【导读】 《我的人生故事》是海伦·凯勒的自传性作品，被世界称为文学史上无与伦比的杰作。阅读下面的节选，仔细思考它对我们的未来人生有什么样的启示。
【节选】
The Story of My Life
Helen Keller
Chapter 1
It is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life.I have，as it were，a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings about my childhood like a golden mist.The task of writing an autobiography is a difficult one.When I try to classify my earliest impressions，I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that link the past with the present.The woman paints the child's experiences in her own fantasy.A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but “the shadows of the prisonhouse are on the rest”．Besides，many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries.In order，therefore，not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of sketches，only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting and important.
I was born on June 27,1880，in Tuscumbia，a little town of northern Alabama.
I lived，up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and hearing，in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small one，in which the servants slept.It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion.Such a house my father built after the Civil War，and when he married my mother they went to live in it.It was completely covered with vines，climbing roses and honeysuckles.From the garden it looked like an arbour.The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax.It was the favourite haunt of hummingbirds and bees.
The Keller homestead，where the family lived，was a few steps from our little rosebower.It was called “Ivy Green” because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy.Its oldfashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.
Even in the days before my teacher came，I used to feel along the square stiff boxwood hedges，and，guided by the sense of smell，would find the first violets and lilies.There，too，after a fit of temper，I went to find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass.What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers，to wander happily from spot to spot，until，coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine，I recognized it by its leaves and blossoms，and knew it was the vine which covered the tumbledown summerhouse at the farther end of the garden! Here，also，were trailing clematis，drooping jessamine，and some rare sweet flowers called butterfly lilies，because their fragile petals resemble butterflies' wings.But the roses—they were loveliest of all.Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such heartsatisfying roses as the climbing roses of my southern home.They used to hang in long festoons from our porch，filling the whole air with their fragrance，untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning，washed in the dew，they felt so soft，so pure，I could not help wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.
