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为了更好地适应体育院校成人教育的教学工作，我们在体育院校专业教材《乒乓球教学与训练》的基础上，根据成人教育教学特点对部分内容进行了增减和调整，作为全国体育院校成人教育教材使用。

本书根据成人教育的特点，在力求充分地向学生介绍乒乓球理论与方法的同时，加强了“自学指导”部分的内容。每章开始，都首先较为简要地介绍了本章的内容、学习重点、学习方法和学习提示，从而有利于学生自学。

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书籍介绍

为了更好地适应体育院校成人教育的教学工作，我们在体育院校专业教材《乒乓球教学与训练》的基础上，根据成人教育教学特点对部分内容进行了增减和调整，作为全国体育院校成人教育教材使用。

本书根据成人教育的特点，在力求充分地向学生介绍乒乓球理论与方法的同时，加强了“自学指导”部分的内容。每章开始，都首先较为简要地介绍了本章的内容、学习重点、学习方法和学习提示，从而有利于学生自学。

• 作者：livia. 发布时间：2012-07-07 22:58:59

  买了之后发现看起来一片茫然。

• 作者：momo 发布时间：2019-11-26 14:47:27

  很薄

• 作者：懒惰青年 发布时间：2015-02-05 20:30:23

  15天的音标学习不是结束，而是开始。

• 作者：飞翔的虎头鹰 发布时间：2021-11-30 19:53:24

  好想去跑，疫情不知道什么时候结束。

• 作者：Jeffina 发布时间：2015-02-26 10:05:29

  刻画盲人心理的部分让我想起毕飞宇的《推拿》。不同的是，刻画彼得心理的画面感很唯美，相同的是同样引人深思。此类小说的最大意义在于让健全人看到缺陷他者不同的活法、心路历程、人生经历，返回生活中，利于消除我们对身边残疾同胞的偏见，对生活的意义更加感同身受……好文。推荐

• 作者：倚天 发布时间：2012-11-29 14:31:07

  观点不能让人很信服，基本不提产权。

• 你为什么不扔掉手机去看书？

  作者：杨摩 发布时间：2019-07-25 21:00:14

  1

  “找回读书的乐趣”

  我经常会看一些关于读书的书，读这一类书有一个好处，就是让你知道这世上原来还是有那么一些人在读书。如果你是一个有读书习惯的人，这还挺让人安慰的。毕竟读书在今天是一个有点反社会的事。

  读这类书还有一个好处，就是拓展关于书的知识。你可以学到一些人的读书方法，也可以从他们那里了解很多书的信息。书与书之间是有联系的。

  不过这类书的作者通常有个毛病，就是喜欢劝人读书。我一直觉得劝人读书是挺尴尬的事，这就好像要让人接受你的异装癖一样。读书是很个人的事。而读书的乐趣，只能自己去发现。一个人在年轻的时候没有读书的习惯，那么他大概再也不会在这件事情上找到乐子了。

  所以虽然我也经常给人推荐书，但我从来不劝人读书，并且不抱希望。我今天想推荐的这本书，就是一本关于读书的书，叫做《如何再次拿起书》。这本书好在它不劝人读书，只是很认真地跟你讨论如何找回读书的乐趣。是找回，不是找到。如果你讨厌读书，或者对阅读毫无兴趣，这本书对你来说就没什么意思。而如果你曾经感受过读书的种种乐趣，但是后来因为种种原因，疏远了读书，那这本书就是写给你的。

  2

  “你为什么不扔掉手机去看书”

  这本书的作者艾伦·雅各布斯，是个美国人，一个教了几十年文学的教授。他一开始就坦白自己的阅读遇到了障碍。一个教人读书的人也会有阅读障碍？那是因为难以抗拒手机和各种科技带来的诱惑。

  雅各布斯说他的一天通常是从上网阅读新闻开始的：他关注了大概200个供稿人，每天早上都能看到至少100条新闻，他还要查看邮件，在推特上关注的那些人会发布新状态。他说他工作的时候还算专心，但是他经常因为惦记有没有新鲜事而坐立难安（“实际上我并不知道这个‘经常’有多经常，我也不想知道”）。

