1 人称代名詞とbe動詞

 ① Iのとき→am
 ② youのとき→are
 ③ ①②以外で単数のとき→is
 ④ ①②③以外なら→are

2 複数の書きかえ
 this→ these
 that→ those



Seventy-one years ago, on a bright, cloudless morning, death fell from the sky and the world was changed.
A flash of light and a wall of fire destroyed a city and demonstrated that mankind possessed the means to destroy itself.
Why do we come to this place, to Hiroshima?
We come to ponder a terrible force unleashed in the not-so-distant past. We come to mourn the dead, including over a hundred thousand Japanese men, women and children, thousands of Koreans, a dozen Americans held prisoner.
Their souls speak to us.
They ask us to look inward, to take stock of who we are and what we might become.
It is not the fact of war that sets Hiroshima apart.
Artifacts tell us that violent conflict appeared with the very first man.
Our early ancestors, having learned to make blades from flint and spears from wood, used these tools not just for hunting but against their own kind.
On every continent, the history of civilization is filled with war, whether driven by scarcity of grain, or hunger for gold, compelled by nationalist fervor or religious zeal.
Empires have risen and fallen, peoples have been subjugated and liberated, and at each juncture innocents have suffered a countless toll, their names forgotten by time.
The world war that reached its brutal end in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was fought among the wealthiest and most powerful of nations.
Their civilizations had given the world great cities and magnificent art.
Their thinkers had advanced ideas of justice, and harmony, and truth. And yet, the war grew out of the same base instinct for domination, or conquest, that had caused conflicts among the simplest tribes, an old pattern, amplified by new capabilities, and without new constraints.
In the span of a few years, some 60 million people would die. Men, women, children, no different than us, shot, beaten, marched, bombed, jailed, starved, gassed to death.
There are many sites around the world that chronicle this war, memorials that tell stories of courage and heroism, graves and empty camps that echo of unspeakable depravity.
Yet, in the image of a mushroom cloud that rose into these skies, we are most starkly reminded of humanity’s core contradiction, how the very spark that marks us as a species, our thoughts, our imagination, our language, our tool making, our ability to set ourselves apart from nature and bend it to our will, those very things also give us the capacity for unmatched destruction.

How often does material advancement or social innovation blind us to this truth, how easily we learn to justify violence, in the name of some higher cause?
Every great religion promises a pathway to love and peace and righteousness, and yet no religion has been spared from believers who have claimed their faith as a license to kill.
Nations arise, telling a story that binds people together in sacrifice and cooperation, allowing for remarkable feats, but those same stories have so often been used to oppress and dehumanize those who are different.
Science allows us to communicate across the seas and fly above the clouds, to cure disease and understand the cosmos. But those same discoveries can be turned into ever-more-efficient killing machines.
The wars of the modern age teach us this truth. Hiroshima teaches this truth.
Technological progress without an equivalent progress in human institutions can doom us.
The scientific revolution that led to the splitting of an atom requires a moral revolution as well.
That is why we come to this place.
We stand here, in the middle of this city, and force ourselves to imagine the moment the bomb fell.
We force ourselves to feel the dread of children confused by what they see. We listen to a silent cry.
We remember all the innocents killed across the arc of that terrible war, and the wars that came before, and the wars that would follow.
Mere words cannot give voice to such suffering, but we have a shared responsibility to look directly into the eye of history and ask what we must do differently to curb such suffering again.
Someday the voices of the hibakusha will no longer be with us to bear witness.
But, the memory of the morning of August 6th, 1945, must never fade.
That memory allows us to fight complacency.
It fuels our moral imagination and allows us to change.
And since that fateful day, we have made choices that give us hope.
The United States and Japan forged not only an alliance, but a friendship, that has won far more for our people than we could ever claim through war.
The nations of Europe built a union that replaced battlefields with bonds of commerce and democracy.
Oppressed peoples and nations won liberation.
An international community established institutions and treaties that work to avoid war and aspire to restrict and roll back and ultimately eliminate the existence of nuclear weapons.
Still, every act of aggression between nations, every act of terror and corruption and cruelty and oppression that we see around the world shows our work is never done.

