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• 作者： 文山 发布时间：2017-08-12 11:18:31

  重复的地方有点多，夜读的一本书

• 作者： 懂得方知谦卑 发布时间：2015-05-14 16:10:43

  来自北方的阿兹特克人的太阳神告诉他的子民，如果他们在某个地方看见一只叼着蛇的老鹰停歇在仙人掌之上，此地就应该是阿兹特克人的定都之地。后来他们在墨西哥谷的特斯科科湖上看到了这样的景象，随即在这片土地上建立起了他们的都城—特诺奇提特兰，也就是现在的墨西哥城。

• 作者： 猛汉世雄 发布时间：2009-07-23 17:51:25

  这是台巴子漫画的最高水准……=。=

• 作者： 别歌 发布时间：2012-11-04 16:56:45

  市井投资，有些干货，虽然是谈台湾地区的房产投资，还是有借鉴的。

• 作者： 幸福的人不看钟 发布时间：2022-05-05 21:53:07

  封面的绿色我很喜欢。但是这略显啰嗦的描述加上小字号让我眼疼。（比起正篇，补充的注解部分更对我胃口。

• 作者： 知度濟。 发布时间：2022-09-14 20:57:29

  作新疏看来是很难的。

• 林语堂论东西方差异

  作者：罗罗 发布时间：2007-05-28 20:00:09

      闲来无事，看了这书，有感而发。(本文也贴在

  http://noahwing.bokee.com

  )本人的博客上

      林语堂应该是近现代中国最为中西方瞩目的文学家，正如他自己所说那样：“两脚踏中西文化，一心评宇宙文章”，对于东方与西方文化、思想的差异性他应是最有发言权的一位。如果说在阅读《The art of living》与《The moment in Peking》时还感受不到这点，那在看完《林语堂传》后，我确实体会到了。中西兼修的背景让他可以在面对西方文化的冲击时，能保持一个中国传统文人气质并与之对话。我既不喜欢全盘肯定西方的一切东西，也反对老早新文化运动时候对古人的全盘否定。“和而不同，持两用中”这种态度是我比较喜欢的。记得自己曾经所在的公司有位同事非常喜欢西方的文化，对东方文化却兴趣不大。主管劝其去了解一些本国的核心文化，也不知后来他是否去这样做。但在我看来，这样做是有益的，至少我从《林语堂传》中是这样看到的。里面有对中西方差异一段经典的描述，是林语堂在第二届国际大学校长的会议中的演讲，看完后大呼过瘾，现摘录如下，对东西方文化持不同观点的人应有所获。

      东方文化与西方文化在基本上的差异有下面几点：

      一、中国人能的思考以直觉的洞察力及对实体的全面反应为优先，西方人以分析的逻辑思考为优先。西方人多执著于抽象的、分析的思维方式，甚至认为非经过逻辑推演或非经过科学方法证实的，不能算是真知识。直觉或直觉的观察力在西方逻辑系统中是没有地位的。西方逻辑常将事物逐段分析研究，因而有时只是片面现象而忽视了整体。中国人的直觉观察力是一种明敏的了解方式，大部分凭借以往的经验，亦可称作经验主义，对事物易作全盘的、整体的了解和估量。西方哲学特别着重探讨知识，尤其是自笛卡尔之后，哲学方法普遍偏向科学实证，在这种趋势之中，往往有时只见树木而未见森林，甚至只见枝叶而未见树木。由于忽视了全景的观察，对精神方面许多真理，例如常常谈到的信仰、希望、博爱等，又如爱国情操、精神不朽、良辰美景等，便很难得到圆满的解释。东方哲学出了研讨知识之外，对人生的探究也占很大的比重。东方人认为宇宙的奥妙，人生的美好，不是用三段论的逻辑所能推演出来的。

      二、中国人以感觉作为现实体不可分的一部分；对于事物的看法，不像西方人传说理由，而多兼顾感觉，有时且将感觉置于理由之上。西方哲学家常假定事物是静止不动的，并将之分割为若干部分，以便实验或求证。中国哲学认为事物是变动的，经常都在或快或慢的变化中，而初次感觉或自然感受所得到的印象极为重要。这种感觉状态，很难像物质一样将它分解开来研究，只可做些比喻。例如两军作战，西方人的观点较重视兵力、装备、补给等因素，中国人出了这些之外，还重视军队的士气。又如医疗，在西方特别重视病人体温的升降，在中国则还是注意病人的感觉如何。

      三、中国哲学的“道”相当于西洋哲学的“真理”，但含意比“真理”广阔些，因为西方的“真理”，仅是指到达正当生活的途径；而中国所谓“道”，平易近人，是指人人应该走，且是人人可能走的途径，是日常生活的一部分。孔子谓“道”不可须臾离开人生，可离开人生的，便不是“道”；但西方所谓“真理”，纵使离开了人生，依然成为“真理”。

      中西方的差异，从表面上感觉是思维方式的差异，我们遵从线形思维模式，他们则热衷于逻辑推理，用土话来说就是“一根筋”。从本质上来看是文化上的差异，懂得了这种差异，再去审视西方的文化，去看待自身的文化，是大有益处的。说到底，林语堂先生的观点影响了我，对于某种文化，全盘的接收与否定都是不对的。

• 转载：经济学人为桑贝写的讣告

  作者：edge 发布时间：2022-08-31 16:07:18

  The joy of small things

  Jean-Jacques Sempé, cartoonist of human dreams, hazards and delights, died on August 11th, aged 89

  At the edge of the gigantic sea, his clothes left in a pile, his arms hugging his shivering body, a frail, tiny figure wondered whether to take the plunge. In an immense plain, under a huge black cloud, a woman in a sunhat furiously pedalled her bicycle, with its basket of precious vegetables, towards some distant home. Amid an infinity of fir trees two ant-size cyclists almost met, but their paths diverged before contact. In a landscape of rampaging lushness and glorious views a pipe-smoking painter worked at his easel. His human subject, insignificant in the long grass, called "Remember not to forget me!"