  作者引用哲学家威廉·詹姆斯的话，来说明手机和网络带来的困扰。威廉·詹姆斯曾说，婴儿的感官体验充满了“纷繁嘈杂的困惑”，因为婴儿还没有形成必备的过滤能力，很难把这些感官体验分隔成各自独立的、有意义的单位。但在当下的时代，我们日常使用的科技似乎正在将我们带回到婴幼儿时期，这些“纷繁”和“嘈杂”的感官体验严重损坏了我们的阅读能力。

  换句话说，手机以及各种科技，让我们的一部分心灵倒退了，让我们回到对信息缺乏过滤能力的幼儿时期。雅各布斯还引用了一个书评人的话，他说，互联网的本质就是专门用来开发我们内心最深的上瘾机制。

  的确是这样，你想想看，我们这个时代最聪明、最狡诈的人，每天琢磨的事情都是如何让你上瘾，如何让你在他们开发的游戏、影视剧和手机APP上多花一点时间。

  所以如果想要重新找回阅读的乐趣，首先就得克服手机带来的心魔。每当我发现自己又在不停刷微信、微博和豆瓣的时候，我就提醒自己：你为什么不扔掉手机去看书？

  3

  “找到让你感兴趣的书”

  这本书里还提到不少关于阅读的技巧，比如怎样去找到你感兴趣的书。

  雅各布斯认为好的读者是自我引导的。也就是说，你应该根据自己的兴趣和能力去挑选书目，拒绝权威，所以他很反对乱开书单。

  如果你要给一个人开书单，那你必须非常了解他才行。否则你怎么知道这本书是不是适合他看？一个不懂得自己去找书看的人，往往也是无法真正去读书的，因为他根本不知道自己想读什么，对什么感兴趣。

  有一个方法可以找到让你感兴趣的书，那就是从你喜欢的作家那里学习。只要你有一个喜欢的作家，你就可以从他那里得到很多信息，你可以顺藤摸瓜，找到他喜欢读的东西。

  雅各布斯建议我们向“上游”寻找。也就是说，去寻找那些影响了我们喜爱的作者的作品。奥斯丁之所以能成为奥斯丁，主要是通过大量的阅读和积累——这一点几乎适用于所有作家。我们要去寻找的是影响了奥斯丁的书，而不是被奥斯丁影响的书。

  雅各布斯还建议我们应当更多地重读，尤其是重读那些曾经影响了我们的书。重读的意义在于了解你自身的变化。我们对一本书的理解，是随着时光的流逝而不断变化的。当我们重读那些影响过自己的书时，其实是在理解时间在我们身上带来的改变。

  这就是“重读”的神秘之处。

  4

  “我想念以前的大脑”

  在阅读领域，有一本书非常有名，叫做《如何阅读一本书》，但是雅各布斯对这本书是持批评怀疑态度的。因为这本书太过权威，太“精英主义”了，它把阅读这件事当成了一桩苦行，以至于很多人读完这本书就对阅读“失去了兴趣”。

  雅各布斯甚至认为读书不会让一个人变得更好，因为当年纳粹军官们也读很多书，而那些从来不读书的人，也凑合着活过来了，从世俗的价值判断来讲，有些人还挺成功的。

  所以在我们谈论读书的时候，我们应该回归到“初心”，我们为什么去读一本书，难道首先不应该是为了兴趣吗？

  在我读这本书的时候，我也一直在反省自己，我意识到，与其说我缺乏阅读的能力，不如说我失去了快乐的能力，一种让自己沉迷于某件事情当中的能力。

  重新找回阅读的乐趣，实际上是在找回自己长久的专注一件事的能力。那种能专注于某件事的满足感，是其他事情无法替代的。但是我发现自己越来越缺乏这样的耐心和专注力。

  正如《浅薄》的作者尼古拉斯·卡尔写道：“最近几年来，我一直有一种不舒服的感觉，觉得某些人或某些东西正在鼓弄我的大脑，重塑中枢神经系统，重组我的记忆……我感觉自己一直在努力将自己任性的大脑拽回到书本上，过去甘甜如怡的阅读事业已经变成一场战斗……”

  最后卡尔十分悲痛地总结道：“我想念以前的大脑”。

  我也很想念它。

  —END—

  公众号：杨摩的书房

• 《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿-Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  作者：熬夜看稿五百斤 发布时间：2020-07-31 11:52:33

  《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿

  “Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia.”

