamily at the Hotel Ansonia, which was visible from his corner, several blocks away. The Ansonia, the neighborhood's great landmark, was built by Stanford White. It looks like a baroque palace from Prague or Munich enlarged a hundred times, with towers, domes, huge swells and bubbles of metal gone green from exposure, iron fretwork and festoons. Black television antennae are densely planted on its round summits. Under the changes of weather it may look like marble or like sea water, black as slate in the fog, white as tufa in sunlight. This morning it looked like the image of itself reflected in deep water, white and cumulous above, with cavernous distortions underneath. Together, the two men gazed at it.

Then Rubin said, “Your dad is in to breakfast already, the old gentleman.”

“Oh, yes？Ahead of me today？”

“That's a real knocked-out shirt you got on,” said Rubin.“Where’s it from, Saks？”

“No, it’s a Jack Fagman—Chicago.”

Even when his spirits were low, Wilhelm could still wrinkle his forehead in a pleasing way. Some of the slow, silent movements of his face were very attractive. He went back a step, as if to stand away from himself and get a better look at his shirt. His glance was comic, a comment upon his untidiness. He liked to wear good clothes, but once he had put it on each article appeared to go its own way. Wilhelm, laughing, panted a little; his teeth were small; his cheeks when he laughed and puffed grew round, and he looked much younger than his years. In the old days when he was a college freshman and wore a beanie(无檐小帽)on his large blonde head his father used to say that, big as he was, he could charm a bird out of a tree. Wilhelm had great charm still.

“I like this dove-gray color,” he said in his sociable, good-natured way. “It isn’t washable. You have to send it to the cleaner. It never smells as good as washed. But it’s a nice shirt. It cost sixteen, eighteen bucks.”