  In cityscapes-the tall grey buildings and mansard roofs of Paris, the massed skyscrapers of New York-the proportions were the same. Here the human ants often moved in crowds, through the rainy streets, into opulent concert halls, towards political rallies, usually in the same direction. Yet in the city, too, they broke away and became solitary among the enormous towers. On a flat roof, a little girl jumped a skipping rope. In one lit window, a trainer coaxed a tiger through a hoop. From one balcony, a couple leaned out dangerously to catch the crescent moon through a canyon of high walls. In an immense lamplit colonnade, a furtive tuba-player smoked behind a column.

  Images like these, in ink and wash or gentle watercolour, featured for decades in dozens of French magazines, in Britain's Punch and on the covers of the New Yorker. They filled books that sold in the millions. His little figures, coping with the world, made Jean-Jacques Sempé internationally famous. But why, he wondered, did humans assume they were big? They were tiny, little scraps of things. Their lives were a mess, his own especially. He had been brought up petit-bourgeois and poor in south-west France, never knowing his real father, feeling therefore he was built on nothing. His foster parents almost killed him, and his stepfather- when his sales of canned anchovies went well- would come home drunk and beat him. He was expelled from school at 14 for being distrait, too distractable. When he looked for work, everyone rejected him.

  His tiny figures were haunted by notions of greatness. Under an enormous statue to music, in an overgrown park, a weary man trudged with a violin. Before a colossal monument to some ancient hero wrestling a stallion, a glum businessman waited for the crossing light to change. Backstage, among soaring fly-towers, half a dozen child ballerinas lined up nervously to go on. Dreams of what they might do were limitless, but what might befall if they tried? His own ambitions had been, first, to be a brilliant jazz pianist like Duke Ellington. He had even met him once, in Saint Tropez, and they had banged out "Satin Doll" for a few bars. He still dreamed of reprising that, duelling with the Duke. An even bolder hope had been to be centre forward in the French national team. But by some conspiracy he had not been called.

  In default of greatness, his little figures did whatever they could. In the midst of one of his exuberant forests, a couple with a caravan laid out a garden and mowed a lawn. A middle-aged woman in a housecoat polished the railway tracks that ran past her cottage. One plump, balding husband, home from work, serenaded his wife with a cello; another, rising from the supper table, took a bow in the sunlight that streamed through the window. In a garden shed, a mousy little man forged a knight's shining sword.

  As for him, he became an artist. It was not easy. In his youth he had only doodled, nothing serious. He never drew from life, only from his head, which contained everything necessary. When he started to sell drawings for a living, a last resort, he came across copies of the New Yorker with drawings by Saul Steinberg and James Thurber. He decided they were just too great, little dreaming that in 1978 he would dare to ask to do the same. But at the New Yorker, as elsewhere, he felt he did nothing remarkable. Though he teased philosophers with the titles of his collections ("Nothing is Simple", "Everything is Complicated", "Unfathomable Mysteries"), he just drew the world as he saw it, striving for a new idea every day. He filled big sheets and canvases with the smallest details of grass, birds, mouldings, chandelier drops, creating a whole world for a single image which often required no words.

  That world was old-fashioned, more interesting than the modern one. On his rural roads there were no cars. Women stayed around the house; men put on hats and went to work, or sat in neighbourhood bistros, among the half-net curtains and bentwood chairs, talking politics and football. His cartoon-novel, "Monsieur Lambert", was set entirely there. He did not care to update himself. Nor would he do satire or mockery, only humour of the sort that friends and colleagues indulged in. The gently nudging sort. How could he mock, when in every image he was drawing his own vulnerability?

  The hero of "Le Petit Nicolas", a series of books for children created with René Goscinny in 1959, also looked vulnerable and small. But Nicolas caused chaos on all sides with his daydreams and his pranks. He lay on his bed with his football, scheming, surrounded by toy cars and the discarded pages of his lessons. He was scolded at school, while behind the master's back his friends leered and laughed. Off diving boards he jumped cheerfully into nothingness, holding his nose for luck. Little Nicolas had the happy-go-lucky childhood he himself never had. That made his own a bit easier to take.

  Childlike instincts helped generally. A middle-aged businessman kicked up fallen leaves in a park; an office worker, returning home, flicked the pedal of a drum kit. Another, smiling blissfully, rocked on a playground swing to contemplate the sunset. A plutocrat sat splashing in his villa's private pool. Cyclists, the happiest of beings, raced down tracks together, brought cities alive with their colours and coasted solo above gridlocked traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge. At the edge of the gigantic sea, on a vast beach, a tiny figure in red shorts did a handstand for sheer joy.

  

  借豆友的文字图片转成纯文字，便于阅读