  “玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。”

  Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  MARIA STEPANOVA IS AMONG the most visible figures in post-Soviet culture — not only as a major poet, but also as a journalist, a publisher, and a powerful voice for press freedom. She is the founder of Colta, the only independent crowd-funded source of information in Russia. The high-traffic online publication has been called a Russian Huffington Post in format and style, and has also been compared to The New York Review of Books for the scope and depth of its long essays. The Muscovite is the author of a dozen poetry collections and two volumes of essays, and is a recipient of several Russian and international literary awards, including the prestigious Andrei Bely Prize and Joseph Brodsky Fellowship. She was recently a fellow with Vienna’s highly regarded Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Her current project is In Memory of Memory, a book-length study in the field of cultural history.

  Stepanova has helped revive the ballad form in Russian poetry, and has also given new life to the skaz technique of telling a story through the scrambled speech of an unreliable narrator, using manic wordplay and what one critic called “a carnival of images.” Stepanova relishes this kind of speech “not just for how it represents a social language but for its sonic texture,” wrote scholar and translator Catherine Ciepiela in an introduction to her poems. “She is a masterful formal poet, who subverts meter and rhyme by working them to absurdity. For her the logic of form trumps all other logics, so much so that she will re-accent or truncate words to fit rigorously observed schemes.” According to another of her translators, Sasha Dugdale, myth and memory play an important part in poems: “She shares with her beloved W. G. Sebald a sense of the haunting of history, the marks it leaves on the fabric of landscape.”

  Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia. In this interview, she talks about both roles, and the way politics and poetry come together in her work.

  ¤

  CYNTHIA HAVEN: You’re a poet, but also a journalist and the publisher of a major crowd-funded news outlet in Russia, Colta. Yet Joseph Brodsky said, “The only things which poetry and politics have in common are the letters P and O.” Presumably, you disagree.

  MARIA STEPANOVA: There is a third word with the same letters: postmemory. Contemporary Russia is a realm of postmemory. I think it is a territory where poetry and politics still can meet each other on equal terms.

  Equal? Politics is a much more crude beast, surely. Look at our current elections. Look at elections everywhere.

  Well, we know crude and not-so-crude animals coexist in nature — and sometimes even manage to get along.

  So talk about this unusual coexistence, Russian-style.

  Russian reality is wildly political, but what is meant by “politics” is also wildly different — and not only because the Russian political world is one of repression. Remember that the ways and means of talking politics or even doing politics have long been different in Russia — not for a decade or two, but for centuries. Political thinking was impossible in the open, so it had to disguise itself. In order to form your views, or even to take direct instructions on what to do, you had to read some novel, or even a poem.

  People built their political views on Nikolay Chernyshevsky [author of the programmatic utopian novel What Is To Be Done?] or Dostoyevsky, and thus expected a certain level of political engagement from authors, even from poets. This has a flip side: a reader may treat reality more lightly, as if it were a work of fiction. That’s why it was so easy to revise and rewrite official history — in Stalin’s time or right now, under Putin. You are always looking for an example — for something to imitate — but there is nothing final about it.

  This search for an example, for a predecessor, is pervasive. When Russian politicians try to achieve something, they look for validation from the past — to Ivan the Terrible, to Lenin, to Brezhnev, or whatever. The same with Russian poets, who still rely heavily on different traditions. You can choose the one you like. You can look back to Pushkin or Brodsky, but also to, well, T. S. Eliot or Lyn Hejinian. It doesn’t really matter. The important thing is, we behave as if we are ascending the staircase but looking back. One always needs to feel the bannister under one’s hand. That is, we need something solid and from the past, which makes the present feel more real for us.