We may not be able to eliminate man’s capacity to do evil, so nations, and the alliances that we formed, must possess the means to defend ourselves. But among those nations like my own that hold nuclear stockpiles, we must have the courage to escape the logic of fear and pursue a world without them.
We may not realize this goal in my lifetime, but persistent effort can roll back the possibility of catastrophe.
We can chart a course that leads to the destruction of these stockpiles.
We can stop the spread to new nations and secure deadly materials from fanatics.
And yet, that is not enough, for we see around the world today how even the crudest rifles and barrel bombs can serve up violence on a terrible scale.
We must change our mindset about war itself, to prevent conflict through diplomacy and strive to end conflicts after they’ve begun, to see our growing interdependence as a cause for peaceful cooperation and not violent competition, to define our nations not by our capacity to destroy but by what we build.
And, perhaps above all, we must reimagine our connection to one another, as members of one human race. For this too is what makes our species unique.
We’re not bound by genetic code to repeat the mistakes of the past. We can learn. We can choose. We can tell our children a different story, one that describes a common humanity, one that makes war less likely, and cruelty less easily accepted.
We see these stories in the hibakusha, the woman who forgave a pilot who flew the plane that dropped the atomic bomb, because she recognized that what she really hated was war itself.
The man who sought out families of Americans killed here, because he believed their loss was equal to his own.
My own nation’s story began with simple words:
“All men are created equal, and endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Realizing that ideal has never been easy, even within our own borders, even among our own citizens. But staying true to that story is worth the effort.
It is an ideal to be strived for, an ideal that extends across continents, and across oceans.
The irreducible worth of every person, the insistence that every life is precious, the radical and necessary notion that we are part of a single human family, that is the story that we all must tell.
That is why we come to Hiroshima, so that we might think of people we love, the first smile from our children in the morning, the gentle touch from a spouse over the kitchen table, the comforting embrace of a parent.
We can think of those things and know that those same precious moments took place here, 71 years ago.
Those who died, they are like us.
Ordinary people understand this, I think.
They do not want more war.
They would rather that the wonders of science be focused on improving life and not eliminating it.
When the choices made by nations, when the choices made by leaders, reflect this simple wisdom, then the lesson of Hiroshima is done.
The world was forever changed here.
But today the children of this city will go through their day in peace.
What a precious thing that is.
It is worth protecting, and then extending to every child.
That is a future we can choose, a future in which Hiroshima and Nagasaki are known not as “the dawn of atomic warfare,” but as the start of our own moral awakening.


Tom is taller than any other student in his class.


⇒Tom is the tallest student in his class.


ここで注意すべき点はany other + 単数名詞 になるということです。




a 冠詞「一つの、~につき」


I 代名詞 「私は、私が」


in 前置詞「~(の中)で、に」


is 動詞「~である、ある、いる」


look 動詞「~に見える」

<look + 形容詞>「~に見える」
look at 「~を見る」
look for 「~をさがす」
look like 「~に似ている」
look after 「~の世話をする」 = take care of

the 冠詞 「その」

<play the 楽器>のように「楽器を演奏する」という意味でつかわれるとき

to 前置詞「~に、~へ、~まで」

go to school「学校へ行く」、go to church「教会へ行く」、go to bed「寝る」
from A to B「AからBまで」

you 代名詞「あなた(は、が、を、に、がたは、がたに」


It is no longer a dream for man to live on the moon.(九州産業大)

この文型は<It is + 形容詞(名詞)+ for + 目的格(人)+ to ~>で、
to 以下の意味上の主語はfor manである。
It is natural that my father should get angry.の文は次のように書き換えができる。
→It is natural for my father to get angry.

A: If he heard of her success, he would be glad.
B: If he hears of her success, he will be glad.

Would you like anther glass of wine?


There is a book on the desk.

The book is on the desk.



There is 構文はなにもないところから何かが浮かび上がってくるような表現です。ですから主語にあたる a book が不定の形をとります。定形を表す The book などの限定的な主語は文が不自然なものになります。bookのまえに所有を表すmyなどの単語も来ません。