  Do you find that poetry, for you, is a space of freedom, even though it’s affected by your political predicament?

  I feel that the poetry is a powerful tool of inner resistance, because what’s important, what really counts, is how much you let the outer forces deform you. Poetry keeps you in shape. More important than outward protests is inner freedom, the ability to stay yourself. That is usually the first thing you lose. You can imitate the motions and doings of free people but be utterly unfree inside. You become an expert in deforming your inner reality, to bring it into accord with what the state wants from you — and this could be done in a number of subtle, unnoticed ways. This kind of damage weighs on us the most.

  I like what you said at Stanford, that poetry is, by definition, a form of resistance, because the first thing it resists is death.

  Absolutely. After all, it is one of the few known forms of secular immortality — and one of the best: your name may well be forgotten, but a line or two still have a life of their own, as it happened to lines of classic poetry. They come to life anew every time people fill them with their own voice or meaning.

  In fact, any activity that involves creating something from nothing — or almost nothing — is a way of taming death, of replacing it with new forms of life. When you are making a pie out of disparate substances — grains of sugar, spoons of loose flour that are suddenly transformed into something alive and breathing — it’s a living miracle. But this is even more evident when it comes to poetry, where the operative space is pure nothing, a limited number of vowels and consonants, which doesn’t need anything to stay alive besides the human mind; poetry doesn’t even need ink and paper, because it can be memorized. We are more lucky than musicians or artists, who need working tools, and budgets, and audience halls — poetry is a lighter substance. You know it was essential in the concentration camps and gulags — if you knew a good amount of verse by heart, they couldn’t take it away from you. Maybe I’m overly optimistic, but I think that poetry is better equipped to withstand political oppression. If you want to make movies or build opera houses, you have to bargain with the state, to make deals, and inevitably to lose.

  And yet you are a publisher and journalist, too. How do you balance the two worlds you inhabit?

  Strange as it may seem, it was never a serious matter for me. I never felt that these two levels were connected, or even coexisted. Maybe this also has something to do with what I was referring to — the schizoid way of addressing the present. It’s quite common in Russia: you can be thinking “this” and “that” at the same time, as if two notions were commenting on each other. This is very typical of the Soviet or post-Soviet space, with its sharp cleavage between the official way of behavior and the way you behave at home, between the official history and the hidden familial history, or what we call the “minor history (malaya istoriia).”

  And come to think of it, maybe I also divide my official face from my inner life. When I was a teenager, a student, I saw how the people who belonged to the previous generation were traumatized by the crash of the Soviet system of literary education and literary work. The Soviet Writers’ Union had been able to give writers enough to live on after publishing a book or a collection of poems in some literary magazine — for the official writers, of course, not to the authors of samizdat. You could live for three years after publishing a book, but it had to be a bad book, because it was the result of an inner compromise. Nevertheless, lots of people had the feeling that they could stay themselves and still, somehow, occupy some cozy step on the enormous staircase of the official Soviet literary establishment. When the system crashed, people were disappointed and disorientated. By 1992 or 1993, it became evident that the utopia wasn’t working anymore, especially for poets. It became evident that a book of poetry would never have a press run of more than 2,000 copies. It would never bring you money or even fame. I saw people crushed, melted, changed because of that. They had relied on a system that had suddenly vanished into thin air. They were still willing to make compromises, but there was no longer anyone to make a compromise with.

  And where did you fit into that architecture? You weren’t tempted to put a foot on that staircase?

  I was quite young and opinionated, so my attitude was rather harsh. I didn’t want to have anything in common with them. I refused to rely on poetry to make a living, to attain a position in the world. I would find some other professional occupation and would be as free as I could be in terms of poetry. It was the easiest way for me to stay independent. I split my world into halves.

  And that’s how it worked. I started in the mid-1990s as a copywriter in a French advertising agency, and then I switched to TV. Journalism happened rather late in my life. I cannot say it doesn’t affect my poetry, because it does. Of course it does. The things I deal with as a journalist get mixed up with the problems that make me tick as a poet. That space I was hoping to make — you know, the enclosed garden — is not secluded enough. It’s not enclosed now — the doors are wide open, and the beasts of the current moment are free to enter. Because I’m changing, too. You have to open the doorways to let the world in — to make the words come in, in fact. Because if poetry is a means of changing language, and changing the language is a means of changing the world around you, you must make sure that you’re ready to receive new words — words you find foreign or even ugly.

  That awareness is evident in your poetry, which features different voices, different registers, and discordant uses of language. Is that how today’s Russia affects your poetry?

  I think so, yes — “mad Russia hurt me into poetry.” You could say that the poet — that is, the author as a working entity — always has a kind of narrative mask or an optical system to serve a special purpose in the moment. The need to invent and reinvent the self never stops: you cannot do it just once, and every single thing that happens demands a complete change. The “you” who deals with new phenomena — birth, death, shopping, an idle conversation at the bus stop — is a new entity that hardly recognizes the previous ones. You know that all the cells of the human body are constantly replacing each other, and in seven years not a single cell of your old body is left. All that holds our personalities together is mere willpower — and our selves are as replaceable as brain cells. The human mind is a flowing thing, it is a process, and it happens somehow that the only solid and constant thing we can cling to is the inner zoo of the soul. I mean the persons and stories from the past that have no relationship to our own stories. Antigone or Plato or Brutus, invented or real, are actors in the theater of the mind. They do not change; they are strong enough for us to test them with our projections and interpretations. You could call the destructive element in yourself Medea or Clytemnestra — but it is you who is switching from one identity to another. In a mental theater, a single person plays all the parts.

  And that’s how you see the poetic process?

  I guess it is a fair description. A play is being performed, or maybe improvised, and there is an actor for every part, and a certain idiosyncratic language for each of them. But it is all centered on some very urgent question that is formulated from the outside, something you’ve been dealing with all your life: you’re born with this question and the need to answer it again and again. W. H. Auden spoke of neurosis as a life-shaping experience that is to be blessed — we’d never become what we are without it. I’m totally sure that certain patterns are shared, extrapolated to the scale of the whole society, so that everyone you know is shaped, at least partly, by the same problem. I guess this could describe what’s going on in a number of post-Soviet states; one can only wonder if a country can undergo some kind of therapy, if it can do collective work on collective trauma. Especially in times that are rather allergic to any collective project.

  I definitely share my compatriots’, my generation’s full range of traumas and voids. A few years ago, in 2014, in the midst of the Ukrainian wars, I suddenly wrote a longish poem about Russia. It was titled “Spolia” — you know, the architectural term, the densely metaphoric way of building new things, using some bits and parts of previous constructions in the process. You see it everywhere in Rome or Istanbul — pieces of marble, columns, stelae are used as mere bricks in a new wall. Sometimes an old building is demolished in order to provide elements for the new one. This involuntary coexistence of old and new is a good description of what happens to language in “interesting times.”

  And my poem was the result of utter shock: language was changing all around me. Not only was it heavily peppered with hate speech, but it also became utterly hybrid. People were quoting Stalin’s speeches, or brilliantly and unconsciously imitated the style of Pravda’s columns from the 1930s or ’50s, never realizing that they hadn’t invented these words. You have a good example of this now in the United States. When Donald Trump speaks about enemies of the state, he doesn’t know whom he is quoting — or even if he is quoting. I was living in a red-hot climate, and I still needed to find some reasons to continue. I mean, you have to love the place you live in. If it becomes utterly unlovable, you need to leave — or to find some other grounds for love.

  In the poem I quoted some of the criticism I was getting from critics regarding my “impersonality.” After my latest book, a number of them claimed that my work was a trick of sorts, empty and unrelatable, because I didn’t have a distinct and constant lyrical voice. I use other people’s voices, so I’m sometimes seen as an imitator, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, never having a full-grown ego, never able to speak in the first person — of myself, of my own needs and fears.

  It rather reflects your views about your country, doesn’t it?

  Well, that is exactly what I can say about Russia. It doesn’t really know what it is; self-definition is not our strong suit. It’s a huge, beautiful, and misused piece of land, inhabited by more ghosts than mortals, full of histories no one cares to remember, so they just keep repeating themselves — full of larger-than-life possibilities and a complete inability to avoid disaster. That was an image of the country I could identify with; in fact, for a while I ceased seeing any difference between myself and Russia, bizarre as it sounds. The Russian Symbolist poet Alexander Blok had called Russia his wife. I had a feeling that Russia was me — that our stigmas were the same.

  I was, in fact, identifying with the country. Not with the awful thing that was happening — the invasion of Donbass, the annexation of Crimea; there is no explanation or excuse for acts of evil, pure and simple, and these are among them. But to oppose the evil you have to learn the language of love. And to love Russia at that moment was a hard job. One had to become Russia, with its wastelands, faded glory, and the horrifying innocence of its everyday life — to speak with its voices and see with its multiple eyes. That’s what I was trying to do: to change my optical system, to dress my hate in a robe of light. You have to be a trickster to do that effectively. Well, my way of writing poetry is distinctive, in that it has to irritate — not only to affect or penetrate, but also to irritate.

  I’m still not sure that I’m answering the question, but maybe it’s the question itself that is important. That multilayered, multifaceted thing I’m trying to create aligns with what is going on in the Russian mind, in the Russian world. There is something very distinctive in the presence of the country, in the way it tends to describe itself, or to be described.

  Of course, we’ve just given a Nobel Prize to a woman who tried to do much of what you’re speaking about in prose, in journalism.

  You’re right, but Svetlana Alexievich writes nonfiction, or documentary fiction, and that’s another story. She is giving voice to real people; there are some true stories behind the books, a number of interviews, the feeling that you are dealing with documented reality. I am speaking with imaginary voices; they are real, but they don’t belong to me. (One Russian poet from the 18th century, Vasily Trediakovsky, used to say that poetic truth doesn’t inhere in what really happened, but in what could and must have happened.) I’m appropriating, or annexing, other people’s lives and voices, as if I were editing an anthology of unused opportunities. Sometimes it means I have to embrace the language of state officials, or criminals, or propaganda. The goal of the poetic, as well as of the political, is to make things visible, to force them into the light, even if they would prefer to stay in the darkness.

  By the way, Marina Tsvetaeva also used those jumbled voices, those different registers. You feel a certain affinity with her, yes?

  My parents conscientiously taught me reading at a very young age — around two-and-a-half, I guess. When I was six, I was reading everything I could lay my hands on, from Pushkin to The Three Musketeers, and lots of suspense novels, too. Then, on New Year’s Eve, someone gave my mother a two-volume edition of Marina Tsvetaeva. That was a rarity in Soviet times. It was an unbelievable gift, a kind of miracle — you couldn’t just go into the bookshop and buy Tsvetaeva or Mandelstam, you had to be a Party member to get it, or spend a fortune on the black market. I knew nothing about Tsvetaeva at the time. I was only seven. My mom read me lots of poetry, but this was something different. I opened the second volume, which had her prose. It was unlike anything I had read before.

  I still have a special affinity with Tsvetaeva. Not in terms of working with the language, because my ways of treating it are different, but in terms of how I see reality. Tsvetaeva lived under ethical standards, a moral pressure that was a constant presence in her life — some moral entity or deity that shaped her life, literally telling her what to do. Sometimes she surrendered to it, sometimes she resisted wildly.

  Nevertheless, she placed all her literary work in some kind of moral coordinate system. I find her example compelling. Because the question that’s essential for me is not the question of “how” or “what,” but rather of “who.” In the case of Tsvetaeva, we get that “who” in its fullest range, larger than life. You still can feel her presence — and that’s what counts.

  https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/mad-russia-hurt-me-into-poetry-an-interview-with-maria-stepanova/